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While it sure as hell wasn’t as bad as riding shotgun with Saul Goodman for close to ten hours, Mike didn’t have a clue as to why he was again in some other guy’s car the very next day. His ass was still numb from sitting down so long. Fring had been blown to bits along with any semblance of Mike’s so-to-speak job security. Walter was a pain in the neck threatening to only get worse: a twisted knot at the base of his skull that if he chose to ignore could either fade into a headache or maybe goddamn paralyze him. And really all Mike wanted to do was sit in his living room with a beer and catch an old movie, maybe a Western.
Instead, Mike was on some sort of field trip. He’d gotten a text the night before from Jesse telling him to be ready at the three to take a drive. Telling him. It wasn’t a question. Mike was thinking Jesse was sort of getting even with the cryptic demand.
The kid was driving. He had the windows cracked, though it looked like it might actually rain, probably to air out the smell of smokes. Mike had never been in Jesse’s car before and it was cramped as all get-out, didn’t have the legroom of Goodman’s Cadillac. Though it also didn’t have a CD player stocked with Abba’s greatest hits or reek of cheap leather varnish. Mike would take cigarettes over that shit any day. Not that Jesse had lit up once. He was pretty quiet, eyes on the road, just making small talk but not too much. Mike wasn’t sure how to take that other than he didn’t like unpredictable, and Jesse should have known him well enough by now to know that too.
“Should I bother asking where we’re going?”
Mike had said something along those lines near forty-five minutes ago when Jesse shook his head and used his blinker even though they were already in a right-turn-only lane. He was going just five miles over the speed limit and he’d slowed down a good deal when they went through a school zone. Mike wasn’t sure why, but Jesse Pinkman had never really come across to him as a responsible driver. No, he wasn’t the little shithead Mike had thought in the beginning either. But he had both hands on the wheel. He was hardly slouching, checking his mirrors like was nervous, like Mike was testing him for his license.
Mike wondered if putting a hand on the kid’s shoulder would be too much. If he said, “Take it easy,” would Jesse get prickly about it? It was the kind of cop-psychology he’d picked up on the job. Not exactly reading people but gauging them for some kind of backlash; that was cop-stuff, something Mike never thought he’d use for matters below the belt. Things with Jesse hadn’t gone there. Mike had thought about it though, and it made him feel about as slick as Goodman’s upholstery. Thinking about it was already crossing a line.
“We’re uh…here,” Jesse said.
He killed the engine but left the keys in. And there was something about it being so overcast that made Mike feel like he could see Jesse a little better, like they were sitting closer than they actually were. His nose was small for his forehead, his ears too, and his hair looked like he’d buzzed it again recently.
Mike pinched at a stiff muscle in his thigh and cocked an eyebrow. “A shooting range?”
It was a one story place, mostly grey brick with a blue awning that read Top Gun; real clever.
“Yeah, I thought we could like blow off some steam and shit. Stuff’s kind of shitty, and like I know how much of a bitch working with Mr. White can be.” Jesse chewed at his top lip. He was looking at the building to their left. “It’s like those people who break plates when they’re pissed, except you like guns so I thought this would better.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Except I don’t have a gun.”
That got his attention.
Jesse squinted. “Yo, what do you mean you don’t have a gun? You always have a gun. Like, like no offense but you”—he gestured at Mike with both scrawny hands— “are like basically a gun, you know.”
Mike pretended to look a little put-out by that. “No I don’t. But no offense they don’t exactly let you waltz in with a semi-automatic and no serial number.”
“Shit.” Jesse screwed his mouth to the side. He cupped the back of neck and let his head hang. “Didn’t think about that. Fucking idiot, right?”
“No.” Mike didn’t have to pretend to look put-out because he wasn’t going to listen to Walter speaking out of Jesse like the kid was his damn puppet. Jesse seemed sort of lost in thought right now and Mike wasn’t going to just watch him spiral into another hole of shitting on himself. Mike started reaching for the kid’s arm. “You’re not an idiot or an imbecile or”—
“Hell yeah,” Jesse said, under his breath but pretty damn triumphantly. He cranked the car up and backed out of their parking spot. He was smiling as they took a right, but he glanced at Mike. “You saying something?”
Mike shook his head. “Wasn’t important.”
He hadn’t touched Jesse; that was the important part.
---
If Jesse wasn’t Jesse, Mike would have shot him by now. Because nobody took a man out to an old drop-spot in the godforsaken desert without any explanation with good intentions. Though nobody normally did it with a six-pack of Coca-Cola cans and a couple of plastic bags from a Dick’s Sporting Goods store Jesse had disappeared into either.
It wasn’t until they were both standing outside that Mike got to see what was in the bags. Jesse pulled out a lever-rifle Winchester-knockoff, painted brown like fake wood.
Mike pointed at him. “Let me get this straight. You lug me out to the middle of nowhere so we could play with a BB gun?”
Jesse nodded with an unsteady kind of smile building up. “Yo, lame?”
Mike shrugged. He took the toy gun from Jesse. The kid grinned.
