The meet takes place in the grimy heart of South Omaha. The grass is sun-baked and withered, growing in thick bushes between buildings and in sparse patches between the crevices in the concrete. Graffiti decorates most of the boarded-up businesses and warehouses along the road. Across the street are train tracks harboring an inactive train, each car boasting elaborate tags. The ground is cracked and uneven. Every abandoned lot has scant vegetation in its death throes.

Jesse glances around surreptitiously for Buck and Billy Ray, but he knows he won't spot them. Neither will the White Death crew.

"So, this looks...awful," Jesse says, leaning against an empty brick building.

"Post-apocalyptic," George agrees.

Jesse lights a cigarette to take the edge off. He can't help it. "You mind?"

"Go ahead, man."

Jesse takes a long drag. "Did you used to live here?"

George shakes his head. "My grandma did. I used to visit her all the time when my parents were splitting up. The neighborhood wasn't that great, but I loved goin' to her place. I'd take my sister there when she got old enough to ride the bus."

Jesse nods and stays quiet, blows out a puff of smoke. "You got a sister?"

"She's thirteen and already smarter than me." George chuckles. "But our mom can't afford to send her to a special school for gifted kids, so she gets picked on a lot."

"You got a genius sibling too?" Jesse asks. George gives him a curious look. "My little brother's about the same age as your sister. Total genius. She get all the attention too?"

"Not really. I'm the first person in our family to go to college, so my mom's pretty proud of that."

Jesse smiles. "Lucky." He wishes his parents hadn't given up on him, though now he wonders if they ever really did. He wasn't exactly a model son, and he didn't make it easy for them. If he hadn't been so rebellious and stubborn, would he be here now?

George stares off into the distance. "Used to be a grocery store around here. My grandma would take me with her when she went shopping. I remember it 'cause they had this big display of Darkwing Duck mac and cheese. You remember that show?"

Jesse laughs. "Oh God, yeah. I haven't thought about that in forever."

"The shaped macaroni tastes better than the regular kind. You know that, right? 'Cause my mom doesn't believe me."

"Totally. It's 'cause the shaped one calls for more butter. But I don't even front with that shit anymore. My fiancé makes the best mac and cheese on the planet, yo. Kraft can suck my dick."

George chuckles, then: "You're engaged?" Jesse nods, takes another puff. "Does that get weird, havin' to hide the whole Heisenberg thing?"

"Nah. We got, like, zero secrets."

"Another cook? Or drug dealer?"

"Lawyer," Jesse says with a smirk. "But if you get your ass busted don't go callin' me for no favors."

They keep up the small-talk for another hour, and Jesse burns through two more cigarettes before they hit pay dirt. A dude who looks like a slightly less ripped version of Vin Diesel emerges from behind a nearby building. He's wearing a wife-beater and jeans so baggy they could double for something out of MC Hammer's closet. His arms are covered in various tattoos.

"That our guy?" Jesse asks in a murmur.

"One of 'em."

Brick Wall approaches the two and glares down at them. "This ain't your turf."

"I would'a looked you guys up in the drug dealer phone book, but no one ever wrote one," Jesse says. "So I improvised."

"I know you," Brick Wall says, pointing at George with a finger that looks like a sausage, "but you"—pointing at Jesse now—"who are you?"

Game time. "You know exactly who I am," Jesse says, stepping into the role of Heisenberg. "I'm the cook. I'm the guy whose product you want so bad you're willing to beat my guys up to get it."

Brick Wall narrows his eyes. "Heisenberg's dead, ése," he says, but there's a tremor in his voice. "You're just some punk copycat."

"If that's true, how come you guys ain't cookin' your own meth? I mean, if I'm just some copycat, why bother goin' after my product?"

"We cook our own," Brick Wall says, like he's offended by the accusation.

"At first, yeah. But then you realized it was more profitable to just beat these guys up and steal their shit, right? Corner the market."

Brick Wall folds his arms over his barrel of a chest. "So what do you want? Why you on our turf like you tryin' to make a sale?"

"'Cause I am. Well, actually, I wanna make you a deal. See, now that I run this crew, you're not gonna be knockin' my guys around anymore. You want our product, it's gonna be a straight-up business transaction. Now we need distribution, and you guys got prime territory. We're sittin' on a pound of meth we can't sell, but we think maybe you'd be interested."

