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Mike misses checking the drops. He'd give nearly anything for the solitude of driving those winding roads, too far out for even clear-sounding music on the radio. He makes his rounds, which pass in a blur of Rymans'-lab-sometimes, Los Pollos Hermanos' security room -Rymans' again-Fring's house occasionally-(rarely) his own home like a guard dog pacing its yard, peering longingly out the gaps between the fenceposts.
He's learning more about his colleagues than he ever cared to know. Food preferences, the noises they make in their sleep, Tyrus's ongoing argument with his grandparents' electric company. Victor's been hiding a cold for a couple of days, and whenever Mike sees Victor making sure he's in a camera's blind spot before blowing his nose, he can't help but feel a twinge of pity for the poor bastard.
God help him, Mike even briefly looks back on his time in 'Nam with nostalgic fondness before shaking himself out of it. Sniping for Uncle Sam was in many ways worse than the Albuquerque suburbs, but he can't help but wish that the team's collective misery lead to camaraderie the way it did in his battalion. Not that he's looking for friends, but Mike can feel all the unspoken questions swirling around, and while the crew's scrupulously professional, everyone's still too wary of Mike, the new guy who leapfrogged up their hierarchy, to offer him more than bare minimum responses.
Mike waits until he and Mrs. Ryman are alone to ask.
"You ever seen Fring like this before?"
She blows on her steaming mug of tea. "No. This is so incredibly unlike him that, frankly, I'm concerned."
"I see." Mike stays quiet for several sips, watching the dust motes float in the afternoon sunlight. The counter he's leaning against is chilly, even in the heat; it feels good against his bare arm.
Mrs. Ryman's sidelong glance at him isn't nearly as sneaky as she probably thinks it is.
"This isn't our first time around the block. Even during other times of heightened security, he's never been this...." She trails off, either unable to find the right word or unwilling to use it.
"Any ideas?" Mike asks.
"If I knew, I'd've already done it. I think we're stuck with him like this until Salamanca's gone."
Fring's insistence that Salamanca's still alive is unfortunately, probably correct, even though he hasn't turned up yet. Loath as Mike currently is to admit it, Fring's gut instinct is reliable. They're having a hell of a time proving it, though. If Lalo's in the U.S. or Mexico, he's likely under heavy protection himself. They're still waiting on their German contact's intelligence. For reasons unknown to Mike, Fring's also concerned that Salamanca's in Chile; he handles that personally. Fring even reaches out to Lydia in Huston, spends half an hour reassuring her that both she and the unborn baby she's waiting to adopt are safe with a gentleness that nauseates Mike.
For now, Mike talks to Fring on the phone or sees him through a camera more often than in person, which is probably for the best. It's easier to breathe deeply, try to will the events of the past few days out of his mind, when he doesn't have to see the man who gave the orders he followed. Mike blearily watches Fring switch between identities like suit jackets, ordering the punishment of a collector who was skimming off the top before sprinkling his kitchen counter with flour, kneading a ball of dough while on a call with the manager of the Las Cruces Los Pollos Hermanos. You pressured Ms. Flores to come in with pinkeye, he states, carefully-modulated voice crackling through Mike's speaker. His dough slapping against the counter is probably audible to the manager over the speakerphone. I'd like to hear your thought process for this decision.
Mike finds these hints that Fring is different more angering than if he were simply a straightforward brute. As the manager stammers, Fring's mildly impatient gaze slides down into something faraway and dark, more difficult for Mike to decode, even as the expression's become more and more familiar with each passing day. Every time he sees it, Mike spares a second to interpret it, but quickly concludes he's using Fring's face as a mirror for his own feelings.
The sourdough makes an appearance in the Rymans' kitchen the next morning, toasted and buttered on Mike's plate. A neatly sliced apple forms a half-moon around it and coffee steams in a chipped mug. It's unsurprisingly delicious. Fuck you and your bread, Mike finds himself thinking, fuck you and your apple and your coffee.
Days pass. Lalo remains elusive. Fring resists Mike's suggestions to temporarily pull back from day-to-day management of Los Pollos Hermanos, even when an employee's hug (his letter of recommendation got her into her top choice MBA program) prompts him to retire to his office for several minutes, according to Mike's guy there.
He and Mike take another visit to the laundry. Even in the generous, dim light of the streetlamp, Fring looks awful. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, and the circles that ring them are bruise-dark.
"You need some rest," Mike says when they're in the car, his so we can too remaining unspoken. Fring's eyes narrow slightly, but his phone interrupts him.
