Archive of Our Own ^beta

— Bonnie and Clyde (1967)

Saul hangs up the receiver and wipes it down one last time with his handkerchief. One can never be too careful, even when using a payphone out in the middle of nowhere at asscrack o'clock in the morning. He takes a step back and casts a glance around. The streets of Tucumcari are empty, the bars all cleared out an hour ago, and this particular gas station has been abandoned for months at least.

Still, he can't shake the feeling he's being watched.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his suede jacket and turns to head back toward the garish neon beacon that is the Buckaroo Motel. Moonlight bends the shadows of the gas station's skeleton, darkness all stretched out across the pavement like it wants to drag him back in. It doesn't help that creeping feeling. He's being paranoid, of course. It's a tourist trap, not a Hitchcock movie. If he was thinking reasonably, he'd remember he's seen scarier things in his toilet than anything this washed-up town has got to offer.

Nevertheless, his fingers curl around the pistol in his right pocket. Better safe than sorry. That's his motto.

A second later, he lets out a jittering little laugh under his breath. The man is dead. What's he so worried about? Is the ghost of Heisenberg going to leap out of the desert? And if it does, does he intend to shoot it? It's over now. His body might not believe it without a couple more Xanax to help it along, but he'll get it through his head eventually.

Saul fumbles around for his room key instead. It's still an actual key, which is the funny thing. When was the last time any hotel used a key instead of a key card? An inch-tall plastic cowboy dangles from the end of it—just in case he forgets which piece-of-shit motel he's holed up in for the night, he supposes. To the drunken and blurry tourist eye, all the glowing hot-pink signs must look the same.

He looks over his shoulder one more time as he comes up to his room's door. Nothing but a deserted lot behind him, his faithful station wagon the only car to be seen. Off-season for a town that's permanently off-season. Who the hell cares about Route 66 anymore? And further, he reminds himself, who cares about Saul Goodman anymore?

The key needs a jiggle or two before the lock turns and the door swings open. The room is as dark as he left it, and he exhales a long sigh of relief as he steps inside. He shuts the door behind him and reaches for the light switch.

Before he can find it, something brushes his left temple and he freezes.

For a guy who prefers to stay out of trouble, he knows the feeling of gun metal too well. "Okay," he whispers, hands immediately in the air. "No trouble. No trouble. Wallet's in my left pocket. Take it. Take it, go on."

"I don't want your wallet, Saul." The voice is gravelly, lower and hoarser than the last time he heard it, but it's one he could never mistake or forget.

And, knowing its owner, Saul also knows that there's no talking his way out of this. Jesse Pinkman's here to kill him.

In one swift move that might be the only reflex he's retained from his days at the strip mall dojo, Saul dives and rolls behind the sofa chair. He pulls his own gun from his pocket with shaking hands and steadies it on the chair arm to aim into the darkness. Even without clear sight of his target, he pulls the trigger. Better to shoot first in situations like these. That is, situations where he's being cornered by a lunatic who's out for revenge and won't stop until he's dead.

Click.

—Fuck, he left the safety on. His trembling fingers search for the lever in the dark, but Jesse finds him before he finds it. The pistol slips from his hands as Jesse pries it away to toss it across the room. A foot connects with Saul's chin and sends him sprawling back on the ground. As soon as he's down, he tries to skitter away, but that same foot comes down on his chest and pins him to the floor.

Despite having the wind knocked out of him, Saul knows he can't spare a moment to gather his bearings. This is a fight for his life. So he writhes and grabs hold of Jesse's ankle, twisting with all his might to throw off Jesse's weight. It works, and Jesse goes tumbling down over the chair.

With the path to the door blocked, Saul makes for the bathroom instead, crawling on hands and knees. He can hear Jesse struggling to his feet behind him but he doesn't look back. The door knob's within his reach. Another couple feet and he'll be inside. Maybe he can bludgeon Jesse with the ceramic toilet lid.

