Work Text:
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“Jesse, where are you going?”
Jesse paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob, so close to escaping to freedom, and yet it seemed so far out of reach. Squinting, he turned around, his hand finding its way to his tousled straw-blonde hair, scratching the back of his head as he stared into his mother's piercing eyes. She always managed to scare him a little, even now, standing there with her hands on her hips, the dishtowel still in her hand, just as she did when she haunted him in his nightmares.
“Uhm… visiting Ginny.” It was almost impossible to escape her keen eyes, as she followed his every movement, giving him a downcast look as she examined his oversized, baggy clothes.
“Ginny? Are you sure about that?” Her tone was equally as sharp, cutting Jesse like a knife through the tensed air. “You’re grounded, you know that.”
“Am I not allowed to see my dying aunt?” He was pressing the pity button now, lowering his crystal blue eyes at her. “Besides, she is the only one who helps me study.”
His mother considered his words like a promise he couldn’t keep, pursing her lips. “Mr. White called me. He told me you will most likely fail this school year.”
“I know,” he sighed, wanting to bury the information deep inside one of his mental drawers. “That’s why I’m on ma way to study with her.”
It was a lie, of course, it was. Not only Jesse knew this, but so did his mother. But it didn’t matter, not really. She only pretended to care about him. He hadn't been the center of her attention for a long time, not since his little brother was born.
“Alright.” Her gaze was still on him, literally stapling him against the wall. He wanted to break free, run away, but he knew he already had her where he needed her. “You will be home for dinner.”
It wasn’t a question; it was a demand. Jesse knew better than to press. “Yeah, thanks. See ya.” With that, he slipped out of the door, taking in the warm, sizzling air of Albuquerque, hoping he would actually made it home in time.
____
He greeted his childhood friend with their signature handshake, spotting a flash of a new tattoo on his arm. “Sick tat, Emilio.”
“Thanks.” Emilio stretched his arm out further, letting Jesse take a closer look of the rattling snake that was now inhabiting his upper arm. His taste was immaculate, as Jesse thought. He had also selected Jesse’s borneo scorpion tattoo on his hand back then. As expected, his mother hadn't been too happy about it, calling Emilio a bad influence and even forbidding him to come to their house – even though they had known each other since elementary school. But Jesse always found ways to meet his friend and soon-to-be business partner, and most importantly, to escape from home. Because that was something he wanted more than anything else – to escape from his family.
“Yo, you thought about our plan?” Jesse asked, his gaze wandering over the driveway of Emilio’s house. His parents never really cared what he was doing; they didn’t expect for him to graduate anyway, for him to have a future.
Sometimes, this was Jesse’s biggest fear. Not graduating, not having a future. Emilio’s idea to start a business was tempting – dangerous and stupid but tempting.
“Yeah,” he sniffed, his eyes glassy. “But I changed it. We’re gonna see ma cousin.”
“Your cousin?” Jesse had never met his cousin, only ever heard of him. But that had been enough to let the blood freeze in his veins. This guy was crossing paths with people, Jesse would rather avoid, which was especially problematic if they would materialize their idea.
“Yeah, he got some connections to the cartel an shit. Can hit us up with a good plan, maybe partner up with us.” He turned, walking towards his car.
“Partner up?” Jesse mumbled, following him. This wasn’t part of the plan. That sounded really real, all of a sudden.
Emilio slipped into the car, Jesse followed, and with a big grin on his face, he started the engine. “What do you think bout ‘Captain Cook’?”
“Yeah… sounds fucking awesome, man,” Jesse said, his voice trembling slightly. However, Emilio was so distracted by the adrenaline coursing through his veins that he didn't notice Jesse's hesitation. Rubbing his hands together, Jesse swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched the landscape race past the passenger's window for the entire drive without really seeing anything.
____
“Domingo, this is Jesse Pinkman, Jesse this is-“
“Krazy-8,” Emilio’s cousin interrupted him, regarding him with a cold glance before opening the door wider. “Come in.”
Taking the lead, Jesse could feel the coldness swinging behind him like an invisible cloak, too scared to look back, worrying it would get caught somewhere.
Jesse wasn't sure what he expected his house to look like, but certainly not like this: the living room and kitchen were one open area, the light very bright due to a huge wall of windows, a punching bag hanging in the middle of the room, huge, expensive pieces of furniture were draped across it, dominated by a large white fireplace. He even had a small bar next to his kitchen, plants scattered on shelves. It was neat, clean, hardly any trace of drugs or empty alcohol bottles like Jesse was used to from Emilio's room, no musty smell like he knew from the tattoo artist. At first glance it didn't look like Krazy-8 had anything to hide and yet, again, it was too clean, too pretty. Life was missing. Like a dog that brought some disorder, or at least some dust.
There was, however, something, or rather somebody, who didn’t really fit in the picture. A bald, muscular young man, maybe a few years older than Jesse, sat on the neat black leather sofa, arms folded across his chest, his red shirt almost bursting open under his broad torso. His dark eyes were narrowed as he stared at Jesse and Emilio and never before had Jesse felt so small and insignificant in his baggy pants, his three sizes too big sweatshirt jacket, under his beanie which he pulled low over his face, as he did in this moment.
“Hey, yo. Wassup?” Jesse asked him in the heat of the moment, only for his death stare to intensify. These were the exact guys Jesse would have never wanted to cross ways with. Too bad, he couldn’t exactly get out of it now.
“Sorry,” Krazy-8 shook his head, signaling the guy on the couch that he didn’t want to be in this situation either. “This is ma cousin and his… friend. They wanna get into the business.”
