Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2022-08-05
Completed:
2022-08-12
Words:
3,750
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
35
Kudos:
257
Bookmarks:
27
Hits:
2,177

how long can this go on?

Summary:

After Tuco is arrested, Hector does not step in to run the territory. Lalo does.

Today, he visits the Varga's upholstery shop.

Notes:

this show and these two have taken over my life.

title from how long can this go on? by kitty craft

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Nacho screwed over Tuco to protect himself, but the gun to his head only swapped hands. The same gun, but steadier, less likely to misfire. 

No, if Lalo kills him, it will be on purpose.

 

 

The bell rings in the front of the store and his father ambles over.

Nacho doesn't pay attention. He loses time in here, this stuffy, hot backroom with the sewing machine eating upholstery from his hands. He's good at stepping out of his body, doing what he has to do. Sewing upholstery or shooting someone in the desert. 

Laughter comes from the front. It cuts through all of Nacho's focus and his head whips up to stare through the door's square of light, like a dog hearing its owner's voice. He can only see his father, not the person on the other side of the counter, but he doesn't have to. His sweat goes cold. 

His father steps away from the counter and into the backroom. His face is drawn, showing all of his age. "Nacho," he says like he hates to have to say it, "someone is here asking for you."

Nacho flexes his hands, braces himself, then gets up and goes over. He can't decide which face to use, the diligent son or the pawn of the cartel, can't decide who to play to. He keeps his face blank and steps out in front of his father.

Lalo is leaning on the counter with his arms, drumming his fingers. When he sees Nacho, his whole face lights up. 

"Ignacio!" He straightens and gestures to Nacho, shooting a smile at Nacho's father. "There he is!"

Nacho's father does not smile back.

"What do you need?" Nacho asks, his tone on the knife's edge between attentive and accusatory. What the fuck are you doing here, he wants to say. 

"Nothing!" Lalo says, "I just wanted to see where you work, man."

Nacho's eyes dart to his father, who stares at Lalo with quiet contempt. Nacho can feel his pulse thrumming in his throat. Don't do anything stupid, he pleads, and doesn't know which of the three of them he's begging.

"Papa, this is Lalo," Nacho starts, "a friend of mine."

Lalo's eyes twinkle at friend but he waves Nacho's words off, "We've already done introductions." 

Nacho wonders how Lalo had described himself, wonders if he had said Salamanca just to watch Nacho's father go rigid. For some reason—maybe blind hope—Nacho doubts it. Lalo doesn't always flaunt that he's cartel, not like the other Salamancas. He's capable of pretending to be a normal human being. Most of the time. Please let this be one of those times. 

Lalo spreads his arms, smiling with his eyes crinkled. "Now, show me!" 

Nacho brings him into the backroom and takes a seat at his station.

"This is where I work," he says, and watches Lalo's eyes look over the whole place. Nacho doesn't sense any judgement, but his skin still prickles as Lalo catalogues the chairs hung from the ceiling, the rickety tables and their sewing machines, the other workers too busy to even notice them.

Then Lalo's dark eyes land back on him.

Nacho shouldn't have sat down, did it out of habit, because now Lalo is looming over him, leaning against the table and shielding Nacho from the rest of the room with his body. It's surreal, seeing Lalo in this place, in his expensive shirt with two buttons undone while Nacho sits in his uniform. This was the one place Nacho had that was untouched by the Salamancas, and now he'll never again be able to work on anything without seeing Lalo's thumb running over the stitching. 

That must be why he's here—to remind Nacho that Lalo was never out of the picture, that there was nowhere Lalo could not extend his influence and stain irrevocably, the way he had already stained Nacho.

Or maybe he just wanted to see where Nacho disappeared to every day. 

"So, how long you been doing this?" Lalo asks conversationally. He takes his piercing attention off of Nacho and inspects the upholstery stretched over the sewing machine. 

Nacho can't help but falter at the small talk. What the fuck are you doing here still sticks on his tongue. "Uh, I've been helping out since I was a kid, and..."