The bloodthirsty psycho snarls somewhere behind him, and just as his fingertips brush the door, a hand grabs Saul's calf to pull him back.

Bobbing his head to the rhythm of the local country radio that's filtering into the break room via static-popping speakers, Saul takes a step back and examines his reflection in the mirror. He licks his comb and neatens his mustache a bit, then drags it through his hair. It's looking a bit grey these days. He can't blame it. His whole life feels a little grey compared to the circus it used to be. Things have brightened up since the Cinnabon days, but not vastly.

Spotting something, he leans in again. Ugh, nose hairs. Leave it to his head to grow hair everywhere but where he could use more of it. He'll have to trim that after his shift. No time now to keep fussing.

He straightens his collar and turns to grab his bone-white cowboy hat off the rack. The mirror gets one more glance as he plants the ridiculous thing on his head, and then he's out the door.

"Mornin', Gene," Shanice greets him with a smile as she passes him on the way to the kitchen.

"Howdy, Shanice," Saul calls back with a tip of his hat before he turns his focus to the register. It's secretly a life-sucking machine, he's sure of it. He can feel his energy draining with every second he spends looking at it.

Shanice already flipped on the OPEN sign and the first customers start making their way into the restaurant. Saul puts on his two-time employee-of-the-month smile as they step up to the counter. "Welcome to Bronco's, pardner! Can I interest ya'll in a Big Bronco Sausage-Egg-N-Cheese Breffist?"

"Just a number one and two kiddie meals, thanks," replies the somewhat haggard-looking mother, whose children are both currently trying to get her attention by tugging at her cutoff jeans.

"You know, for just ninety-nine cents extra, you can—"

"No, thanks," she dismisses Saul with a wave of her credit card.

"That's six seventy-five," Saul confirms, losing none of his chipper demeanor while he swipes her card.

It's only once she's cleared out and he's cycled through a few more early morning customers that he finally gets a moment to himself. "Any chance for a coffee?" he calls back to the kitchen.

"Look behind you," Shanice hollers from out of sight.

Saul turns around and lets out a chuckle when he spots a thermos waiting for him on the shelf. "When the heck did ya sneak that over here?"

Shanice peeks around the corner, flashing a grin at him. "I just got that magic touch, baby. You know that."

"S'pose I do," Saul replies, raising his coffee in a toast to her. He leans up against the counter and turns his attention to the TV across the dining room. The morning news is playing on mute. "Where's the remote? I'm missing The View."

Shanice fetches the remote from wherever she had it stashed back there and hands it over. "Ain't even worth watching since my girl Star left."

Scandalized, Saul shoots back, "What about Whoopi?!"

Shanice rolls her eyes and saunters back toward the kitchen. "You and Whoopi have fun now."

Saul snickers to himself and turns back to the TV, raising the remote. Before he can change the channel, however, the headline on the screen captures his attention. His mouth drops open and he hastily turns up the volume.

"—was discovered early this morning just outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico, inside what authorities are referring to as a methamphetamine 'superlab'. Federal officials have confirmed that this is without a doubt the body of the infamous kingpin known on the streets as Heisenberg. This brings an end to a months-long nationwide manhunt. We'll be bringing you more details on this developing story over the next hour..."

Saul slams his coffee cup down on the counter and shuts off the TV. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, wondering if he ought to say something. He hates to leave like this when Shanice has been so good to him, but courtesy is sort of a luxury he can't afford. He isn't the man she thinks he is and now it's time for ol' Gene to disappear into the desert from whence he came. Not hesitating another moment, he hurries around to the front door and out into the parking lot. On his way to the wood-paneled station wagon that's going to escort him back to his real life, he raises his hat in farewell to the grotesquely grinning Bronco's sign overhead.

"So long, Omaha!"