"And what if I say 'fuck you'?"

Jesse spreads his hands. "Then we stop cooking. Our ninety-six point two percent pure meth vanishes into thin air. Now you can go back to cookin' your own, but you get, what, seventy percent? If you're lucky. And it ain't my product. You can copy it, but it's still just a cheap imitation."

Brick Wall laughs. "So? People'll buy it. Supply and demand."

"A purer product means customers pay more. And you got more to sell, 'cause higher purity means a greater yield." Jesse frowns. "Is there somebody higher up I can talk to? 'Cause I don't think this is gettin' through."

Brick Wall doesn't like that. He fists a hand in George's shirt and yanks him close. "How 'bout I just waste your boy instead?"

"You touch any of my guys and I'll make sure you end up like what's-his-face. Merritt, was it? Dude went down like a bitch." Jesse's really banking on the idea that these people will be scared of him if they think he killed Merritt. Of course, there's other, less pleasant possibilities down that road, but Jesse's winging it here. Heisenberg was all about risk, right?

Brick Wall drops George and gapes at Jesse. "You're the guy?"

Jesse smirks. Yeah, he likes the awed reverence of respect he gets in this world. He hates that he likes it, but it's a rush of power nonetheless. "We gonna talk business now?"

Brick Wall stares him down, then after a terrifying moment of silence, says, "So talk."

"Bring your guys to the lounge on South 67th. We'll bring ours. Thirty-five large for the pound. Two o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Or else what?" Brick Wall scoffs.

Jesse stares him down for a moment. He thinks he can sense the way Brick Wall's testicles shrivel up into his body. "Just show up."

Saul's been lying awake for an hour trying to will his eyelids to grow heavy, but it's just not happening. How can he sleep when his brain won't stop imagining all the ways tomorrow's deal could go wrong? Jesse's got his back to Saul, sleeping peacefully beside him. Saul wonders how the kid does it. Maybe being knee-deep in awful shit on a daily basis taught Jesse how to compartmentalize. Saul's always had a couple degrees of separation from that world, never getting his hands too dirty. Not anymore.

Saul slips out of bed, careful not to disturb Jesse's slumber. His heart's beating much too fast now, his brow stippled with sweat. He needs fresh air.

He creeps down the stairs and sneaks out into the back yard. The night air is crisp and sweet in his lungs. Saul sits on the bench, draws his knees to his chest to keep his feet off the cold concrete. He stares up at the night sky through the trees, the canopy of stars above him, and reminds himself of the beautiful future they're going to make together. He'll marry Jesse someplace extravagant and exciting—screw what he said before about being understated—and they'll live a normal, easy-going life like everyone else. Jesse will make a great father; Saul's not so sure about himself, but Jesse's enthusiasm makes him want to try.

He startles a bit and turns at the sound of the porch door sliding open. Jesse flashes him a small smile. "What're you doin' out here, baby?"

There's that curl of heat in his stomach again. "I needed some air."

"There's air inside," Jesse says, sitting beside him.

"I like a view with my air."

Jesse reaches over and takes Saul's hand in his own. "Can't sleep?"

"Not exactly. What about you?"

Jesse shakes his head, leans against Saul's shoulder. He plays with Saul's fingers as he speaks. "I wish I didn't have to be him to do this..."

"You're not him, Jesse."

"I know, but it's gettin' easier to pretend."

Saul squeezes Jesse's hand. "This time tomorrow night it'll be over, and you'll never have to step into his shoes again."

Jesse considers that for a moment. "You think it means anything that I like the respect I get when I'm him?"

"Everybody likes to be respected. That hardly makes you a bad person." Saul tries another avenue. "What's your goal when we have kids? I mean, what do you wanna accomplish with them by the time they're grown?"

Jesse plucks at his lower lip with his free hand. "I want them to feel loved, safe... I want them to be better than me so they don't have to go through all the shit I did."

"That doesn't sound like a bad person to me."

"You can care about your family and still be rotten."

Saul shakes his head. "Rot ripples out and touches everything. The people who speak the loudest about their love for their kids or their family are usually the ones with the most to hide."

Jesse doesn't say anything; Saul wonders about the thoughts in Jesse's head.

"You're gonna be fine, Jess'," Saul reassures him. "I'll keep you in line."

Jesse half-smiles. "I hope so."