They poured out most of the lukewarm soda and lined the cans up, and Mike hit every single damn one, no problem. Jesse’s aim was a bit shakier, but the gun looked good on him. The sun was starting to set and he seemed pretty happy. Mike wasn’t a sap but he could appreciate a good picture. And Jesse Pinkman in fading sunlight in the desert with an old Winchester in his arms made Mike feel like he was watching Paul Newman in Hombre.
Neither of them talked. It was nice.
When they got down to the last of the ammo, Jesse let Mike take the gun as he leaned back against the side of his car, finally taking a smoke for the first time in hours.
Mike was pretty confident that had something to do with Jesse looking a little easier and not so edgy once he was behind the wheel again.
It was getting late. Mike could see the stars coming out before Jesse switched on his headlights and pulled back onto the road.
Jesse glanced at him about a mile later. “Yo, you hungry?”
---
Of all the things Mike expected to find in Jesse Pinkman’s kitchen, a Crock-Pot was not one of them.
His house had smelled good when Jesse had opened the door for him. Mike had said as much as he took a look around because it had been a little while since he’d been there. The kid had really cleaned the place up: painted over all the graffiti and replaced some of the furniture in the living room. Mike hadn’t been shy when he’d made his way through the dining room—noticing the table was set for two, though not saying anything about it—and followed his nose to the source.
“That new?” Mike said.
“Yeah, I’ve only used it like a couple of times.” Jesse nodded to the counter. “I’m making beef stew, hope that’s okay. You seemed like a you know, meat and potatoes kind of guy.”
“I didn’t realize you knew how to cook…food.”
Jesse snickered. “It’s not that hard tossing stuff in a pot and pushing a button. But uh, it might take a little while to cool down enough to eat. You wanna watch like some T.V. while we wait?”
Mike shrugged. “I got nowhere to be. Mind if I hit the can?”
“Yeah, no problem. It’s the second one”—
“—To the right. I’ve been here before, kid,” Mike said.
Jesse chuckled and went to the sink to wash his hands. Mike left to take a leak, deciding to just stay in the living room once he’d washed his own hands. Jesse’s TV settings were thankfully the same as his own so he didn’t have to ask how to turn the damn thing on. He flipped through a couple of channels before he settled on The Terminator. It was only twelve minutes in and while certainly not a cinematic masterpiece, he thought Jesse would probably like it.
“Yo, sorry but the potatoes are still kind of hard. It’s probably gonna be like another half hour,” Jesse said. The kid looked tired, propping himself up against the wall and dragging a tattooed hand down his face. He straightened up when he glanced at the set. “Terminator? Hell yeah. This is the first one, right?”
Mike nodded, not bothering to move over as Jesse sat down next to him maybe closer than Mike was expecting. He had no complaints. The kid smelled like garlic and beef stock, but he made it work somehow. It was kind of calming in a strange way.
“You old enough to see this in theaters?” Mike asked.
He snorted. “Seriously? This shit came out like the year I was born. You see it in theaters?”
“I took my son,” Mike said.
He wasn’t sure why he even mentioned something like that, but Jesse didn’t push. They watched a couple more scenes, Schwarzenegger making his grand entrance, and Mike wondered if Jesse had any beer.
“You know most people hype Terminator up as this big action flick. But like, it’s sort of like a love story,” Jesse said, scratching his jaw with his eyes on the television. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s still dope, but like people seem to forget that, you know?”
Mike made a kind of vague sound because he was honestly one of those people. Granted the sex scene had been a little awkward watching with his teenage son in a Cineplex, but there were enough car chases and explosions to kind of downplay all the sentimental mush. And just like the first time, Mike let himself sort of go brain-dead and just watch the movie, enjoy the guns and stupid robots. It wasn’t until the sex part that he realized Jesse had fallen asleep.
His chin was tucked into his collarbones, half-curled into himself like a kid asleep in the backseat of a car.
Mike was pretty damn hungry so he got up quietly, grabbed one of the two bowls on the table, and got himself some stew from the Crock-Pot. He made sure the thing was on the warm setting before he came back to the futon.
The first bite smarted a bit, still hot, but the flavor was good. The potatoes were nice and soft and the meat was pretty under-seasoned, almost overcooked and kind of tough. It was like how his mom used to cook. That was how most people cooked when he was growing up. He liked it.
Mike was finishing a second helping when Jesse grunted. He slowly rolled his head back and blinked at Mike.
“How is it?”
His voice was thick and course with sleep. And it actually caught Mike off guard how much he liked the sound of it.
“It’s good,” he said.
“Awesome.” He shifted some like he was trying to get comfortable. His leg got closer to Mike’s. Then his eyelids started drooping again.
“You know you’re my ride, right?” Mike said.
Jesse hummed, eyes completely shut, sounds of gunfire from the movie not startling him in the least.
Mike set his empty bowl down on the coffee table and nudged him.
The kid hummed, reaching out to lay his hand over Mike’s even though he wasn’t looking at him. “Yo, I got you.”
Mike sort of froze. He waited, but Jesse didn’t move. Cautiously he ran his thumb over Jesse’s wrist bone, just grazing that stupid scorpion there.
“Kid?”
Nothing.
Mike settled against the futon, knowing full well his bum shoulder would be barking at him the next morning if he let himself fall asleep. But he left his hand there, thumb still sort of stroking over Jesse’s tattoo. He’d at least finish the movie.