Lalo shakes his head and Nacho trails off. "Not that. What do they call it? 'Having your cake and eating it too,'" he says in over-enunciated English. "How long you been doing that?" 

Nacho's eyes immediately shoot to locate his father, but he's back at the front speaking to another customer, not at all listening to the two of them. Probably hoping they'll just disappear if he doesn't look. 

"Relax," Lalo chuckles, nudging Nacho's worn sneakers under the table with his boot and keeping it there for a moment too long, "I don't think that's why he doesn't like me." He winks, both eyes. 

Nacho stares up at him, not comprehending. Lalo looks back, head tilted to the side, face blank. The meaning dawns on Nacho slowly, a hot anxiety spreading from his stomach through his entire body. He tries to turn the anxiety into anger, but it never stays put, always turning into something he wants to think about even less. 

"...What did you introduce yourself as?" he asks, and his voice comes out too raspy. When he swallows, Lalo's eyes—black with one pinprick of light—follow the movement. 

No answer. Lalo just keeps staring, making Nacho's heart kick up into his throat. 

Then Lalo breaks, dissolving into loud laughter, vanishing the tension so completely that Nacho always for a moment wonders if he imagined it. He spots his father's back tense at the laughter, but Lalo doesn't notice or—more likely—doesn't care. 

"Your friend, same as you," Lalo says, grinning. "Good thing we have our stories straight, eh?"

There are so many stories Nacho has to keep track of these days. The dutiful son, the loyal lieutenant, the dog that bites the hand that feeds it—and now this, this thing that he won't think about for too long, with Lalo. Whenever he gets one right, the others slip. 

"Now," Lalo says, "answer my question." No longer a request, if it had ever been one. 

Having your cake and eating it too, huh? Nacho has nothing, but he knows what Lalo means, realizes in that moment that he doesn't want to tell him. When did it start, really? When he first became second-in-command, when he first agreed to back up Tuco during a deal, when he first started dealing, spending his dirty money on comic books and candy, telling his dad he got a job babysitting. 

"A while," he finally says, eyes dropping to the table. "A long time."

Lalo hums. 

"It's risky," he says without any particular emotion, looking around, "shows your hand." He flicks his wrist distractedly, like he's holding cards. "Easy to know where to hit you." 

Nacho notices his coworkers have left, realizes it's lunch. He's hungry, or he's going to be sick. He watches Lalo through hooded eyes, trying to gauge if this is a threat. 

"I'm being careful," he says, practically forcing the words out. 

"But you're not being smart."

That cuts, somewhere deep and bloody, remembering Lalo telling him they told me you were smart, and how Nacho had thought you have no idea. It cuts, but it cuts worse that it had apparently grown into a point of pride, one that Lalo can so easily dig his fingers into. 

Lalo watches him, the attention scalding. There's the faintest detached pity in his eyes, like he's looking at a trapped animal that refuses to gnaw its leg off, wondering if he should put it out of its misery.

What Lalo is really saying is: Choose. You knew what you were getting into. Choose. You can't have both. You'll kill yourself if you try. You'll lose all of it if you try. You need me to tell you that?

And: You know what the right choice is. The only choice. 

"And all this," Lalo says, gestures around them, at the haze and the heat and the sewing machines. Nacho sees it through his eyes, sees himself through his eyes, in his sweat-through uniform and worn sneakers. 

Then Lalo leans forward, hand on the back of Nacho's chair, caging Nacho in. They're not touching, but even in the boiling backroom with its sputtering air conditioning, Nacho can feel the singular heat coming off of Lalo, like standing under the sun. He doesn't react fast enough to move away, stuck in place by Lalo's gaze on his.

"This doesn't suit you," Lalo says lowly, just for him, intensity flashing in his eyes. 

What suits me, Nacho thinks. Killing for you? Getting my hands dirty? Spilling blood between grains of sand in the desert?

But he knows the answer. Whatever they do together suits him. 