Jesse arrives at the meeting spot and finds Brad's crew already seated in the outdoor seating area. He forces up a fake smile. There's a grey messenger bag at Brad's feet that Jesse's assuming contains the product, since no one else is carrying a bag big enough to hold the pound of meth they're transporting. Jesus. Doing a drug deal in broad daylight. They might as well have gift-wrapped themselves on the DEA's doorstep.

"They're not gonna kill us, are they?" Doug asks.

Jesse shakes his head. "We're too out in the open. They wouldn't risk it."

Jesse glances at a potted plant. There's most likely a camera in there, planted ahead of time by Buck and Billy Ray. And that's just one of the obvious cameras. Jesse swallows thickly, plays it casual as he scouts the area for surveillance. But he won't spot them. He wonders how many there are. Due to all the construction, this isn't a high-traffic area. Shit, maybe they're hiding in construction vehicles. That would be dope.

"You sure these guys are gonna show?" Brad asks. Mr. Patient.

"Yeah, they'll show. There's no point in getting us to stand around here lookin' like dumbasses."

Jesse takes a cigarette out and flicks on the lighter. He reminds himself that this is how it must be. Sending these kids to prison is infinitely better than letting them get killed over turf disputes or product envy. Maybe they can cut a deal.

Jesse remembers his parents' orange-and-white tabby cat Mac. He'd only been about five or six years old when he came home from school and learned Mac had been hit by a car. His parents were distraught—the cat was older than Jesse was—but there was nothing that could be done for poor Mac. They made the tearful decision to euthanize him, put him out of his misery in the most humane way possible. This is sort of the same rationale, Jesse thinks. It's not easy, but it's better than the alternative.

One by one, sleek, shiny sportscars pull into the parking lot. "This must be them," Jesse says. He recognizes Brick Wall getting out of one of the cars. A few more muscle-bound men climb out of their own vehicles and follow his lead. Shit, is Brick Wall the leader? Maybe these guys are dumber than Jesse thought.

Jesse takes one last drag off the cigarette before stubbing it out on the concrete. "Show time," he mumbles, psyching himself up. Goodbye, Jesse Pinkman; hello, Heisenberg.

Brick Wall and his crew approach the table. Jesse gives them the eye. "You're late, yo."

One of Brick Wall's cronies—a dude with the saggiest jeans Jesse's ever seen—laughs. "Oh, man, c'mon, let's ice this motherfucker."

Brick Wall shoots Saggy a glare and silences him. "Show some respect. This is Heisenberg."

The last time Jesse was involved in a drug deal where someone spoke out of line there was a beating involved. Jesse thinks this is a slight improvement.

He wills his legs to stop shaking. "That's right. Now break it out."

"You first."

No point in arguing. Jesse steps aside so Brad can approach the group. He struggles to breathe as Brad hands the messenger bag to Brick Wall. Jesse stands his ground, reminds himself this is the only way to keep Saul safe. There are five of these guys, and each of them would kill Saul in a minute if they knew he killed Merritt. They have an inside source with the police; how easy would it be to request Merritt's case file and find Saul's name...

The only way to ensure the White Death members are locked away is to lead these college kids to the slaughter. Kind of puts things in perspective when he looks at it that way.

Brick Wall snatches the bag out of Brad's hand, flips it open and inspects the contents. "Nice, nice. You're all right, man. What do you say we make this a, uh, ongoing relationship?"

Brad looks skeptical. "What're you talking about?"

"You bring me another pound next week."

Eden gasps. "We don't have the supplies for that!"

Jesse swings his head around to look at her. "Ay yo, why don't you let me handle this?" he snaps. He turns back to Brick Wall and his cronies. "Give us the money and you got a deal."

Brick Wall hesitates, and for a split-second Jesse worries he's lost him. But Brick Wall reaches behind him, and Saggy hands Jesse an orange backpack bulging with what he presumes is the thirty-five grand.

Jesse shakes his head, folds his arms over his chest. "I don't like being handed things."

Brad takes the bag instead. Jesse hates himself for the spark of satisfaction that ignites in his chest. Brad unzips the bag to make sure they're not being stiffed. Jesse catches a glimpse of the stacks of bills inside.

Out of time.

