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The smell hits first: antiseptic bleach masking wet fur, rubbing alcohol, and the metallic tang of dried blood. It feels like any other sterile hospital room. The only thing missing is a beeping heart monitor. God, Jimmy hates those things. They carry a smell of fake safety and care, a steady, mechanical rhythm that promises life while quietly counting down the seconds to death. It haunts him—Chuck, his parents, every clinical room that ever failed to save the people he loved.
Kim stands beside him in the small exam room of Dr. Caldera’s veterinary clinic, her focus sharp as she negotiates for the secret weapon of their current scheme: a precise dose of indalca to dilate Howard Hamlin’s eyes. Dr. Caldera, wiping his hands on a blue towel, casually announces he is wrapping up his side business. He is retiring from the criminal underworld, liquidating his contacts, and focusing purely on animals.
"You can practice on Jimmy," Kim says smoothly, gesturing toward her partner in crime with a dry, teasing tilt of her head. "He’s still recovering from that summer flu."
Caldera nods, reaching into a drawer for a syringe and a vial. "Hop up on the table. I'll administer the shot."
Jimmy doesn't hesitate. He hops right onto the examination table, turns his back, and lowers his trousers slightly, sticking his rear out without a shred of hesitation. "Just make sure it's sterilized," he says, leaning over the cold stainless steel. "I have high standards for vet care."
Dr. Caldera pauses, syringe mid-air, looking at Jimmy’s exposed backside. He can't tell if this is a elaborate joke or if the lawyer is completely serious. "McGill," Caldera says flatly, "you're a human. It goes under your arm."
Jimmy freezes. The realization lands like a bucket of ice water. Slowly, he pulls his pants back up, his face flushing a furious, deep crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. "I-I'm so sorry, Kim," Jimmy stammers, refusing to meet her eyes as he quickly smooths down his suit jacket. "I don't know what I was thinking. Brain fog. Summer flu. Total mental lapse."
"Looks like you were trying to get Caldera to fuck you," a gravelly voice rasps from the doorway. Mike steps into the room, adjusting his jacket over a fresh layer of heavy gauze taped beneath his shirt. He looks Jimmy up and down with a dark, amused glint in his eyes. "What happened, Jim? Tired of me doing it?"
Jimmy snaps his head toward him, his embarrassment instantly morphing into utter shock. "Why are you here?"
"Got shot," Mike replies, entirely unbothered, nodding toward Caldera.
Kim looks between the two men—her best friend and business partner, and the older fixer he secretly eloped with a month ago after two years of chaotic, low-key romance. She crosses her arms and exhales a long, long breath. "Why am I friends with you two?"
"He's the one asking the doctor to stick a needle up his rectum," Mike says, gesturing toward Jimmy with a blunt finger, "when mine works perfectly well."
Jimmy’s jaw drops. "What you have is a lot bigger than a needle!"
Mike doesn't flinch. "Thank you, Jimmy."
"I wasn't... that... fuck you," Jimmy stammers, sputtering over his words as Kim covers her face with one hand to hide a smirk.
"I thought you were asking for it the other way around," Mike counters smoothly, his voice dropping into that quiet, deadpan tone that always drives Jimmy up the wall.
"Aurgh!!!" Jimmy groans, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and hiding his face in it entirely.
Seeing his husband genuinely flustered, Mike’s stoic expression finally breaks into a faint, soft crease around his eyes. He steps forward, closing the space between them, reaches out to pull the paper towel away from Jimmy’s face, and cupping the back of Jimmy's neck, leans in and kisses him firmly on the mouth. The kiss is grounded, warm, and entirely steadying, instantly cutting through Jimmy's frantic embarrassment.
Breaking away, Mike turns to Caldera, slapping a thick envelope of cash onto the counter. He thanks the vet for patching up his bullet graze and for selling him the red notebook—the coded black book containing every underworld contract in Albuquerque.
Tucking the book into his coat, Mike turns back toward the door, pausing at the threshold to cast one last mischievous glance over his shoulder. "I'll fuck you nice and proper when you get home," Mike says calmly. "Have fun, kids!"
"Miiiiiike!" Jimmy yells after him as the back door clicks shut, though the bright red flush on his cheeks is now accompanied by a subtle, helpless smile.