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It hadn't felt like this with Jane. With Jane, they'd been partners.
It was more like the freaky psychosexual shit Mr. White had aimed at him. It was weird and uncomfortable, but Jesse had done his best to bear it. What else was there to do? Mr. White had basically been his boss, even though he'd said they were partners, too.
This was different, though. It had been from the start.
Fring had hated him at first, Jesse was sure of that much. He'd seen him as just some worthless junkie. He hadn't been wrong. Jesse's confronting him over Tomás had changed that. His taking the reins at the cartel's superlab had changed that. His blazing guns at the don 's compound had changed that. Their long walk to the border had changed that. There was respect when Fring looked at him now.
Respect and something else that Jesse was honestly afraid to name. It clawed at him when he slept; He wouldn't let it get near him when he was awake.
Fring had gone into the nursing home ahead of him, and as Jesse followed, he could hear him rattling off a list of names. Were those the cartel guys? Jesse hadn't learned any names but Eladio . He'd been the only one who'd mattered.
Jesse entered the room just in time to see Fring dropping Eladio's tacky-ass eyeball necklace into the pocket of some wheelchair-bound old dude's robe. This was Hector Salamanca, right? Tuco's uncle? He looked like hell. Jesse hoped he never got old. In this business, it didn't seem likely. It was more comforting than it should've been.
Bent over in front of old man Salamanca so he couldn't look anywhere else, Fring asked, his voice deceptively soft, "Do you know who killed Joaquin?" Which one was Joaquin? Salamanca gave no answer either way. Whether he was being an asshole or he just really couldn't talk, Jesse couldn't say. He hadn't spoken before, had he? Jesse'd tried to block that day out of his brain as best he could. Fring spoke again, asking Salamanca, "Would you like to see?" Still no answer came, but Fring turned the old man's wheelchair to face Jesse, kneeling so they could look at him together. Fring said, "This young man."
Pride , that's what it was, and it hit Jesse like a speeding truck.
Before, Fring had looked at him like shit on his shoe. He looked at him now like he was a piece of meat, something to be swallowed down piece by piece.
Jesse's heart thudded in his chest. He wanted, he realized with a jolt of what felt suspiciously like an adrenaline rush, to be devoured .