Jesse's ready for the swarm of police and DEA agents that dives in around them, but it still makes his heart ache and flares up instinctual panic. Buck arrests Jesse, slaps the cuffs around his wrists and shoves him a little too hard into the police cruiser. Jesse watches the crowd of officers arrest each gang member and corral them into police vehicles. A DEA agent confiscates the money and the pound of meth.

"Looks like a good haul," Buck says. "Way to go, kid."

Jesse stares out at the chaos he created. He doesn't feel much like a hero.

He ends up riding to the police station with George, which makes it pretty much impossible to compartmentalize. George seems like he's on the verge of a panic attack, shaking and breathing in shuddery, quick breaths.

"Just breathe slow," Jesse tells him, the words nearly catching in his throat. "It's gonna be okay."

"What do we do?" George asks in a hushed whisper. "You've been arrested before, right?"

Jesse shuts his eyes in pain. His betrayal feels like a ghost sitting between them, an invisible companion George can't quite see yet. "If they offer you a deal, take it. Make sure they get your record expunged."

George looks at him in wonder. "How are you so chill about this?" He pauses, as if remembering something. "Shit, that's right. You're engaged to a lawyer." He breathes out a deep sigh. "Fuck, this is bullshit."

Jesse's eyes water over. He leans his head against the window and lets the tears fall.

The booking process passes by in a haze. Jesse forces himself to shut down—see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing—to get through it. He can't handle watching these kids getting photographed and fingerprinted too, knowing he's the log jammed onto the track that sent their lives off the rails.

Jesse fights for control the entire time, clinging to that inner life-preserver of strength. Just a little longer, then he can go home and break down. He has to be capable of that much.

Billy Ray takes him into an isolated room near the back of the building, away from those he betrayed. Jesse sniffles and wipes his face. "Your car ought'a be in the impound by now," Billy Ray says. "You want me to bring it over?"

Jesse nods. "Can you—can you sneak me out the back? I don't—" A sob hiccups in his throat. "I can't let them see me..."

"Sure." Billy Ray lays a hand on Jesse's shoulder. "Oh! You might want these." He gives Jesse a plastic bag filled with his cell phone, keys, cigarettes, lighter, and wallet.

Jesse reaches in, pockets the items one by one. "Thanks..."

Billy Ray shows Jesse to the rear exit. Jesse pushes his way out the door. The back of the building opens up to a small parking lot, probably where all the cops park their cars. He won't be discovered here. He slumps against the building and draws his knees up to his chin. He can feel his control slipping.

"I'll be right back," Billy Ray says.

Jesse hears the door shut behind him. The sobs start to build in his chest again. With shaky fingers, he takes out his cell phone and switches the screen on. Jesse sees his background photo and manages a smile. The picture's an aerial selfie of him and Saul lying on their bed together. He opens his picture folder and scrolls through the photographs. Most of them are of Bark Lee in various poses and costumes, some depict miscellany he saw that reminded him of Saul or made him laugh, others are snapshots of Saul either with Jesse or Bark Lee. Jesse feels a twitch of a smile. That ridiculously dorky man is the reason Jesse endured all of this. It's hard to feel too much remorse when he frames it like that, but guilt coils in his stomach nonetheless.

This is a decent way to keep the waterworks at bay, so Jesse toggles his messages and scrolls through his correspondence with Saul, starting from the point their relationship transcended "awkward roommates" and became "awkward boyfriends." He grins at some of Saul's dumb jokes and the occasional heart-warming nugget of honesty. It's like watching their relationship develop through bad puns, emoji, and the occasional misplaced hashtag. Jesse doesn't even remember having some of these conversations.

He reads through the time he sent clumsy sexts while Saul was at work, their Angry Birds score battle, the day they spent in bed playing Draw Something, and his silly captioned photos of Bark Lee. Every now and then the sobs will resurface, hiccuping against his lungs like a screen door in a hurricane, but he distracts himself with the reason he's fighting through the pain threatening to drown him.

Billy Ray shows up with Jesse's car about thirty minutes later. Jesse stands on shaky legs and digs his keys out of his pocket. "You good to drive?" Billy Ray asks.

Wrecking now would be like getting tackled at the ten-yard line. "I'll be okay."

"You did good, kid. Now go home to Saul. He needs you."

Jesse doesn't doubt that.

Saul hears Jesse's car roll to a stop in the driveway. The ignition switches off, and Saul waits for the sound of a key turning the lock in the front door.