With a jerk, as if starting from a nightmare, Jesse realizes there's music playing. A cassette in the deck. The sound is faint, but it's enough that when he hears the first notes of "Love is a Battlefield" chime beneath the roar of the wind and engine, it sends an automatic shiver down his spine. He ejects the tape and chucks it right out onto the highway, where the tires of a semi-truck crunch it into dust. He'd rather hear whatever squawky, twangy tune that's currently playing on AM radio than listen to another one of Todd's love songs.

Todd's dead now.

The sun's risen over the horizon, though Jesse has to guess at the exact time, since the clock on Todd's dashboard only reads a series of flickering digital lines. All that money and the guy could never be bothered to fix something so basic.

Not that it matters to Jesse, really. He knows it's been at least an hour and no one's trailing him. He's gone, what, a hundred miles in that time? East, apparently. He hadn't intended to go east, but that's where he found himself when he came to his senses.

Another couple miles and Jesse feels the car shudder. That's never good. He remembers how the Crystal Ship used to do the same thing, right when something was fixing to give out. He looks out the windows in every direction, but there's desert on all sides and no civilization in sight.

His eyes drop to the one gauge on the dashboard that's still working and he determines the problem: the pointer's pointing at E.

As the car begins to slow, he jerks the wheel to the right and pulls off the highway. It goes rolling onto the sand before it dies completely, just a few feet from some heavy brush. Jesse throws another look out the rear window, searching for signs of highway patrol.

Spotting none, he ducks back down and starts rifling through the car. He's on foot from here on out and there's no time to waste. He'll have to find shelter and water before the midday sun or he'll die out here, he knows too well.

There's a warm, unopened can of grape soda in the center console and he finds a loaded pistol and a wad of five hundred dollars in the glove compartment. Good. That's very good. He might be able to pay a trucker to get him to the next town. He hops out of the El Camino to check the cargo bed, too.

Jackpot. Todd's go-bag is back there, complete with ammo and more cash and a fresh outfit. Jesse hastily shrugs off his filthy clothes and shoves them into the pack, switching them out for something that'll attract less attention: a white t-shirt and khakis, plus a blue baseball cap. He can't do anything about his scars, but at least he looks more like a hipster on a backpacking trip than an escaped mental patient.

Once he's got everything he needs, he shifts the car into neutral and pushes it further down the hill, into the brush. It's not much of a camouflage, but it might buy him some time to get miles ahead before a cop notices it there.

He wipes his prints off the steering wheel and the door handle, then turns his back on the thing and makes his way back up to the road. With no markers around, he follows the morning sun as far as it will take him from Albuquerque.

He doesn't look like he's asleep. Whoever first made that comparison must have never actually seen a dead body. He looks like plastic. Or maybe marble. He looks like a mannequin or a statue laid flat on a metal slab, with skin so white that it looks bluish under the harsh fluorescent light. His cheekbones seem as if they've been carved, each wrinkle crafted by an artist's tool. He is not asleep. He is not the man she married. He is not a man at all.

He's an object.

When she reaches out to brush his cheek, she flinches at the coldness of it and draws her hand back. She wants to turn to them and tell them that this can't possibly be him. He was breathing when she saw him yesterday. And she'd hated him. She can't hate something that's so obviously not real.

She feels a palm press gently into the small of her back as her sister steps up beside her. "That's him," Marie says, speaking for her.

The coroner nods and an officer beside him takes a few notes. "Take as much time as you need, Mrs. White," he says.

"It's Ms. Lambert," Marie snaps back at him.

The coroner opens his mouth to apologize, but Skyler shakes her head and turns away from the body. "We're finished here," she croaks.

When they step into the hall, a pair of agents are waiting to meet them. "Sorry for your loss," the taller one, Agent Hoffman, says. He doesn't mean it. How could any of them be sorry about the DEA's greatest victory in recent memory? "We wanted to give you an update on—"

"Guys, could you give us a moment here?" Marie sighs, waving them back. She isn't sorry, either. She's had a vibration to her all morning, a nervous energy that's bordering on giddy. She isn't happy, but her relief is practically bursting from her bones.