"Excuse me," he says. Mike can see it's his Los Pollos Hermanos phone, distinguished by a small nick in the plastic not visible to the casual observer. He mostly listens, faint irritation crossing his face as whoever's on the line updates him on the changes she'd like to make to the chicken farm to prevent something called 'bumblefoot.'
Fring pronounces her suggestions reasonable, hangs up. They do the usual split up, Mike entering Fring's house through the tunnel, Fring through his front door.
Fring looks slightly more open to suggestion when Mike sees him again.
"You should have a drink before bed," Mike says. Fring eyes the wire wine rack on his kitchen counter.
"A stiff drink," he specifies. Fring doesn't have to say what he's thinking. The slightly raised eyebrow are enough.
"I'm on the clock," Mike can't help but spit out. "I wasn't planning on partaking, if you're concerned."
Fring pauses for a second, eyes narrowing, before evidently deciding to ignore Mike's tone. Fring disappears into his basement, returns with a bottle of whiskey Mike is sure he didn't buy for himself, and to his surprise, two glasses.
"Do you take yours with ice?"
"I'd rather not, thanks."
Fring looks like he's trying not to roll his eyes. "I insist."
"If you insist," Mike repeats. "Then I'd like it neat."
Fring pours them each two fingers, drops a single ice cube in his own. Mike ignores his own glass until Fring takes two sips of his. He's not sure why it feels like a trap.
"Please, go ahead," he says quietly. Mike takes a small sip, scrounges up memories of his first real job, at the diner. They feel like they belong to a different man.
"If you put one of your employees on a closing shift," Mike asks, "do you schedule them to open the day after?"
"I ask my managers to avoid scheduling double shifts when possible. Sometimes, however it is unavoidable."
All right, then. Mike's never been good at this shit. He prefers to make statements without couching it in mealy-mouthed questions. He inhales, tries again:
"Well, when that employee does have to pull a double, is it their best work?"
Fring's lips thin. Well, if he thinks Mike was condescending to him, that's his problem.
"We're not robots. You either need to hire out, or we need more downtime between shifts. If you keep running us ragged like this, we won't be able to subdue Salamanca to the best of our abilities."
When Mike thinks he's ready, he outlines a more appropriate schedule. It's still brutal, but more sustainable than their current one. His drink is mostly gone, and though his posture stays military-stiff, the lines of his face relax slightly.
"The changes you ask for are sensible." Mike hopes Fring thinks his nod shows appropriate gratitude.
He takes the walkie-talkie out, rattles off several of the quicker-to-implement changes, then adds: "Disable interior cameras only on the second floor of Fring's home."
"Roger."
Fring expectantly holds out his hand. Their fingers brush when Mike gives the walkie-talkie over.
"Victor is dismissed with pay until Monday." More progress than Mike was expecting. He'll take it.
"Roger."
When Fring removes his glasses to clean imaginary fingerprints off, Mike sees it. An unguarded, anguished stare, shocking in its rawness. Mike used to think of Fring's face as stone, unchanging except, he supposes, for the erosion that time imposes on everyone, but it's not. It's more like the pond at his grandparents' old house out in Birdsboro. It would freeze over in the winter, ice so thick Mike would walk on it as a boy, when his mother wasn't looking. He would lie down on top of it and peer inside, and if he looked hard enough, he could see the water flowing underneath. He puts them back on; it submerges, but doesn't completely vanish from his eyes. Perversely, Mike's glad to see that he's not the only one who feels like he's under a microscope. Something inside him swells with both anger and satisfaction to see the pain he's stuffed down out of necessity reflected in Fring's eyes; Fring deserves to feel every second of it. But then, doesn't Mike too? They deserve to share this, drinking in his spotless kitchen with their rotted souls.
Another moment of silence as they stare tiredly into their drinks. Mike chances a sidelong glance at Fring that he catches, pointedly returns. He notices a slight furrow of Fring's brow, like he's looking for something on Mike's face.
"This-" a slight wave of Mike's hand, "isn't sustainable for you either, especially if you're not going to pull back from Los Pollos Hermanos." To his surprise and slight annoyance, Mike finds he genuinely means it. He swallows, and continues. "How you're acting right now, this isn't like you. You won't be in top condition for Salamanca if you don't relax a little now, while you can."
The wall Fring usually puts between himself and the world goes back up again. Mike sees his question plainly.
"You think you're a better judge of my limits than me?" Fring's voice is deathly quiet.