Nothing.

He peers out the front window and sees Jesse slumped over the steering wheel, sobs racking his small frame. Oh, kid... All the pent-up frustration and emotion of the last few weeks must have finally spilled over. The dam is broken. And maybe there's some relief there too, because their ordeal is finished.

Saul goes outside and opens the car door. Jesse looks at him with wide, wet eyes, like he's remorseful for something. It's all Saul can do to take Jesse into his waiting arms and let him cry. Jesse weeps into Saul's chest, staining his shirt with tears. His body shudders from the force of his sobs.

"Are we safe?" Saul asks.

Jesse nods and clutches Saul tighter. Saul helps him into the house, lets Jesse drop onto the couch and cry. "It's all over, Jesse," Saul murmurs, holding Jesse in the cradle of his arms. "You did it."

Jesse sniffles and chokes on a sob building in his throat. He buries his face in his hands, whimpers a pathetic sound of agony. Saul's no stranger to emotional outbursts, but when Jesse cries, God, it's just too much. Even a baby's wailing doesn't hold a candle to the way the sound of Jesse's crying stabs Saul straight through the heart. He'd do anything to make it all better again.

"Talk to me, kid. Is something wrong?"

Jesse tries to quiet his jumpy lungs so he can answer. "Those kids..." he blubbers out. "I ruined five peoples' lives just to save ours..."

Saul sighs. "No, you didn't. They did that themselves."

"They were cooking my recipe," Jesse says, like that means something.

"And if Blue Sky didn't exist they would've cooked something else. You gotta stop blaming yourself for everything, Jesse. This isn't on you."

He wipes his eyes with a hand, smearing tears over his cheeks. "Maybe I didn't make 'em cook, but...it was my choice to betray their trust."

"You were working as an informant. Betraying trust is part of the package."

"What if I just—fucked them over just so you and me could be happy?"

Saul scoffs. "Are you serious? These are fully-functioning, legal adults, and they chose to break the law."

"Yeah, well, all they did was cook and sell meth. I mean, I'm still two miracles short of sainthood, right?"

Saul stares at him, stunned. "Do you remember everything I've ever said to you, or just the worst of it?" He shakes it off. "Look, these aren't the first 'good' kids to screw their lives up, and they won't be the last. None of that's your fault. Would you really rather have thrown away your entire future, the future you fought tooth and nail for? C'mon, Jesse, you gotta have rose-tinted glasses welded onto your face to think that would have done any good."

Jesse's mouth pinches into a frown, like he wants to say, "You don't know that for sure," or something else stupidly Pollyanna. Saul's never understood how Jesse can have such a naïve, bleeding-heart outlook, but, if Saul's honest, that's one of the things he loves most about Jesse. Even after facing down the worst of the darkness, Jesse can still see the light and hope and beauty in the world; Saul's a touch too cynical for that, but even he sees all those things in Jesse.

"There was no way out," Jesse says. His body's still quaking, but it's much more controlled now. "If I stopped the deal, those guys would'a found out you killed Merritt, and..." He sniffles, the furrow of his brow pronouncing the little "v" between his eyes. "I had to do it."

"See? It was the only option." Saul reaches out and cups a hand around the curve of Jesse's cheek. "I think this is all about Walt." Jesse's breath catches in his throat at the name. "You see these kids doing the wrong thing for the right reason, just like he did at first, and, I don't know, maybe you wanna save them because you couldn't save Walt."

Tears leak from Jesse's eyes. Saul brushes the wetness away with his thumb. "Did I do the wrong thing for the right reason?" Jesse asks in a whimper.

"Hey, if Walt hadn't done the wrong thing for the right reason we probably wouldn't be here together." Saul thinks about the road untraveled and feels a shiver. "So maybe it's not always such a bad thing."

"You're drawin' an awful thin line."

"The world's made up of thin lines, kid."

Jesse takes a deep breath. "I thought it would feel good havin' all this over with."

"Maybe it doesn't feel good right now. But it will." Saul gives him a hopeful smile. "It will when we get married. And y'know what? There's a child out there who's gonna get adopted—or even be born—because of us. And maybe we'll have more than one, so that's two, three, four kids who get to have a good home with two loving parents. Don't you think that makes it all worth it?"

Jesse blinks, stunned like he never thought about that before. "You want four kids?"