The other agent, Van Oster, bows his head in apology. "Whenever you're ready."

"Good. Thank you. We're getting some air. This place reeks." She guides Skyler out the side door and into the morning sun.

Skyler immediately reaches for her cigarettes.

For once, Marie doesn't say anything about it. Instead, she wrings her hands and turns her face toward the breeze, searching for comforting words. "He looked peaceful," is what she comes up with. It sounds strained. She resents how serene and smug that expression was.

Skyler either laughs or coughs in response before taking another drag.

The slam of a car door draws both their attention to the road. A news van's waiting there, a crew already making their way down the sidewalk in a rush to get to the sisters. "Oh, for Christ's sake," Marie hisses. She turns around and throws the morgue door open, waving the agents over. "Make yourselves useful, would you? We've got vultures over here."

Skyler casts a contemptuous look at the cameras and tosses her cigarette to the ground. She turns to duck back into the building just as Hoffman and Van Oster brush past her. "No comment!" they shout into the microphones. "No comment!"

High noon. That's what they call it, right? In the old westerns, when the sun beats down mercilessly from straight up above. He's only been walking for a few hours, but Jesse's skin is bright red and he's lost half his body's moisture in sweat. It must be ninety degrees out, or maybe even ninety-five. The horizon wavers like it's made of water. God, what he wouldn't give for a lake right now. Anything to cool his burning body.

When a town comes into view over on the opposite side of the highway, Jesse at first wonders if it's a mirage. As he comes closer and the few scattered buildings become clearer in his sight, he grows sure that it isn't. With no car in sight, he crosses over to the other side unhindered and makes a break for shelter at a half-trudging, half-running pace. Maybe it isn't smart to exert himself, but he can't bear the heat any longer.

One of the buildings is a relic from the last century, its chipped overhang reading RICHARDSON'S STORE. It's in better shape than the others, which are all half-collapsed stone and adobe ruins. And a store promises supplies—even if they might be fifty years old.

The temperature is at least ten degrees cooler as soon as he steps into the shade of the overhang, and Jesse takes a moment to lean up against one of the old gas pumps to catch his breath. Apparently gas cost sixty-four cents a gallon when this town's heart stopped beating. He thinks it'd be a little funny if he died right here and someone found his skeleton leaning just like this.

He isn't dead yet, though, and once he's got his strength, he stumbles into the store proper. Some other explorer kicked in the door long ago, and he finds the place a mess of mostly-empty cardboard boxes inside. Most of the surviving merchandise appears to be hanging on a clothes rack along one of the walls. He picks a dusty denim shirt off its hanger and brushes it off before shoving it into his bag. It'll come in handy later, keep the sun off his arms.

Jesse moves on and gets his hopes up a few times when he spots gallon jugs scattered around, only to find each one already emptied. He sifts through trash for another fifteen minutes before he gives up and settles down in the coolest spot on the property.

As he's pulling his backpack into his lap to search for that can of grape soda, a slam draws his attention to the front of the store. He squirms back, trying to wedge his body behind a pile of boxes, but a flashlight beam lands on him before he's fully hidden.

"Can I help you?" a quavery voice calls out.

Jesse keeps silent and still. As if that could make him go invisible or something.

An old man steps out from around the trash pile, the light from his torch traveling from Jesse's filthy sneakers to his dirt-streaked face. The stranger stops where he is, not three feet away. He repeats, "Can I help you, son?"

"U-Um…" Jesse rocks forward onto his knees, ready to make a break for it but not running yet. "I wasn't stealing."

The old man chuckles. "Well, I know that. There ain't a whole lot to steal."

Some of the tension melts off Jesse's shoulders. Laughter is good. "Yeah," he says, adding a weak chuckle of his own.