“I don’t care,” the guy said with a surprisingly soft voice, his expression still tensed. “I’m just here for the money.”
“Yeah, I know. Emilio, come on. Help me.” Krazy-8 pulled on Emilio’s sleeve, nodding towards the stairs. “It’s too much for me to carry alone.”
“You better not fuck with the Salamanca’s,” the guy huffed in a harsh tone. “Or do you wanna be beaten up again?”
Not only Krazy-8’s eyes glittered with angst, but so did Jesse’s now as he put together the missing pieces. Emilio and Krazy-8 would leave him alone with this… guy, who was clearly in a mood to beat up somebody. Jesse couldn’t survive this sober.
As soon as the two of them had disappeared up the stairs, Jesse flopped into the armchair next to the couch, pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and fumbled for a joint with trembling fingers. He could practically feel the guy’s stare boring into him, trying to read his mind.
Overwhelmed with the situation, Jesse lost control of his words, just letting them fall out of him while he reached into his pocket for a lighter. “You wanna smoke some weed?”
Mentally slapping himself, he wiggled his brows, as he balanced the slim, well-crafted joint between his thumb and forefinger.
“No.” Was his short answer, brushing against Jesse like the usual rejection of his mother, whenever he wanted to talk to her.
Bringing the joint between his lips, he cupped his free hand around the lighter, trying to light it up under the watchful glance of the guy. With a third click, a tiny flame enlightened, littering up his flame, and burning the tip of the joint. The lighter vanished in his pocket again, as he brought the joint to his lips, inhaling sharply – the strong scent of weed hovering in the air, as the tip illuminated. Jesse felt visibly relaxed the second the familiar smell hit his tongue, leaning back into the chair, only to let out the smoke in circles. “Yo, what’s your name?”
The guy studied him carefully, as if he couldn't quite believe Jesse had asked for his name. And even Jesse couldn't believe he did that, of course he wouldn't just throw his name around, not when he was involved in illegal things. To both of their surprise, he relaxed his arms and watched Jesse taking another hit on his joint. “Nacho.”
“Nacho,” Jesse chewed his name, fighting the urge to giggle. Who’s name was Nacho? “I’m Jesse. So uhm… you are… you are part of the business?”
“The business?”
“Yeah, the cartel.”
Jesse has always had a special ability to put his foot in it, and he's always been bad at small talk. In combination with weed, he then often ended up talking randomly without listening to his thoughts first.
“I guess so.” The tension in the room told Jesse that Nacho wasn't usually the kind of person who let people talk to him like that, but somehow, he seemed withdrawn, almost curious, watching him as if he saw something in Jesse that no one else could.
Jesse nodded, watching the burning tip of his joint as he inhaled another load of toxins. “Yeah, Emilio and I plan to join, you know? Crystal meth an shit.”
“You wanna cook crystal meth?” Raising an eyebrow, he leaned into the couch, almost snorting a laugh. “You two?”
“Yeah,” Jesse sniffed his nose, playing with the sleeve of his sweater. “It’s easy money, you know?”
His eyes grew serious again, his head shaking slightly. “You are not the guy.”
“What?” Jesse’s surroundings got lighter, as he sunk deeper into the chair, almost being swallowed by it. “What guy?”
“The guy to get into this kind of business.”
“But you are?”
“I never said that.”
Jesse wasn’t sure if Nacho’s expression softened, or if it was just the dizziness that was fogging around his brain, the smell of the fresh weed burning into his nose, as he took another pull. “I can be that guy.”
“You should get out as long as you can.”
He didn't know if it was the seriousness, the sincerity with which he spoke those words, or the fact that a stranger was giving him honest advice, that those words sank straight into his stomach, digging a deep hole. “Why?”
Nacho looked away, his eyes darting into the distance, dwelling on the ghost of his past. “No offence, but you don’t seem like the kinda guy who could survive this business. It’s hard shit, you know. You see things.”
“What things?” Jesse was hanging on his words now, fascinated by Nacho’s ability to judge Jesse so well, as if he had known him his whole life. He wondered if his appearance really was lacking this much intimidation – contrary to this guy.
His brown eyes pierced him again, his past reflecting inside of them. Jesse could have sworn they moved on their own, telling their own story. “Things that change you.”
Swallowing the anxiety that was climbing up his throat, Jesse spoke aloud the words that were troubling him for weeks. “I guess it’s too late. I’m already in.”
He nodded firmly, as if he was in a business meeting. “Make sure you got a criminal lawyer.”
“A criminal lawyer? Like these on tv who kick criminals out of prison?” Jesse laughed at the thought, imagining himself behind bars, rescued by a lawyer who came for his defense. Fucking weird.
“No,” he shook his head slightly, “a criminal lawyer.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
“Does the name Saul Goodman ring a bell for ya?”
Saul Goodman? Jesse took another load of weed, shaking his head, as his mind was desperately looking for an association with that name. He couldn’t find one, but it sounded quite familiar. Maybe he had seen it on a commercial or something?
“Well, you better remember it.”
That's all Nacho said to him, their unaccustomed honesty interrupted by Emilio and Krazy-8, each sneaking down the stairs with two bags full of money.
“Let’s discuss some business,” Emilio said as soon as Nacho started counting the payments, not without his signature tensed expression written all over his face. And while the others were already getting serious about their plans, Jesse couldn't help but wonder about Nacho's help. Little did he know that he would think about this encounter even years later, wishing he would have followed Nacho's advice and backed off while he still had the chance.