Chapter Text
You belong to the cartel, now.
The drive from the Mexican lab was a tense one.
After the brief moment of elated relief— ninety-six percent, bitch— Jesse's previous anxieties had returned with a vengeance. He was beginning to get the creeping feeling that Gus and Mike's act of comradery was just a ploy to get him down and across the border without too much hassle, which, granted, had worked perfectly.
The only problem was that apparently they weren't planning on taking him back with them.
It didn't help that Jesse could still feel Gaff's hand between his shoulder blades, where it had continuously rested from the moment they hauled him back into the car. Blindfolded, wrists tied together, more than a little exhausted, and coping with yet another new threat to his freedom, Jesse wasn't exactly itching to find out what that phrase entailed for him.
"Almost there," Gaff murmured suddenly, far too close to his ear. Jesse twisted away as subtly as he could, but the hand followed him, never straying from its place on his back.
Mercifully, the rest of the drive was spent in an albeit bumpy silence, and soon enough Jesse could feel the truck grinding to a halt. The blindfold came off next, making him wince at the sudden wash of blinding sunlight. The new scenery was significantly more green than the previous deserts, with long trellises of flowers winding up to a heavily guarded villa.
Mike and Gus were being unloaded right behind him, and Jesse relaxed ever-so-slightly when Mike met his eye.
What's going on, he tried to convey as desperately as he could through his eyes, overtly aware of the way Gaff's hand had moved up to lightly grasp him by the back of the neck. Mike's eyes slid towards the motion for a moment before he turned to focus on Gus.
"You did good work in the lab today," Gaff said conversationally. Jesse grit his teeth together and reluctantly tore his gaze away from Mike.
"Uh, yeah— thanks."
"We'll see how you do inside."
Jesse stumbled forward as Gaff applied pressure, leading him towards the wide stone staircase beyond the gate.
He wasn't sure what that meant, either, and he was almost afraid to ask. Swallowing thickly, Jesse allowed himself to be shoved along behind the trail of Mike and Gus and a handful of other cartel members. At this point there wasn't any other choice other than to hold onto the slowly disintegrating hope that they had some kind of plan up their sleeve.
The villa was beautiful. There was a huge outdoor pool gleaming with the bluest water Jesse had ever seen, and the temperature seemed to drop off to a pleasant warmth compared to the stifling heat they'd come from. The cartel left the three of them by the pool while they waited for the others to arrive— apparently they had yet to meet the head honcho of the place— and as soon as Gaff's hand was off of him, Jesse tucked himself firmly beside Mike.
At least he had a brief moment to convey his alarm to someone, which he did the second Gaff was out of sight.
"What is this shit, I don't get a vote? I'm supposed to just stay down here forever?"
"Either we're all going home or none of us are," Mike promised.
The simple words shouldn't have been as reassuring as they were, but relief still settled over Jesse's chest like a blanket. He figured Gus would throw him to the wolves as soon as he became an inconvenience, but Mike was different. He trusted Mike, and he liked to think that Mike trusted him too. Those words were enough for him.
It made meeting Don Eladio slightly less intimidating, at least, although Jesse was still only catching every other word as he listened to the conversation. He took the shot glass Eladio gave him and allowed the man to snatch it back with little more than a furrowed brow, willing to accept whatever Gus was planning.
Anything as long as they made it back across the border in one piece.
Jesus, he never thought he would miss the god-awful laundry so much.
Once the real party started, Jesse found he didn't even have the pleasure of standing on the sidelines.
There was always at least one woman coming up to his lap, shoving another gigantic cigar between his teeth and grinding all up on his shit. The old him would’ve been over the moon, but he smoked two puffs of the cigar before smothering it and choking down a coughing fit.
Gus was still silent, staring into the pool while Don Eladio leaned over his shoulder, and Mike wasn't providing any other details as to what they should be preparing for.
Exactly what the fuck are we doing here?
His train of thought was interrupted by Gaff, because of course that was Jesse's luck. The man shooed off the latest woman who had taken a seat on Jesse's leg and smirked down at him.
"You're with me."
Jesse glanced at Mike. The older man was turned slightly away, but with his level of observational skills he had to be at least somewhat aware of the situation. He wasn't intervening, though, and so Jesse could only sigh and go along with it as well. He stood up.
"Where to? Why?"
Gaff scoffed. "Did you really think cooking would be your only responsibility here? Come on."
Reluctantly, Jesse followed Gaff away from the poolside celebrations and into the villa. It was uncomfortably quiet inside, like an actual proper house. They wandered through the adjacent hallways until Gaff stopped at one of the locked doors and opened it, motioning for Jesse to go inside first.
This is where I get murdered and chopped up and squeezed into a barrel full of acid, Jesse thought.
He went in anyway.