Saul laughs. "That's all you got out of that?"

"No, I was listening. That just...surprised me, I guess." Jesse smiles, looks down at the way Saul's twining his fingers with Jesse's.

"See? This is just the beginning, Jesse," Saul says before capturing Jesse's mouth under his own.

One week later...

"You sure you guys can't stay longer?" Jesse whines, leaning against the truck. Buck and Billy Ray have the pickup bed loaded with boxes that wouldn't fit in the moving van. Bark Lee stands between them, his tail wagging at high velocity.

"The case is over, kid," Buck says. "Our job is done."

Jesse's brow creases. "What happened to them?"

"Funny how people start singin' like canaries when they're facin' down 20 years," Buck says. "Ain't no honor among thieves."

Saul watches the way Jesse's expression caves in. He wishes Jesse hadn't asked, but the kid would've found out anyway.

"'Course they all got good lawyers to cook 'em up some solid deals, so your guys come out smellin' like roses compared to those White Death boys," Buck explains. "Turns out Merritt wasn't the only one involved in the murder of Shawn Wesson. And considerin' Gilligan's involvement with them, well, the DA came down pretty hard on those guys."

Jesse rubs the back of his neck. Saul wants to hug him but isn't sure that's the right move here. "He was involved?" Saul asks.

"Yeah, once he learned we had them dead to rights, he confessed how they had him under their thumb, arrestin' rival gang members and all that shit. Said they threatened his family so he wouldn't stop givin' them inside information and lettin' their guys slide under the radar," Billy Ray says.

Just as Saul had figured, then. He's getting pretty good at this detective stuff.

"So you're goin' back to Lincoln?" Jesse asks. "Guess they didn't like you diggin' up dirt on one of their guys."

"On the contrary," Billy Ray says. "They wanted us to stay here. But no place like home, right?"

Saul shivers and feels the tremor spread. Oh Christ... The tape. Buck and Billy Ray aren't going home because all's well that ends well; they got fired because they lost evidence.

The blood drains from Saul's face. He swallows thickly, rubs Jesse's back. "We'll miss you guys. Maybe we'll actually get some sleep around here." He forces out a chuckle.

Jesse kneels as Bark Lee approaches. "We'll miss you too, buddy," he says, scratching the dog behind the ears. Bark Lee moves closer, and Jesse wraps his arms around the dog's neck, hugging him to his chest. Jesse murmurs something in Bark Lee's ear that Saul can't make out and buries his face in the pup's fur. When Jesse looks up again, his eyes are damp.

"Y'know," Buck starts, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, "considerin' how much he seems to like y'all, would you two ever consider takin' care of Bark Lee?"

"If you drop into town sometime, sure," Jesse says.

"I was thinkin' more of a permanent arrangement."

Saul opens his mouth, closes it. "You're giving us the dog?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I'm more than happy to keep 'im, but y'all could probably use some practice before you have kids of your own."

"I think a dog and a child are vastly different—"

"Dude, shut up," Jesse cuts in. "We'll totally take him. If –if you want, I mean."

Buck smiles and moves for the truck bed. He drags out a box that says "Bark Lee" on the side and sets it at Jesse's feet. "All his stuff's inside: food, leashes, health records, clothes."

It's absolutely Jesse's fault that Bark Lee has any clothes to speak of. But Saul thinks that's endearing as hell, though he'll never admit it out loud.

Jesse looks at Buck with wide eyes. "You sure? I thought he was, like, your kid."

Buck laughs. "I got three kids—two already flown the nest and the youngest about to turn fifteen."

"You have actual kids?" Jesse asks in disbelief. "How come you never mentioned them?"

"Kinda defeats the whole 'undercover' thing, wouldn't it?"

"That's a pretty solid point." Jesse takes Bark Lee's face in his hands. "You're gonna live with us now!"

The dog might actually smile.

"If y'all ever wanna go back to usin' your real names, you're in the clear," Billy Ray says. "We sent the case files to APD. They won't bother you, not after you helped take down two heavy-hittin' drug rings and a dirty cop. You boys are safe now. We took care of everything."

Confusion swirls in Saul's brain. How could Buck and Billy Ray have that kind of pull after a suspension? Nothing about this adds up at all.

Buck, as if sensing Saul's inner clusterfuck, says, "Saul, c'mere for a sec'," motions with his head to Saul's front yard.