"Right now, yes." His words hangs in the air.
"Mr. Ehrmantraut," Fring says icily. "I would think carefully about what you say next."
Maybe it's his exhaustion, or his first strong drink in a long time, but Mike briefly loses control over his mouth. "Maybe you'd feel better if you—"
"If I what, Mr. Ehrmantraut." Fring's glower intensifies.
"It wasn't professional."
He brings his glass to his lips, only to find it empty. Fring's eyebrow raises a fraction, and Mike gets the message, loud and clear.
"Maybe you'll sleep better if you, you know." He's already on thin ice, might as well crack it. His throat constricts at the ghost of the memory, the last time he had to bring something like this up. "Bring a woman home one evening. We can give you privacy."
An excruciatingly long pause. The fridge and some crickets outside are the only sounds until a very quiet, breathy sound startles Mike. Mike doesn't realize what it is until he sees his face settle back into impassivity: he'd made Gus laugh.
"No," he says, but with an inflection Mike has never heard before. Mike's brain busily turns this denial over and over like a stone in his hand until suddenly— oh, duh. How could he not have realized before? The fountain. His near-complete separation of the business and personal. Mike silently absorbs this new information, squares it with the man sitting in front of him. Remembers when he was a rookie assigned to the vice squad, arresting men like him in bathrooms and parks.
"Okay," Mike says. Another long moment of silence broken only by the quiet thump of glasses on the table.
"You seem tired," Fring suddenly notes. It's the first time he's ever commented on Mike's demeanor.
"I am," Mike admits. No thanks to you, he silently adds. He's earned the right to be a little uncharitable, he thinks.
"With Victor off, the Rymans' guest room is open. As is mine." This wasn't an unusual offer, and other crew members have taken him up on it before. Never Mike, though, until now.
"Thanks, I will," Mike says. After Gus waves off Mike's offer to wash their glasses, doing it himself, they head up the stairs.
"There's toiletries in the bathroom and spare clothes in the dresser," Gus says, and pauses next to Mike. He does that opaque, sidelong look Mike has seen a couple of times, strong nose visible in profile and eyes hidden by the glint of his glasses in the hall light. Mike feels rooted to the floor, which is stupid because he's a grown man.
Gus reaches toward him, and if he were less tired his heart would have skipped a beat. A shiver of anxiety moves down his back as he feels Gus's cool hand clasp the back of his neck, large enough for his thumb and index finger to easily reach the hollows under Mike's ears. He squeezes, and it surprises Mike how good the simultaneous pressure and relief feels. He hadn't realized how much tension he's been carrying there. His lips part slightly, a small sigh escaping involuntarily.
What the hell are you doing, Mike starts to ask, but then Gus's lips are on his, completely shocking and already a little open. Mike is instantly, live-wire alert. Oh, Mike thinks ridiculously, kissing feels good. Somehow, Mike's forgotten that. They're warm and soft, but ungentle as he nips at Mike's bottom lip. Goosebumps rise on the back of Mike's neck. He can't deny the spark he feels at the first touch of Gus's tongue against his. Gus tastes very faintly of the whiskey, and his mouth is hot and wet. Funny, Gus always looks like he could blow frost out of his mouth.
Gus stops as quickly as he started. He looks genuinely surprised with himself, involuntarily stripped of both of his usual masks. His mouth shines wet. To Mike's embarrassment, his eyes follow Gus's tongue as he runs it over his bottom lip.
Gus pauses a moment, swallows. "My— my deepest apologies. You are welcome to join me, or to go directly to your own bed. I will not be offended if you do so." His voice is slightly hoarse.
Mike nods, and steps into the guest bedroom, not looking back at Gus's face. He loses several moments staring blankly at the polished wood bedframe and tasteful abstract art above it. When he can think again, he makes his way to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, pauses. He can't ignore the hot spike of desire he felt, still thrumming through his body. Mike makes his decision. He does some more thorough freshening up. Looks in his wallet, and of course there's no condom. Not that he's sure what will happen, but Gus seems like the type to want one no matter what.
When he reaches Gus's room, it's dark except for a desk lamp glowing on the nightstand, and a strip of florescent light radiating from under the closed bathroom door. The bedcovers are turned down on one side. He waits. And waits. When Mike's about to leave, Gus re-emerges, wearing pajamas and holding a folded towel. He looks... well Mike's not sure of what that expression means yet.
