[closed] your secret's out and the best part is —

[5055034455]

Date & Time: November 3-4, late night into very early morning
Location: Units 144 & 150, east wing
Characters: Saul & various
Summary: Saul and Mike yell at Jesse for being dumb, then Saul goes back to his room and digs out the booze with Wayne Doug.
Warnings: N/A; will be updated accordingly.

[For JESSE & MIKE —

So.

This is a disaster.

As if the zombie infestation weren't bad enough, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named showed up this month — and if that weren't bad enough, he just had to be a previous version of himself. This Walter doesn't even know Saul.

Or didn't, rather, until Saul was left with no choice but to introduce himself.

And on the one hand, it's great. It's fantastic. It gives them all a chance to start anew and maybe work toward fixing some things, except for the part where the moonbase's two hottest messes threw the plan straight out one of the airlocks, which leaves Saul and Mike in a bit of a rut.

Walter's pissed, that much is clear. Saul's worry is that the man's even more volatile now, knowing what he knows: that he succeeds in his little empire-building plan, that something goes Very Wrong somewhere along the line, that Jesse's already turned his back on him and apparently dragged Skyler with him.

Shit.

The question that's been sitting on the tip of his tongue for days — forgive him, gentlemen, he's been busy — is the one he practically shouts as soon as he passes through unit 144's door and spots Jesse:]

What the hell were you thinking?!

*

[For WAYNE —

Later, after all is said and done — or yelled, rather — Saul is exhausted, frustrated, on edge, and heading back to sleep in his room for the first time in nearly three days.

And the hilarious thing is that he doesn't really feel tired.

He mostly just wants to punch something, but that makes him think of the way that zombie's head felt when he hit it, which makes him want to throw up a little, which makes him think of what Gamora said, which makes him angry all over again. It's a vicious cycle.

He needs a drink.

He enters his room without ceremony, glancing only briefly at Wayne in greeting, then kneels and goes fishing under his bed. What he produces is a bottle of amber liquid — scotch, natch — and promptly unscrews the cap for the first time to take a long, long swig.

That done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and offers it to his new roomie, forcing a halfhearted smile.]

Thanks for not raiding my stash. Here.