"If you were looking for the pop machine, it's out in the back by the mailboxes," the man offers. His flashlight's still shining on Jesse's face, blinding him.

"Oh." He can tell the man's examining his features, so he rolls to his feet finally. "Well, I guess I'll just… go find it."

"Hold on a second," the old man says, finally clicking off his light. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and Jesse's heart drops into his stomach before the old man reveals the water bottle he's carrying. He holds it out to Jesse. "You can have this one. Just bought it. Haven't even opened it yet."

Jesse swallows and takes a cautious step forward to accept the thing. "...Thank you."

"You'd be surprised how many dead kids we get out here, dropping from heat exhaustion and the like," the man says with a wry smile. "Guess they don't teach you in college: midday's a hell of a time to go out hiking the Mother Road."

"Yeah," Jesse says with a nervous smile of his own before he raises the bottle to take a gulp of water. "Yeah, I guess I got stupid."

The old man's gaze drops to Jesse's wrist. To the raw scabs and marks there, the telltale evidence of handcuffs worn for many hours and many days. Once he sees them, he doesn't look away.

Jesse knows he's caught. The old man might not recognize exactly who he is, but he knows this is a runaway of some kind. There's no doubt. The second he leaves the store, he'll call the police. The only way to stop that from happening is to keep the old man from leaving. The only way to keep the old man from leaving is to use Todd's gun.

As Jesse begins to shift his weight, the old man speaks again: "You ever see Cool Hand Luke?"

"What?" Jesse stops and shakes his head. "Um, no."

"Oh, that's too bad. That's a classic right there. Always did like that one."

Jesse looks the man up and down, puzzled. He expects it's a distraction of some kind, or he's leading up to an attack, but the old man doesn't move.

"Wasn't too fond of the end, though. Poor boy's praying to God and he says, 'When does it end? What you got in mind for me next? What do I do now?' ...And you know what happens next? A buncha coppers track him down and shoot him in the throat." The old man sighs. "What kinda ending is that?"

A tremor runs through Jesse's body. "Pretty bad one," he murmurs.

"Pretty bad one," the old man agrees. "I woulda wrote it different."

Jesse says nothing. A moment of silence passes between them, their eyes locked and neither one blinking.

Finally, the old man turns away. "Time to fix up some lunch. I'm in the house just up the road, if you feel like joining me. Don't get too many visitors."

This might be his only chance. Jesse bends to unzip his backpack and looks at the pistol resting on top of his clothes. Now's the time to use it, if he's ever going to. But he clenches his jaw and pushes it aside to make room for the water bottle before closing the bag back up. Shrugging the pack onto one shoulder, he rises and trails after the old man.

Ramey clears his throat, casting an uneasy glance at Skyler before directing his full attention to Marie. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Schrader," he says, in an echo of every agent before him. Hollow words of sympathy repeated ten thousand times in the past six months.

Marie shakes her head, her lip giving the slightest quiver but her eyes sharp and focused. "I want to see him."

Ramey's mouth twitches into a frown. "The remains are in a considerable state of decomposi—"

"Then how do you even know it's him?" she quips.

"Marie…" Skyler whispers, reaching to touch her sister's arm.

"I'm serious," Marie says, her eyes still challenging Ramey. "How can you know for sure?"

"Our forensics team was able to use a number of identifiers," Ramey replies. "Both Hank and Steve were carrying their badges. Dental evidence was a perfect match. There is no doubt in our minds. So there is absolutely no need for you to subject yourself to—"

"If Skyler could do it, I can do it," Marie insists, her hands closing into fists. "I just want to be sure. I… I have to be sure."

Ramey clears his throat and drops his gaze to the folder in his hands. "Alright. We'll call you in as soon as our team is finished collecting evidence." He turns to look at Hoffman and Van Oster, who've been lurking at the doorway to the meeting room. "Could you escort the ladies to their respective homes?"