Saul follows him on shaky legs. "You gonna give me some parenting advice?"

"Naw, I don't think you need it."

"And you're basing that off, what, how I treat the dog?"

Buck stops when they reach Saul's silver Pontiac. Saul can almost see where the blood had been, or maybe it's just his imagination playing tricks on him. "I'm basin' that off what you did with the tape."

Saul feels his chest hitch and get caught. "What—what're you talking about?"

"I know why you were really there at our place that night. You staged the burglary so you could lift the tape and keep us from gettin' in trouble when it went missin'. And I appreciate the consideration, but you didn't have to do all that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Saul says in a voice that couldn't sound more feeble.

"Yeah, Saul, you do. The only reason Bark Lee was able to bite Merritt was 'cause the back door was open—'cause he didn't expect to find somebody else in the house. He got spooked. If he was alone he would'a shot Bark Lee immediately. Somebody had to be there already to stop him. They found the bullet—the one that hit you—in the wall near the hallway. You were shot from behind. The direction of the blood drops says you were running away."

Saul finds it hard to breathe.

"Funny thing is, that lamp? Your prints were nowhere on it, but your blood sure was." Buck gives him a strange look. "Now, how's that possible unless you were wearin' gloves? Why would you put on gloves to investigate somethin' weird goin' on next door?"

Something inside Saul's chest lurches to the side.

"You were already there to stage the robbery, and after you killed Merritt, I dunno, maybe panic took over and you just snatched the disc out of the DVD tray. You probably couldn't lift that box 'cause of your injury and the blood loss."

Saul doesn't think he's even breathing anymore.

"I mean, your whole story about goin' to the car to get your phone was kinda hinky anyway, but I figured, 'hey, he's lost a lot of blood, probably ain't thinkin' straight.' But I had a hunch. So I looked in your trunk, and I found the tape. And the gloves."

Mystery solved. Saul's not sure whether to be relieved for Buck and Billy Ray's careers or terrified for himself.

Saul lets out a weak chuckle. "Did you get a warrant? Pretty sure that doesn't fall under the in-plain-sight rule."

Buck rolls his eyes like Saul's being an idiot. "Only applies if you're usin' what you find as evidence."

Saul's stunned silent. He gets it now. This is entirely off the record.

"You're not in trouble, Saul," Buck says. "You saved my dog. Merritt would'a shot him if you hadn't been there. And you kept a lot of important information from fallin' into the wrong hands."

Saul stays silent.

"Look, I get that you were tryin' to protect Jesse. But whatever's on that tape didn't matter to us. Not like you think. Jesse's been through enough, and he'd swear up and down that you ain't Saul Goodman, that he made the whole thing under duress. He'd get the tape thrown out and we'd have nothin'. C'mon, you gotta know all this, right?"

Saul just sighs. "It's like I said before: you protect them, no matter what."

A small smile tugs at the corner of Buck's mouth. "You're gonna be a hell of a dad someday."

"What?"

Buck shrugs his shoulders. "I'm just sayin', if you'll go this far for your boyfriend, I'm kinda scared what you'd do to protect your kids."

Saul's a little scared himself.

"Seriously? Dude, I'm embarrassed for you," Jesse says around laughter.

"Would you prefer I go to a strip club and drink 'til my liver explodes?"

They're in Saul's bedroom, sprawled out in the Papasan. Bark Lee's curled up at their feet like a furry footrest. Faint music drifts out of the speakers as Saul and Jesse lean against each other. Saul's got one arm wrapped around Jesse, his hand lingering at Jesse's hip and every so often pushing under his t-shirt to touch his skin. Saul's on his phone showing Jesse pictures of the resort he hopes will be their bachelor party, marriage, and honeymoon locale.

Jesse's a little less than impressed. "Yeah, actually, I would."

"Well, I don't feel like bemoaning the end of my single days."

"Said no dude ever. Hell, I don't even think women say that. You're a freak."

"And you agreed to marry me anyway."

"Go ahead and gloat, Weirdy McWeirderton." Jesse says. Saul laughs. "You're the one who wants to get hitched in Boston instead of New York. There is literally nothing cool in Massachusetts."

"Celtics, Red Sox, New England Patriots?"

"Since when do you give a shit about sports?"