"Well!" Lalo stands and stretches, once again creating and vanquishing tension from thin air, but not the tension in Nacho's body. "Think about it, yeah?" he says, like they were talking about trying a new restaurant and not Nacho cutting ties with his father because Lalo wants him to. 

Nacho stands too, following Lalo through the front—his father nowhere to be seen—and outside. The heat doesn't sear him nearly as much as Lalo did. Lalo turns, smiling.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ignacio." He reaches out and pats his shoulder. "Keep up the good work!" 

"See you," Nacho says, resisting the urge to cover the spot Lalo touched. 

Lalo waves as he leaves, squinting against the sun, the shock of silver in his hair catching the light. He gets into the Monte Carlo but Nacho can still see his silhouette, he drives away but Nacho can still see the car. It's only when it disappears around a corner that Nacho can turn around and go back inside. 

His father is waiting for him, his expression tight. 

I don't think that's why he doesn't like me, Nacho hears in his head. 

"You're still working for them?" his father asks, flatly and unsurprised.

Nacho's breath leaves him in a whoosh, his chest filled, paradoxically, inappropriately, with relief. Immediately hates himself for it. 

"I'm working on it," he says, desperately keeping the breathlessness out of his voice, disappearing into the back to finish his work. 

And he thinks about what Lalo said. 

Notes:

lalo: [solving a problem he doesn't have yet]
anyway I think early seasons nacho meeting lalo would be sexy. and I'm surprised there arent more fics about it.......

Chapter 2

Notes:

thanks for the nice comments and kudos :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The new house is big; staggeringly empty. Nacho liked it when he was walking around with the realtor, thought it was exactly the kind of place someone like him should live—high ceilings, lots of windows, a wall around the entire property—but the moment the door shut on his first night, he hated it. 

Then it’s collections day. During a lull between dealers, Lalo speaks up, “Hey, I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Where do you live?” 

He’s sitting at his usual table, legs crossed with the newspaper laid on his chest, obviously put down just for this.

Nacho raises his eyebrows at the implication Lalo could possibly not know, then considers that it might really be true. He chides himself. It’s not like Lalo is actually omniscient. It’s a bad idea to start believing he is. 

“What for?” he asks, turning his head to look over. Lalo just meets his gaze, smiling that constant smile. Doesn't say anything.

A car pulls into the dealers’ spot. Nacho sighs. The last thing he wants to do is continue this conversation in front of some shifty-eyed dealer, and he knows Lalo would.

“I moved to a new place,” he says, and tells Lalo the address. 

“Great!” Lalo replies, then flips his newspaper open, effectively ending the conversation.

Nacho lets his head drop between his shoulders, before he hears the door and sits up, burying any exhaustion like it was never there. 

 

 

The door buzzes somewhere around noon. Lalo whistles when Nacho goes and opens the gate for him, knocking on the metal fence.

“A fortress, huh?” He smiles. Nacho raises an eyebrow at him and doesn’t respond. 

Nacho leads him inside, but Lalo steps past him the moment the door shuts, looking around by himself. It's exactly what Nacho expected would happen—why else would Lalo want to come over to his house?—but it doesn't make it any less annoying. 

Nacho's decorated since he moved in—a new TV, paintings everywhere. It still seems too empty. There’s none of the clutter that comes from living somewhere, nothing at all like the coziness of his father’s house. He keeps glancing at Lalo to gauge his reaction as they go from room to room, but he doesn't know why he bothers. Lalo's expression doesn't change, and for once he doesn't say anything. 

They reach the kitchen and Lalo makes an aha! noise, immediately opening up cupboards and drawers. Nacho leans against the counter and watches. He knows half the drawers are empty. Lalo pulls open one that isn't and finds Nacho’s only seasoning—takeout salt packets. He holds one up by the corner. “This is just sad, Nachito,” he says, actually sounding pained.

“I haven’t stocked up yet,” Nacho tells him, not sure why he’s defending himself, especially since it’s a lie. His old kitchen wasn’t much better.

Lalo shakes his head, glancing around the kitchen again. “I can’t even look at this, man.” 