"Skyler's coming home with me," Marie corrects. "It's a media circus around her apartment right now. She can't stay there."

Ramey nods. "Of course." When he looks at Skyler, his face hardens subtly. "I don't think I need to remind you that you're not to leave the state for any reason while this investigation is ongoing."

"I understand," Skyler responds in a hollow murmur.

"For God's sake, Ramey," Marie sighs as she puts an arm around her sister. "She isn't going to run."

His skepticism is plain in his eyes. "If the paparazzi start to swarm, give us a call and we'll scatter them."

"Thank you," says Marie, her tone clipped with lingering indignation.

"There's no need to thank me, Mrs. Schrader. Your husband was a hero. You deserve your privacy in this difficult time."

Dusk sets the sky behind the mesa on fire. Jesse keeps his eyes on it as the scenery rolls past, taking in the red and orange hues against the encroaching blue twilight. He already feels a million miles from yesterday, and the entire world around him seems new and unexplored.

"Beautiful, ain't it," the old man says from the driver's seat. "Tukamukaru. That's what the Indians called it. It means 'waiting for something to approach'."

"That's a weird name for a mountain," Jesse remarks. To him, it looks more like something man-made. Like an Aztec pyramid or a temple of some kind. He probably would've named it Big-Ass House. Or whatever the Indian word for that is.

"Ain't so weird when you think about it. They'd go up there and keep watch for their enemies, ambush 'em when they knew they could get the upper hand."

"Hm…" Jesse rests his chin on his palm, his gaze moving over the foothills that lead down into the valley. "I guess that makes sense."

The old man turns the wheel, taking them off of 40 and onto the exit for Old 66. "We're coming up on the edge of town now," he announces, glancing over. "You sure this is where you want me to leave you? I could take you all the way to the bus stop if you want. You got a few hours to kill, there's a McDonald's right next to it."

"I'm okay here," Jesse assures him. "I like to keep my legs moving."

"'course."

The pickup rolls to a stop along the curb and Jesse hops out, pulling his backpack onto his shoulders. He pauses to look up at the old man, not quite sure what to say. "Thanks," he offers after an awkward moment. "For the ride. And the lunch. And the water."

The old man smiles down at him. "It was the Christian thing to do." His eyes settle briefly on Jesse's backpack as if he knows what's in there, what could have gotten him killed, but he makes no comment about it. Instead he says, "Be sure and keep those sleeves rolled down. Was a time when folk in these parts paid no mind to a man in bracelets, but they don't call this town Six Shooter Siding anymore and the Outlaw West is good and gone."

Jesse's eyes go wide but he gives a quick nod. He doesn't even consider reaching for the gun now, though he's almost certain the man knows exactly who he is.

"Anyway, it's been an adventure." The old man reaches across to pull the passenger door shut. "Good luck to you, son. This ain't the end of it."

Jesse raises a hand in farewell as the truck pulls away and disappears around the curve. When the tail lights have blinked out of sight, he turns to make his way down the historic highway, passing a sign that proclaims TUCUMCARI WELCOMES YOU!

He doubts that.

In the half hour it takes him to cross town, he passes a slew of kitschy motels. He can't understand why anyone would visit this town if they weren't on the run and searching for an oasis in the desert out of desperate necessity. There's literally nothing to see but neon signs and boarded up buildings, the casualties of a collapsed economy. Especially when thrown into sharp contrast with the natural beauty outside the town limits, it's depressing the hell out of him.

Which is weird, really. He should be happy. He was, for the first few hours—deliriously so. But as the night settles in, so does the precariousness of his situation. The world has moved on without him. He's on his way to buy a bus ticket, but he has no idea where to. He has to keep his legs moving. That's all he knows. And he only knows that because his fear tells him so.

The streets are silent and lonely, and all of a sudden they feel oppressive, too. Jesse's chest tightens and his breath catches in his throat. He leans up against the nearest telephone pole, hugging himself. There's no one to guide him. No one left to follow. Is this how he carries on for the rest of his life? An endless stretch of asphalt going nowhere?