Gus tastes like toothpaste when their mouths meet again. Kissing him satisfies Mike in the same way that throwing a punch does. He can kiss Gus hard, wincing as their teeth clack together before Gus changes the angle. He can be a little rough and nasty, and Gus gives as good as he gets. Mike can pour every feeling he's been storing in the dark, cobwebbed basement of his brain into him without having to talk. Gus bites at his lower lip, in retaliation pulls him in by his shirt. It's strange, Mike thinks, kissing someone the same height.
It's easier than he thought it would be, too. His only experience with anything close to gay sex was his strategic ignorance of two guys in his unit when they were telling each other to close your eyes and think of Raquel Welch too loudly for Mike's taste. Nobody invited him to do that in the Marines, but Mike always assumed he'd say no, push them away immediately. But his body responds to Gus the same way it responds to women. Mike doesn't have to think too much about what it means, only that maybe it's because he likes pushing Gus around, and even being pushed back.
They don't stop to talk about anything, which is fine by Mike. Gus's hand is strong on the back of his neck a teeth are sharp on Mike's earlobe as he unbuttons Mike's shirt. He only pauses to put a hand between Mike's mouth and his neck when Mike tries to put his mouth there.
"Don't leave a mark."
Mike disobeys, sucking on the other side of Gus's neck, which his hand doesn't block in time. He makes a nuisance of himself (it feels like a twisted parody of when he was a young newlywed, bothering her cooking breakfast, untying her apron) by pinching Gus's nipples until he made a small noise and digging his fingers into his sides as he watches Gus fold their shirts on that silly bench at the foot of his bed. Gus's abdomen tightens in what Mike suspects is suppressed ticklishness.
And just as suddenly, the back of Mike's knees hit the bed. Gus's hand is flat on his chest, pushing him down. Mike digs his fingers into Gus's bare sides again to get the upper hand. Gus is no more gentle when he adjusts Mike without asking, trying to force him onto his back. Mike declines, pulls Gus forward and on his side. It feels almost teenage, this feverish, wet kissing lying on their sides, trying to push each others' boundaries as far as they can go. Instead of touching Gus over his pants, Mike takes the opportunity to shove his hand inside while Gus removes his askew glasses. Gus's body stiffens slightly, and his cock pulses in Mike's hand; perhaps he was expecting Mike to be hesitant in the wake of being with a man, his boss, for the first time. He can't keep his eyes off Gus's face as he strokes him. It takes more concentration than Mike's used to, trying to do something he was familiar with from a different angle.
He feels smug when Gus's eyes glaze over, then slam shut. He's winning. Gus's nails are probably leaving scratches down his back. He works Gus over until Gus's hand closes around his wrist.
Mike huffs as Gus rolls away from him to take his pants off. This time, successfully pushes Mike onto his back, his pants and boxers folded with more care than they were yanked down his legs. Mike snickers at Gus's neurosis only until Gus's lips hovering over his cock and hint of very uncharacteristic playfulness in his eyes wipes the smile off his face.
His groan is embarrassingly loud when the head of his cock brushes against Gus's soft palate. Gus brings him to full mast with brutal efficiency, sucking him hard and drawing up slow until only the head's in his mouth before going back down again. Mike can feel sweat beading on his temples, under his arms, in the creases between his hips and thighs. Maybe it's trite to think, but it doesn't feel like Mike is the one in control, even with Gus looking up from between his legs.
Gus's lips and Mike's cock glisten with saliva when Mike finally pulls him off.
"Jesus," Mike can't help but say. The little quirk of Gus's lips is much too self-satisfied, but, Mike decides, it's fair. In this moment, he deserves it. Gus arranges Mike again, until he's flat on his back, square on the towel before reaching into his nightstand drawer to pull out a bottle. He uncaps it, slicks Mike's cock, and uses the rest to cursorily do something Mike almost wishes he could see behind him. Mike's unwillingly slightly impressed by the multitasking, even as he can't quite stop his hips from following every time Gus shifts on top of him.
After several more bruising kisses that push him back against the pillow, Gus straddles him. He lines himself up with Mike's erection and slowly sinks down on him in what feels like one centimeter at a time.
It's the first time Mike's actually been inside someone in God knows how long, and it feels good at first. But then, something about it doesn't feel right. Gus's incongruously gentle up-and-down becomes claustrophobic. Gus's hands on Mike's upper arms are like manacles and his thighs keep Mike pinned in place. Mike can't even move to push his feet against the bed so he can thrust back. He can't even put his hands on Gus's hips. He fists them in the sheets instead, probably pissing Gus off as he feels one edge of the fitted sheet go slack. He looks up and Gus's mouth is set tight, like he's concentrating. Mike wants to push him again.