He tosses the salt packet on the counter and heads down the hallway, the direction of Nacho’s bedroom. Nacho sighs, closes the drawer he left open, and follows after him.

When he catches up, he sees Lalo touching his black bed sheets, bent at the waist. Nacho stops in the doorway, wishing he'd come just a second later, so he wouldn't forever have this image of Lalo Salamanca in his bedroom. He thinks about Lalo's thumb running over the stitching at the shop, he thinks about Lalo's palm flat over where Nacho sleeps. 

Lalo straightens, spots him. "It's nice," he smiles, "cozy!" 

"Sure," Nacho says, and Lalo laughs. 

Lalo finds the closet next and steps inside, whistling in appreciation at the double racks of shirts and jackets, all in shades of black or red. He traces his fingers over the shirts, then tries the door. 

It's locked. Nacho tenses, expecting Lalo to ask—tell—him to open it, but Lalo just knocks his knuckles on the door and steps away, interested in the racks of shirts instead. He starts flipping through the upper rung, as always acting like everything in the world belongs to him.

Nacho leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, waiting for Lalo to get bored with this.

Lalo looks through a few shirts, then starts talking, “Hector—you've worked with Hector before, right?" At Nacho's nod, Lalo continues, "Yeah, well, Hector asked about your father’s shop." 

A chill comes over Nacho’s whole body, so much like blood loss that he feels sick. He stands up straight, jaw clenching to avoid reacting. It doesn't matter—Lalo doesn’t look at him.

"He wants something legitimate. A new way to smuggle product, you know, like the chicken man!” Lalo laughs, shaking his head fondly. "He's down south and he still wants to control everything." 

He keeps rifling through Nacho’s clothes. One by one, he pulls a shirt off of the rack, holds it out in front of him, flips it around to look at the back, then puts the shirt away and grabs the next one. The silky red fabric in his hands makes it seem like he’s rooting around Nacho’s organs, not his closet. 

“When’s the last time you spoke with your father?” Lalo asks.

There’s a prick of pain, and Nacho realizes he’s dug his nails into his arms. He immediately relaxes his hands and wills his voice steady, “Last month.”

“What’d you guys talk about?” Lalo prompts, voice chipper, like he was just checking in. 

“Nothing much,” Nacho answers carefully.

Lalo turns his head to look at him. His hands go still on the shirt in his hands, fingers curled around the collar. The tiny room suddenly feels like the only place in the entire world. Nacho is the one standing in the doorway, but it’s Lalo who's trapped them in here.

“Nothing much?” Lalo repeats. He blinks once, twice.

“We… had an argument,” Nacho says, voice tight so it doesn’t become panicked. He doesn’t want to talk about his father. He doesn’t want to bring his father into this room with them. Not when he’s given up so much to keep him out of it.

Lalo's stance changes, facing Nacho more fully. His head tilts to the side, but his eyes catch none of the light. Nacho suddenly finds it harder to breathe. 

Then there’s the flicker of a thought, so hopeful it's hard to look at. If the Salamancas knew Nacho and his father were estranged, would they still want to use his shop? They would need someone who knew the business, both the cartel’s and the upholstery shop’s, to run it. The best bet would be Nacho. And if Nacho’s father can’t stand him…

Nacho looks up at the ceiling, thinks about praying. Decides against it. “He figured out I was still working for your family when you came to the shop. He told me to go to the police. Face what I've done.” He shuts his eyes for a second. "I told him I never would.” 

The dim light of the kitchen in his father's house, his father’s twisted expression, the pictures of his mother watching with their smiling eyes, unable to do anything but remind them of all that was dead and all that was dying, right there in between them. 

“Hm," Lalo says, turning back to the closet. It's immediately easier for Nacho to breathe. “And what’d he say?”

Nacho looks at the safe behind the door and hears his father's words like he's still somewhere saying them. “To never come back," he says, “and that he never wants to see me again.” 

It was what Nacho wanted—that is, the exact opposite of what he wanted, but what needed to happen. While he packed what little stuff he still had there, Nacho made sure to look at all of the wide open windows, imagining how clear the shots would be. 