Forget the bus. His feet refuse to take him there. He sinks down to the ground and buries his face in his hands. As soon as he's steadied his breath, exhaustion overtakes him.

When was the last time he slept? It's been forty hours, at least…

He jerks awake at the sound of laughter and springs to his feet, looking all around. For a moment, he's completely disoriented. He expects the four walls of his cage, and chains around his ankles, and shadows moving overhead. Laughter usually signalled something terrible for him.

But he's not in that place anymore. Slowly, it comes back to him: he's in Tucumcari now. The sky is fully dark and the moon has risen, which means he probably missed his bus out of town.

He didn't imagine the laugh. There it is again. With nothing else to do, he follows the sound around a thicket of brush and cacti. He expects to find a bar there, but there's only another abandoned gas station. The whole damn highway is littered with them.

"You're killing me here!" The voice is disembodied. It's coming from somewhere in the shadows. "No, believe me, if I could drive another second, I would."

Jesse freezes in mid-step and shrinks back, holding his breath. He knows that voice.

—No, wait. That makes no sense. He can't possibly. It's his mind again, playing tricks. Or he's still dreaming. There isn't even anybody over there. He's hearing voices, like a genuine crazy person.

He refuses. He's only just managed to break free. He isn't going to let those fuckers win now. He won't listen. If he's lost it, then he'll find his way back to sanity.

But the voice carries on: "I'll be there first thing in the morning. Count on it, HT. I just need my beauty rest. —Oh, very funny."

Jesse veers back toward the gas station, his eyes glaring through the night. As they adjust, he finally locates the source of the voice: a familiar silhouette beside a payphone, visible between the branches of shrubbery.

He exhales with a tremble and reaches for his backpack.

"I can wait up if you wanna drive over and spend the night. ...Fine, be that way." Saul laughs again. It sounds forced, with an edge of nervousness. "I don't remember the phone number. It's the Buckaroo Motel. Lucky thirteen. Yeah, I missed you, too. We're in the home stretch. I'll see you at…"

Jesse's hand drops away from the bag. The Buckaroo Motel. He passed that earlier. He ducks back the way he came, moving as quickly and quietly as he can through the dark streets.

Jesse pins him to the ground with surprising strength, forearm pressed beneath his chin to cut off any shouts for help he might attempt to make. Saul gasps and struggles, hands clawing at Jesse's sleeves, but it's a losing fight as he starts to run out of oxygen.

"Stop moving," Jesse hisses, pushing more of his weight onto Saul's chest when he ducks down, so close that Saul can feel his breath. "I'll let go if you stop moving. I'll kill you if you don't."

With no choice left, Saul goes still and drops his hands away.

Jesse apparently needs a moment to recover, too. He traps Saul's arms with his knees, straddling him while he sucks in a few deep lungfuls of air.

"Jesse," Saul coughs, keeping his voice low enough to keep from agitating him. "Let's talk about this."

"You don't need to talk," Jesse growls. "You just need to stay there."

"Okay. Okay. I'm staying."

With a groan, Jesse rolls off of him and stumbles across the room. He finds a light switch and flicks it on, locating Saul's gun after a quick scan of the area. He has both of them pointed at Saul's chest when he comes stomping back.

This is the first glimpse that Saul gets of Jesse's face, and he doesn't even recognize it. If he hadn't heard that voice first, he would never have guessed. All that remains unchanged are those wild blue eyes—and the burning hatred behind them. They take him right back to the last time Jesse had a gun pointed at him.

"What're you doing here?" Jesse demands, his aim unwavering.

"What?" Jesse's asking that question like he didn't stalk Saul here to begin with. "Uh... This is my hotel room."

"Not here. I mean here. This town. This place."