Saul frowns like he's been caught in a lie. "There's the bar from Cheers..."

Jesse drags a hand over his face. "Oh my God." Saul's a lost cause, really. "First of all, New York has, like, way better sports teams. And I'll take your Cheers and raise you Friends and Seinfeld. Plus, yo, I've actually been there, remember? I'm not just pullin' this outta my ass. There's a reason those shirts say 'I heart New York' and not 'I heart Massachusetts.'"

"Probably 'cause they save on lettering."

Jesse gives him a look. "You got a smart-ass answer for everything, don't you?"

"Yep." Saul grins. "It's too late to back out, by the way. I'll solder that ring to your finger the first chance I get."

"Yeah, you can't be Four Divorce Guy, huh? This has to be the marriage that sticks or you're totally screwed."

"I think we'll be fine. I've never been this certain about a marriage before. Y'know, with age comes wisdom and whatnot."

Jesse snuggles closer. "Will I get to meet your family?"

"I guess I could toss 'em an invite. My brother's got an irritating sense of humor though."

"Gee, I have no idea what that's like," Jesse says, rolling his eyes.

The song flowing through the speakers changes. Jesse groans and drops his head back. "I could totally live the rest of my life without hearin' another damn Zeppelin song."

Saul gasps as if Jesse's just committed the worst possible sacrelige; Jesse bites back the urge to laugh. "I'm gonna ignore that for the sake of my own well-being." He gives Jesse what can only be described as a bitch-face. "So, what, are you more of a Motown kind of guy? 'Cause, lucky you, Robert Plant had a post-Zeppelin project—"

Jesse makes a loud, long, exasperated groaning sound until Saul stops talking.

"You just don't know how to like things," Saul says with offense.

Jesse smiles and slumps further into the cushion. The hand on Jesse's hip edges underneath his t-shirt, and Saul glides his thumb in small circles over the jut of Jesse's pelvis. Jesse sighs happily, then he laughs to himself, as if privy to a joke only he knows the punchline to.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinkin' about how wrong Mr. White was."

There's a curl of a smile in Saul's voice. "Oh?"

"He was always callin' me a junkie, y'know, even after I'd been clean for a while. I remember one time he said 'how soon would you go back to using?' if I got outta the game, 'cause he didn't want me to leave. But I was around the stuff a bunch the last couple weeks, and I didn't even touch it." If Jesse was really as much of a "pathetic junkie" as Mr. White claimed, would he have abstained from using when the drug was right in front of him? Given the stress he was under, he's amazed he didn't give into the temptation to take the edge off.

Saul smiles and holds him tighter. "I'm not a big fan of 'I told you so,' but I'll make an exception just this once."

"And he said I had nothing in my life. That I never learned how to think, how stupid I am. But he was wrong, Saul. 'Cause if I was as worthless as Mr. White said I was, you wouldn't have asked me to marry you."

"And the last horse crosses the finish line." Saul grins and kisses Jesse's cheek. "It's about time you figured it out, kid."

"Better late than never, huh?" Saul likes that one. He laughs, and Jesse cuddles closer, snuggling into the space between them. "I guess I should thank him 'cause, in a way, he's made me happier than I've ever been."

Jesse laces a hand with Saul's own. He thinks about how they made it here, the journey from barely even friends to betrothed. He thinks about Jane and Andrea and Gale and Brock and Drew Sharp. He thinks about Brad and George and Doug and Eden and Savannah and wonders if life behind bars will be kinder to them than Jack Welker's gang was to him. He thinks about Mr. White's words in the desert:

A clean slate. Just think about it. You get a job. Something legitimate. Something you like. Meet a girl. Start a family, even. Hell, you're still so damn young. And what's here for you now anyway? I tell ya. If I could, I'd trade places. A whole lifetime ahead of you with a chance to hit the reset button. In a few years, this might all feel like nothing more than a bad dream.

Maybe Mr. White was right about something after all.

One month later, both the Pinkman household and Charles McGill receive the same thick ivory envelope in the mail, with the same stiff, elegantly-lettered card inside that reads:

Jesse Bruce Pinkman

and

Saul James McGill

Request the honor of your presence at the celebration of their marriage

Friday, the thirteenth of April

Two thousand and twelve

Five o'clock in the evening

1567 Broadway

New York, NY

We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

― Joseph Campbell