His father stayed in the kitchen the whole time, hands braced against the sink, refusing to look up when Nacho paused before leaving. Nacho had stared at his father’s back, and overlaid the image with every time he rinsed his hands clean of blood under that tap. He left holding those memories in his mind, instead of any others.

“And you guys haven’t talked since?”

“No.” 

“You’re not gonna try?” 

“No.” 

Neither of them say anything for a long moment. The only sound comes from the rustling of clothing and the metallic clink of Lalo putting hangers back onto the rack. Nacho can feel his heart beating against his crossed arms, anxiety coiling around and around him.

Lalo puts the last shirt away—a black one with dark, twisting leaves—and turns around with a grin.

“Good!” Just like that, the room is no longer the last place in the world. Just another closet. Just another day with Lalo.

Good, that Nacho burnt bridges with his father. He glares, anger like a dying fire inside of him. He already knew this was what Lalo wanted him to do. And look, Nacho did it, for all the good that did.

Then Lalo says, “That’s the same thing I told Hector.”

Nacho freezes.

"Yeah, I went to the shop again, asked around," Nacho's heart clenches, but Lalo keeps talking, a giggle in his voice, “and I told Hector your father would burn down his shop and move back to Mexico before he worked with you.” He laughs but his eyes burn into Nacho’s. “And he would, right?”

“Right," Nacho agrees faintly, but all he can hear is you. All disrespect towards Nacho, not the cartel. You. 

He stares at Lalo with wide eyes. 

“What doesn’t work doesn’t work," Lalo says with a shrug, scrunching his face a bit. He runs his hand down the line of shirts absently. “We’ll have to find somewhere else. You’ll help out with that, yeah?” 

The sudden release of anxiety makes Nacho unsteady, the relief in his chest too big, all mixed up with—

Nacho’s arms fall to his sides and he goes to take an aborted step forward, catches himself just in time. He doesn’t even know what he wanted to do. Lalo’s face breaks into a grin, like he knows. His eyes narrow, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, before he shakes his head and turns back to the closet, still smiling.

He plucks a few shirts off the rack, already knows which ones he’s grabbing. He waves them to get Nacho’s attention.

“I like these,” he says. Nacho almost replies you can have them, because why the fuck not? Lalo could ask for anything right now.

But all Lalo does is slide the rest of the clothes down the rack and put his choices ahead of the rest, messing up Nacho’s—admittedly basic—organisation. 

“You should wear them more often!” Lalo tells him, voice light and bouncy. 

He looks around the room one last time, lingering on that locked door, before he walks over and stops in front of Nacho, leaning close enough that Nacho can smell his cologne. Lalo just looks at him for a long moment, eyes twinkling.

"Hey," he says, and lays a warm palm flat over Nacho's chest, right over his too-fast heart. Nacho breathes in, feels the weight of it.

Lalo tilts his head. "See what happens when you listen to me, hm?" he says softly. 

Nacho's fists clench at his sides to stop himself from doing something fucking insane.

Then Lalo leans away and pats Nacho's chest once, friendly, and steps past him. Nacho shifts so he can pass without touching, but their bodies still brush. 

“Have you had lunch yet?" Lalo asks, "I’ll make something!” He heads for the kitchen, where the only thing he’ll find in the fridge is takeout and expiring milk.

Nacho doesn’t go with him right away. Instead, he stares at the locked door Lalo didn't bother opening, the safe behind it. He thinks about snowstorms, parkas. Manitoba. 

He knows one of those cards is useless now. 

He turns and follows after Lalo.

Notes:

nacho is a dog that needs a firm hand but he deserves treats too!!! there was an interview that said like. 'you can't betray someone that has no respect for ur life and no respect for ur fathers life ... nacho is loyal to ppl who reciprocate respect.' so I think just a little respect from lalo (in his fucked up way) is necessary.
anyway this little dealing-with-papa-varga section that inspired this au is done! lmk if u liked it !!

you can follow me on tumblr