Oh. "This is the only road back to Albuquerque. I'm—I'm headed home, Jesse."

"Where were you before?"

"Omaha."

"Why?"

"'Why?'" Saul asks, incredulous, with a nod to Jesse's weapons. "Why do you think?"

Comprehension crosses Jesse's features and he takes a step back. "If you were hiding, why're you coming back now?"

"Because they're all dead. Because you're supposed to be dead. You're crazy if you think I wanted to spend the rest of my days in goddamn Nebraska!"

Jesse clenches his jaw and lunges forward again. "Don't call me that."

"—What?" Crazy? Saul shrinks back a bit. "Okay, yeah. Sorry. Yeah."

"Who knows you're here?"

"Nobody."

Jesse slams his foot into Saul's ribs. "Who knows?!"

Saul curls in on himself, choking, "Francesca! Francesca knows! Nobody else, I swear!" He sucks in a sharp breath. "But believe me, if I go missing—If I go missing, somebody's gonna come looking for me."

"They won't find you," Jesse mutters darkly, the barrel of his gun fixed squarely between Saul's eyes.

"Please don't do this, Jesse," Saul begs, his voice rising to a shrill whine. "It's all over now, isn't it? What's the point of this?"

"Shut up, Saul. I'm not finished."

Saul looks simultaneously relieved and bewildered. If Jesse's not here to kill him, then what's he going to do?

"Pack your bags. We're hitting the road. Now."

Saul starts to sit up. "Whoa, hey, hold on—"

Jesse plants his foot on Saul's chest and pushes him back down, his eyes alight with warning. He doesn't look like he'll hesitate to fire those guns. After all, he's perfectly capable of stealing Saul's car and driving himself.

Saul settles against the floor, but he keeps talking, "Let me just—Listen, okay? Professional advice. You wanna cross the border, right? I get it. The thing is, I'm not the guy for that job."

Jesse cocks the pistol in his right hand.

"I'm the guy who can get you to the guy!" Saul blurts quickly, flinching. When Jesse doesn't shoot him, he goes on, "Fair's fair, right? Believe me, nobody wants you outta town more than I do. So… Let's just call this a truce, huh? Keep the gun. Sleep with it, for all I care. Just quit pointing it at me."

Doubtful of Saul's sincerity, Jesse stares down at him for another long moment. Then, finally, he lifts his foot and retreats, tucking both guns into the waistband of his khakis.

Saul scrambles to his feet and brushes himself off. Jesse's left a coat of dust on his formerly pristine attire. "I'm gonna hand you my keys and my wallet. That way I can't run off, right? Let's rebuild a little trust here."

Jesse holds his palm out wordlessly in a classic just-shut-up-and-give-it-to-me fashion. Once Saul's surrendered them over, he tucks the items into his jacket without looking at them.

Now the tough news. "Just one thing: we can't leave tonight," Saul tells him.

Jesse isn't surprised he's trying this tactic. "Why not?"

"I've been on the road for close to twenty hours. I'm exhausted. And look at you! I'm guessing it's the same for you, right?"

Jesse's lips pull back into a sneer. "Yeah, I guess I oughta take a hot shower. Get a little shut-eye. No way you'll call somebody up to come and waste me while I got my back turned. Speaking of that, where's your cell?"

Saul sighs. "I don't have one. I've been using payphones like it's 1977. Search me if you want."

"Maybe later." Jesse juts his chin forward. "Get your stuff together. We're leaving in five minutes. No more excuses."

Saul stares at Jesse. It's hard to believe this is happening. Fifteen minutes ago, he was free and clear on his way back to his old life. Nothing was supposed to be left standing in his way. This feral ghost standing in front of him was meant to have been killed by Walt's henchmen half a year ago. The man himself had assured Saul of that.

Instead, the kid's here. And he's worse than Heisenberg on the scale of 1 to Norman Bates. Saul has no choice but to go along with it until he can reach some help.