The inside of the room only confused him further, though— it was a large bedroom, like a hotel room. There was a door to a porch, but the curtains were drawn closed and the lighting was almost uncomfortably dim. Jesse frowned, squinting at the king-sized bed taking up most of the room.
"Uh, yo— why am I here? It's like, noon."
Gaff was already stepping in the bedroom behind him. "You're not here to sleep," he laughed, closing the door. Jesse stared at him, still uncomprehending. His stomach twisted as he watched Gaff lock it. The sound and motion felt a bit too final. Maybe the barrel of acid was still on the table.
"Turn around," Gaff ordered. Jesse rolled his eyes but complied, dutifully turning his back.
Hands grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind, and as soon as Jesse felt the clamp of metal and a sharp click, he knew he'd made a mistake.
"Hey," he protested, struggling in earnest. The handcuffs bit into his skin, just slightly too tight to be comfortable. Gaff shoved him towards the bed.
"Trust me," Gaff said, "this will be far easier if you close your mouth and do as you're told."
Jesse's back hit the soft comforter of the bed and felt the air leave his lungs as Gaff crawled on top of him, boots pinning his legs down to the mattress. It was an unquestionably intimate position, brought on so suddenly that Jesse found himself completely lost for words. He gaped up at Gaff's face like a goldfish, frozen in place.
"You think," he began, before trailing off. "I'm not— listen, what the fuck, I'm not... are you—?"
The slight spasm in Gaff's face could almost be mistaken for a grimace, but he looked undeterred. "You're an outsider to the cartel, and no matter what Don Eladio's verdict is, your body belongs to us, now. It's customary to break in the fresh meat. Normally we’d have Daniel do it… but lucky for you, I happen to like what I see.”
Jesse was suddenly aware of just how little control he had over his own body.
He experimentally attempted flexing his ankles, to no avail, and his own body weight was pressing his handcuffed wrists against the bed. With the added weight of Gaff, he was completely immobilized.
A new kind of cold fear began running down his spine.
"Get the fuck off of me," he breathed out.
Gaff smiled. "Remember that you and your friends are still guests here, gringo. Displeasing Don Eladio is the last thing you want to do. Let this happen."
His face was way too close, close enough that Jesse could feel hot air against his face with every exhale. For a moment, he considered the threat, but the fear of actually letting Gaff have his way overwhelmed any survival instinct. Jesse kicked out his legs with a new fervor, desperately trying to get some kind of hold in order to kick the older man off or reverse their positioning.
The metal cuffs were hard and unyielding around his wrists, but he strained anyway, almost relishing the sharp pinch of pain that came with it. Pain was better than— whatever this was.
"Get off," he said, faintly aware that the pitch of his voice was rising. "Get the fuck off of me, bitch!"
"I like you better when you're quiet," Gaff hissed, wrestling his feet around to keep Jesse's legs in place. He reached around with one hand and Jesse felt more than saw the barrel of a pistol being placed against his jaw.
His eyes burned at the feeling of cold metal. Jesse went limp against the covers, face heating with embarrassment and fury. He never thought he would've preferred getting the barrel treatment, but he had a vague idea of what was about to happen.
"There you go. That's easier for both of us, si?"
"Listen man," Jesse begged, working his throat, "I'm just here to cook, okay? Your boss needs me to cook. You do this shit, I'm never cooking another fucking teenth for you sick fucks, you got that?"
The barrel of the gun remained pressed against his neck as Gaff began shrugging his jacket down and hiking his shirt up. The temperature outside didn't matter; between the lavish air conditioning of the villa and the dread festering in his gut, Jesse couldn't stop the new shivers that wracked his body and the goosebumps that rose across his bare skin.
Gaff hummed. "No. You'll keep cooking."
Jesse thrashed, furious at the way tears began forming in the corners of his eyes. His breath picked up when he felt Gaff fiddling with the zipper on his jeans. He frantically tried to think of some way, of any way he could talk his way out of it.
If Mr. White were here, he would know what to say, Jesse thought almost hysterically. He would use whatever leverage he could, or try to manipulate them, or use logic, or do some scientific shit—
"And your boss, Don Eladio, he's okay with you doing this gay shit?" Jesse asked. He felt painfully lightheaded as the bastard continued shuffling his jeans down his hips. "Yeah? And what if— what if I were to tell him just how you tried to break me in?"
"I'm effective," Gaff said calmly. "That's all he wants to know. I wouldn't recommend trying to bring any of this up to him unless you'd like a bullet in the side of your head. At least wait until you're back outside, it's easier to clean blood off of the outdoor tiles."
Jesse tilted his head back when he felt those slimy fucking hands on him, squeezing his eyes shut.
This is not happening, he thought. There's no way in hell this is about to happen. This isn't happening.
For a brief, ridiculous moment, he considered screaming out for Mike. Maybe even for Gus. For anyone to come and find him, to figure out what was happening.