When Gus's eyes are consistently closing for longer than a blink, Mike takes the opportunity. He rolls them over and pulls out of Gus. Mike manhandles him onto his front, in a kind of quarter-nelson hold that leaves Gus's face smushed into the pillow and his ass in the air. If what Mike's picked up about Gus's military background is true, he's no slouch, but he's not Mike, who has decades of restraining people behind him, and knows how to hold someone in a way that they don't realize they can't break out of until it's too late. A second of shock flickers on Gus's face before he favors Mike with a murderous glare.
He pauses, not particularly caring if he went too far beyond a clinical curiosity. His hands are still firm around Gus's wrist and back, but he slackens them slightly, gives Gus a chance to object. His face is mellowing into suspicion, and there's other emotions threatening to break the surface onto his face too, Mike thinks, curiosity and arousal. He struggles a little to find his balance braced on only one arm and his thighs. Mike, okay, he admires the swell of Gus's bicep a little, keeps it flexed against his back. He gives himself a couple rallying strokes before pushing in again, slowly. Gus's lips part and he inhales shakily.
He's letting Mike manhandle him in a way that Mike realizes with a hot, sick rush of feeling that you let a child or a dog misbehave, not because you want them to, but because you're curious about what they'll do next. You're testing them. Mike starts off slow and steady, but not nice at all. He doesn't give Gus much of time to adjust. His eyes still tell Mike that he's playing a risky game, but a small noise passes his lips when Mike changes the angle. Maybe he'd feel ashamed if Gus was anyone but himself, someone who doesn't tell Mike to stop, to rein in his worse impulses.
Come on, do your worst, his eyes say instead, so Mike fucks into him harder. Gus slips forward, then rights himself the best he can. Mike knows his back will complain tomorrow, but for now the hot, tight squeeze of Gus's ass around his cock feels almost too good. But even beyond that, it satisfies something else deep inside Mike, having Gus pinned to the bed at his mercy, his muscles taut with the strain of keeping his balance, and the sound of his wet panting into the pillow as he can't really move, can't do anything but take what Mike's giving him.
"This what you needed?" Mike hisses between soft groans. Gus's eyes flash like Mike's pressing his luck, but his stance widens infinitesimally. The bedframe's starting to creak. The sheets are all messed up and the pillows are askew."I think you did, but you didn't know it."
Mike's brain briefly flashes through scenarios of what Gus may actually want. A fight? Absolution, or a punishment Mike knows he's too clever, too well-protected to get? Just a good, hard lay?
He fucks into Gus even faster. "Can you even—" Mike gasps, but Gus answers his question by suddenly coming, completely missing the towel, Mike notes with a little stab of pleasure. It's reassuring, Mike supposes, that even dignified people make stupid faces sometimes. Pride and lust simultaneously swell in him a being the one to do it.
"Oh, fuck," Mike says at the feeling of Gus tightening around his cock, and then his own pleasure crests, wave after wave of the best thing he's felt in far too long. He empties himself into Gus with a strangled moan.
They separate and lie side by side, breathing hard. Gus is flushed from his forehead down his chest and his usually slicked-back hair has separated into ruffled curls. Mike doubts he looks much better; his knees and shins have angry red creases from the towel and the crumpled sheets. He feels sticky, and soreness is on the horizon; Mike can't yet tell whether it will be the pleasant or unpleasant kind. But aside from that, it's the most relaxed his body's felt in ages.
Gus looks down at himself. His nose crinkles in distaste. He gets up, picks his folded pajamas off the bench, and vanishes first into his bathroom, then the linen closet Mike knows is outside the bathroom's other door. He returns several minutes later fully clothed, with a fresh set of sheets. Mike would rather relax another few minutes, but he dutifully helps Gus strip the bed and put the fitted sheet on before Gus shoos him into the bathroom to clean up. When Mike comes out, Gus is in the now fully-made bed, reading a book. The title's in Spanish, but Mike can make out the word 'administration'; he can't tell whether it's a history or business book. Either way, it looks dry. His eyelids are beginning to droop. Gus says nothing, doesn't even look up, but Mike can tell it's deliberate. He notices the turned-down sheets on the other side of the bed.
Mike stands for a moment. He doesn't consciously think, precisely, but he can feel the pressure of different thoughts bumping against each other in his mind. He waits in the doorway. Against his better instincts, he takes a short breath and gets back in.