Antipode

By JenniferNapier

A fanfiction work of AMC’s ‘Better Call Saul’ for Sylvestris AO3’s 2017 Blue Christmeth Fanwork Exchange Prompt: Gustavo Fring and Lydia Rodarte-Quayle Canon Point: Better Call Saul 3.06 “Off Brand” after scoping out the Lavandería Brillante.

The rear view mirror of the vehicle displayed adjacent warehouses, graffiti-kissed street signs, and ugly cracked sidewalk panels, among other ungodly details of the surrounding environment. The only thing in the vicinity that wasn’t an eyesore then came into view of the mirror, a dark-haired woman checking her hairline and makeup.

Lydia sighed silently to herself as she settled back into the driver’s seat. The passenger door opened to allow her the returned company of a dark skinned man, whom she eyed carefully, measuring his reaction to the site. “It could work.” He simply stated, as calm and even-toned as ever. He made certainty and confidence look easy, and she kind of despised him for it.

She kept her own opinion and thoughts to herself as she started the vehicle and began guiding it back onto the relatively busy main street. The drive was filled with a silence they both seemed comfortable in, neither one particularly interested in giving the trip unnecessary noise, both focused on only business, and nothing more. At least, that was how she saw it, or was content to see it.

Gustavo’s thoughts may have differed, but as always, he kept his gaze forward, locked onto their distant and hidden destination. Los Pollos Hermanos.

Lydia had insisted on claiming the driver’s seat in her usual easily-offended and callously bitter way. Although the fact of the matter was that he was a far better and more cautious driver, he knew that she would remain happier and calmer if the wheel was in her delicate fingers. Her ease of mind was worth relinquishing some of his control.

Still, that was not to say that he didn’t critique her driving choices, internally. He only glanced down at her gear-shifting once, when it was particularly harsh and untimely in reaction to a yellow traffic light which seemed to cause her to second-guess her ability to make it through in time for it to flash red. She did run that red light, but it went unnoticed by any lurking officers. He made no change in his stone-like facial features or covert breathing, though she was noticeably perturbed by the small event-- as much as she tried to hide it with a flick of her black hair and a clenching of her painted nails on the wheel.

~~

Her nails were painted red the day of her accident. She remembered because in her bewilderment and shock she thought it was blood-- that her fingertips were bleeding from clutching the wheel too tightly, or from the shattered glass of the window tearing them open.

She didn’t remember much about the accident, but she remembered the rough pavement underneath her elbows and knees, the agonizing pain in her legs and the wetness of blood causing her pencil skirt to stick to her thighs. Her car looked unrecognizable and twisted, smashed like a discarded soda can against the strong brickwork of the building.

She didn’t know what had gone wrong or what had caused her to lose control of her vehicle, but she was distraught and scared, and she couldn’t breathe properly. Her heart pumped blood through her body and out of her wounds, and she couldn’t calm it or stop it. All the way to the hospital, she hyperventilated and lost more and more control of her senses, her emotions. It all spiraled out of control so quickly, and only the medication gave her any hope of gaining it all back.

~~

As they parked in a reserved stall of one of his restaurants, she smoothed her appearance once more before departing the vehicle in a rush and stumbling gracefully upon her tall heels into the building ahead of his slower pace, as if she knew exactly where his office was-- which she did. Her buzzing energy did not spur him to increase his own steady one, though they arrived in the back recesses of the building simultaneously.

“Please, have a seat.” He offered as he circled his desk, not wanting her to remain standing rigidly in the middle of the small room for the duration of the meeting. She seemed to decline at first, then took his offer with a darting glance if only to avoid the awkwardness of her stubborn spirit. Mr. Fring began typing away on his desktop computer, finalizing the documentation to the beginnings of his superlab. “So, which one will you choose?” The woman asked, trying to mask her impatience with a friendly curiosity. She was very bad at it. He hummed softly before replying, “I think the last one we looked at will do.”

She blinked and turned her eyes down to the surface of his neat desk, unsatisfied with his shallow and rather vague answer. She wanted to know what he was thinking, she wanted to know the details. If she was being honest with herself, she simply wanted to have some more control over the situation.

Lydia was about to ask another pestering question when he caught her gaze and almost smiled, “How is your daughter doing?”

That caused her to flinch inwardly with a sense of shocked offense, as if he’d thrown a vulgarity at her. “Ah- Fine?” She hesitantly surrendered with some disgust. She did not appreciate being asked about or reminded of personal matters during a business meeting, especially one between her and Gus. An innocent tilt of his head provoked an explanation of her reaction. “I don’t talk about family while working.”

After a moment of methodical processing, he pressed his lips together and returned to his steady work on the dim computer screen. “Just making friendly conversation.”

Friendly conversation was not Lydia’s forte, and she didn’t particularly care for his half-assed effort at making one. But… what could it hurt to give in to the offer, just this once? “.... She’s doing well.” The woman cleared her throat quietly and picked at her fingernails in her lap, willing the time to pass by more rapidly.

“That’s good.”

There, that wasn’t so hard, Lydia encouraged herself. She’d made an effort to partake in friendly conversation with a colleague, and she’d succeeded. She didn’t need to do any more.

Gustavo allowed the conversation to end there, knowing that was as much as he was going to get from her regarding her personal life. It was humorous to him that she could go on and on about some elaborate scheme with a quivering confidence in her low voice yet harboring a quelled passion and ambition as if she was starved and only an arm’s length from a feast.

She was a cautious and desperate hunter, but she knew how to ensure a kill.

But she was also touchy and irreparably fragile. Sometimes she struggled to conquer her anxiety, and at other times she crushed it so deeply within herself that one would never suspect her to possess a sliver of weakness.

~~

He remembered feeling very calm and certain of himself during his presentation to Madrigal. His PowerPoint was professional and attention grabbing, and his speech was well-rehearsed yet natural. Everything had gone smoothly, perfect-- save for one of the board members leaving the conference room towards the end of the presentation in a wild rush. He had continued without missing a beat, pushing his curiosity and concern for the woman to the back of his career-oriented mind.

On his way out of the building, he caught sight of her down an empty hall, crying and hysterical.

Although he’d never had one himself, he knew an anxiety attack when he saw one, as well as what to do in the case of one. “Deep breaths.” He knelt by her, gaining her untamable attention and blocking the judgmental glances of passersby with his back. “You are alright.”

“You are in control of your breathing, and your heartbeat.” On the cold granite flooring of the hallway, he remained with her and offered his voice and touch. “Focus on my hand.” As her fingers trembled against his own, she sucked in a few deeper breaths and found herself calming at his gentle command.

“...I-I’m sorry. I--”

“It’s quite alright.”

~~

Lydia looked up as Gus slid a document over to her side of the desk, along with a ballpoint pen. “Sign here?” He offered with a tiny smile. She ceased bouncing her knee and glanced over the text of the paper thoroughly before signing with a practiced flourish and then immediately rising. “Is that all?”

He sat still with his arms on his desk, maintaining her gaze though she felt uncomfortable underneath it. “Yes.” She nodded and gathered her purse, seeing no reason to dilly dally any longer in this dreary old office of a fast food restaurant. “Good. We’ll be in touch.”

She stopped for a brief moment at the door as he claimed the final word. “Take care of yourself, Lydia.” Although it sounded like nothing more than a caring phrase, his tone came across with a hint of a warning. She nodded with a nervous swallow, choosing to regard it in a very superficial way, as if it was said to her by a stranger.

Because that was what Gus was to her. Only a stranger. Not a business partner. Not a friend.