But he already knew nobody would hear, and even if by some miracle they did, there was a good chance that whoever came investigating wouldn't be good news for him.
He had nothing.
“You’re very small.”
The wave of helplessness was worse than the fear and rage put together. Jesse could only lie there, exhausted and mortified with a tight chest and leaking eyes all while some cartel tough guy groped away at his junk. There was nothing to be done.
Gaff leaned down and Jesse wrenched his head away as best he could and shoved it into the side of the mattress. He shuddered when he felt Gaff’s teeth graze across the newly exposed tendons on his throat, and had to choke down a heaving sob that he absolutely refused to let the man hear.
He thought of Andrea and her soft smiles, her bright eyes.
“Get off, get off,” he whispered. He wasn’t religious by any stretch of the imagination, but in that moment he mentally prayed to whatever God or Gods existed that there would be some way out. Please, please, please, please—
Gaff went still above him.
Jesse could hardly hear anything beyond his own frantic thoughts and the rush of blood in his ears, but he felt the a new tension in the silence, and looked back up.
And then again: faint popping noises. And then a louder bang— gunshots.
They have a plan, Jesse thought, latching onto that hope like a lifeline. Mike saw Gaff take me inside. They’ll come for me.
“We’ll have to finish this other time,” Gaff hissed, pulling his pistol away from Jesse’s cheek and tucking it into the back of his waistband. Like hell if Jesse was just going to lie there and wait to see if Gaff managed to get any good shots into his partners, though.
The second those fucking hands were off of him, and Gaff turned to climb off, Jesse kicked out as hard as he could, punching his heel into the man’s shin and tipping him off balance.
Gaff was already getting back up, but Jesse was throwing himself forward with a new kind of desperation, rolling to the side and grabbing the pistol from where it had dropped onto the mattress. The positioning was terrible, given Jesse’s hands were still cuffed behind his back and his range of motion was even more limited by the way his pants and jacket were left sliding down, but it was good enough.
He pulled the trigger, not caring what position the gun was in. The bullet flew into the nearby wardrobe, splintering the wood. Gaff let out a string of curses in Spanish and Jesse rolled onto his back in order to keep him from taking the gun.
Please, Mike, Jesse grunted as Gaff drove a fist into his nose, thrashing in the hopes that he could get a good headbutt in. Please have heard that.
Another fist to the face, and sharp nails trying to turn him over. And then another. And then another— the blow dazed him, making his vision momentarily turn a dark shade of orange, and Jesse’s muscles felt like they stopped working entirely. Gaff didn’t hesitate to flip him over and wrestle the pistol away from his hands.
And now he shoots me, Jesse thought. The world was spinning around him, and he could feel blood running down from his nose into his mouth. At least I won’t get raped before I die.
He’ll never know if Gaff intended to kill him then and there, though, because it was at that moment that the bedroom door flew open, lock broken, and there stood Mike Ehrmantraut.
Like the fucking second coming. As far as Jesse was concerned, the man was a literal angel.
Jesse could’ve passed out from relief right then, although his shame was coming back with a vengeance. Pants down, shirt rumpled, Gaff still literally straddling his hips— he knew it didn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what was happening.
Mike took a single second to look surprised at the situation before raising his own gun and shooting Gaff in the head.
The body on top of Jesse went limp, landing across him with a thud.
Fuck.
”Christ,” Mike growled, stepping inside the room. He looked fucking mad, mad in a way usually only Mr. White was capable of making him.
Gaff’s body was hauled off of him and dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Jesse flinched when he felt hands prodding at the handcuffs, relaxing only when he realized Mike was just getting them off.
Thanks, he wanted to say, but his mouth was unbearably dry and the words got clogged up in his throat.
“You with me, kid?”
Jesse buried his face into the bed and nodded. The relief was overwhelming, and the last thing he wanted to do was burst into tears when Mike was right there.
There was a sharp snap and Jesse’s shoulders ached as his arms were finally allowed back at his sides. Still in handcuffs, he realized— Mike had only snapped the chain keeping them together, leaving him with two metal bracelets.
It was good enough. Jesse gingerly rolled back over, keeping his eyes low, and fought down a blush of shame as he worked his pants back up his hips with shaking hands.
He glanced down at the floor.
Gaff’s head was a mess, and there was a growing pool of dark crimson beneath him. It looked like Victor’s body. No matter how glad Jesse was to see his attacker dead, the sight was still gruesome. He looked away.
“Thanks,” he still managed to croak. His voice sounded strange, even to himself.
Mike’s expression twisted. “Shit, kid, don’t thank me. I’m sorry this— I’m sorry. We’re going to get you out of here quick, alright?”
Jesse nodded. He hiked his jacket back over his shoulders and took a deep breath. He knew it wasn’t over, that there wasn’t time for him to have a mental breakdown over everything that had just happened. The only reason Mike wasn’t dragging him out of the room immediately was because the guy actually cared— cared enough to come find him, at least— and Jesse wasn’t about to get them all killed by wasting time throwing himself into a panic attack.
He just couldn’t get his hands to stop shaking.
“Yeah,” he said thinly. “Okay.”
”The others are already dead,” Mike continued. “Fring needs to get out of here as soon as possible. We can sort this all out when we get to the tent. Hang in there until then, okay?”
He still felt like a newborn colt when he slid off the bed and got to his feet, carefully avoiding the bloody floor. Mike had no reservations about that, and it didn’t go unnoticed how he intentionally tread over Gaff’s outstretched fingers on the way out.
Mike hadn’t been joking about Gus, either; the man was propped up against the wall outside the room, eyes shut and chest heaving. Jesse had never seen the man look so frail.
The rest of the trip felt like an out of body experience. It was probably for the best, that Jesse allowed autopilot to take over. Get to the tent was the only thought playing on repeat in his mind, a single order that grounded him and gave him a purpose to distract himself with.
Don’t think about it.
He didn’t think about it when they hauled Gus into the car, or when Mike handed him the keys and began rattling off directions, or when he felt bullets whizzing by his head, or when he raised the gun Mike had given him and shot a man in the head. His hands never stopped shaking once.
It was a fifteen minute drive to the brick building where a swarm of doctors were waiting. They whisked Gus away like their lives depended on it— which, to be fair, could easily be the case— and despite Jesse’s previous reservations about the man, he was glad.
He, Gus, and Mike were a team. That trust was the only reason any of them had made it out alive.
He and Mike followed the doctors in at length, and watched from the side of the plastic tent as the doctors began pumping Gus’ stomach and injecting him with at least a dozen needles.
There were another two medical beds beside his own, and shelves upon shelves of different medical bottles and blood bags. As to be expected, a well thought out plan. Gustavo Fring could give Mr. White a run for his money.
“Give me your hands,” Mike said.
Jesse turned to him, and then noticed the fence cutter. He stretched his hands out, blinking a little at the mess of bloody skin around his wrists— now that he thought about it, he had been struggling as hard as he physically could, but it was still surprising to see just how badly the metal had cut him.
Mike worked the pliers between the skin and quickly snapped both of them, catching the metal rings in his hand before they could fall to the floor.
“When they’re done with him I’ll have them take a look at you,” Mike told him. “An infection is the last thing you need right now. They have salve and bandages and I still want to make sure you’re not concussed.”
Right. Jesse’s entire face felt a bit like a raw mass of inflammation, but that wasn’t exactly new for him. Hell— he was still covered in bruises from his fight with Mr. White. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone a full month with a clear face.
Getting the dried blood off his nose would still be nice, though. He wanted a shower. A long, blisteringly hot shower.
He raised his fingers and brushed them across his neck, cringing when he felt the faint indentation of teeth marks from where Gaff had fucking bit him.
Mike was watching him carefully. Jesse mentally prayed that the bite mark wasn’t as visible as it felt.
“I hate to ask,” Mike said. “I don’t know everything that happened before I walked in that room and I’m not going to force you to tell me. But if you need other medical attention… this is the place to get it. You understand?”
Jesus.
Jesse buried his head in his hands. He was fairly certain he would never be able to look Mike in the eye again, no matter how tactfully the man went about this. “Nothing happened,” he snapped.
Mike’s gaze didn’t waver. Jesse sighed.
“I’m serious, okay? Fuck, man, he— it wasn’t like that. You… you came in before he could do anything, alright? Nothing happened.”
The words sounded weak even to his own ears, but Mike didn’t press the point, and they fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence. The doctors continued working away in front of them.
“So… he’s going to be okay?”
Mike’s expression softened. “Yeah, looks that way. You did good, kid. Real good.”
The words felt like a fire in Jesse’s stomach, all consuming and bright and warm. He tried to fight down the rise of pink he could feel dusting the tips of his ears. A pleased little knot still formed in the back of his throat.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Ninety-six percent, was it? Dare I say it, you saved all of our asses today.”
Jesse wasn’t sure how much of it was genuine praise and how much of it was Mike just trying to comfort him, but he appreciated it either way. He scratched the back of his head and steeled himself.
”Thank you, too,” he said quietly. “For— I mean, I just wanted to say… thanks for coming for me, and all.”
Mike looked at him from the corner of his eye. Something strange and unreadable passed over his face, and Jesse almost jerked back with surprise when Mike’s hand came up and lightly rustled the top of his head in a shockingly blatant gesture of fondness.
It was over in less than a second, but Jesse’s heart still squeezed painfully between his ribs.
“There wasn’t a chance of me leaving you there,” Mike said. “Not a chance, kid.”