There's shutters on the glass door now. It leaves Kim with a slivered view of Francesca's face, and her expression does not inspire hope –– apologetic, sure, but beholden to the guy signing her paychecks. Her voice is muffled by the glass: Sorry, Kim. He says no meetings because of the renovation. Kim's expression is terse; she can't even summon up a smile, something to say it's okay. I know he's being difficult. Her hand is still on the door pull, even if it's locked. She wants to try it again just to be sure today is a bust. The frustration is hard to overcome.
"But his other clients, that's okay?" she says.
Francesca is trapped. There are at least three more apologies in the face she makes, and Kim can only stand there for a moment, stewing. Finally, she nods. She pivots on the spot and walks the meagre few steps away to the curb, where she opens her bag and tucks the manila envelope in her hand back inside. Two people cross the parking lot and slouch towards the entrance; Kim keeps her back turned as they are let in. She imagines she can hear Jimmy's voice beyond the doors, but whatever goes on in there doesn't sound like him anymore.
She breathes out a long exhale. If the situation were reversed, she's sure she could look up at the clear blue skies above and see a little two-engine plane skywriting out big, looping letters: I WANT A DIVORCE.
Instead, she sees a familiar face getting out of his car, one Mike Ehrmantraut. Kim feels the acid in her stomach bubble up. She could leave right now, and part of her thinks it'd be best to, but she lingers anyway, her gaze locked on him, daring him to head for the door without acknowledging her.
If Jimmy wants to play it like this, she'll play. She'll wait.
Kim Wexler is a situation. Not an untenable one-- she's much too smart to send the carefully-constructed house of cards down onto everyone's heads, particularly not over a divorce-- but nevertheless, a situation. It makes Goodman antsy, which makes him even more irritating to work with. Any remnants of the Lalo situation make Fring wary, too, which, well. That's its own story entirely. So the solution is simple: at some point, he'll need to deal with her. Much as he'd like to not add another item to his already lengthy to-do list, there's just no getting out of it.
Real convenient, then, for that item to stride through the strip mall parking lot, heels clicking, perpetually-curly ponytail bouncing.
Mike watches her from the driver's seat for a few minutes. It plays out like it should: she tries, she gets sent away, she steps off. Only, she doesn't step off. Kim Wexler's waiting. A couple of junkies pass her by on their way through Goodman's doors, and she's still waiting.
With a weary sigh, he unlocks his car door, hauls himself out of it, and makes a beeline for the curb.
"Goodman's not taking any meetings today." He eyes her, brows furrowed, lips pressed together in a tight line. His eyes flicker over to the shuttered, silent door: "Renovations, I believe."
With the bullshit out of the way, Mike tugs back the sleeve of his jacket to glance at his watch. He's got time before Fring needs him. Should be more than enough to set Wexler straight. His gaze pulls right back up to the woman's face as his hand drops back to his side.
When he glances at his watch, fury lands at the bottom of her stomach like a lead stone. Everyone's on a fucking schedule but her these days, months deep into unemployment and temporary housing, everything settled that can be settled without that divorce. It's crossed her mind multiple times that she can handle this with or without Jimmy; New Mexico's a no-fault state and she's helped enough clients through a default divorce that she's sure she could do her own in her sleep. File a motion to make Jimmy answer to why he won't sign, get a court date.
But for what? To put Jimmy through that feels like an unimaginable cruelty, and to draw any legal attention to either of them would strip them of the only thing left: their safety from the law, and each other.
She doesn't know what to do. She just knows she needs this divorce –– she needs it to be over, for both their sakes and everyone else's.
Her fingers close around the strap of her bag, just for want of something to hold onto.
"Why?" she says, but it might as well be a no the way she's rooted to her spot on the curb. "Did Jimmy tell you to escort me off the property?"
I think you're made of sterner stuff, he'd once told her, and the thought bubbles right back up to the surface of Mike's mind. He still thinks so, maybe even moreso now-- whether or not it's smart, it's not nothing, standing your ground in front of a man who scraped a corpse off your living room floor and daring him to make the first move.
"Nope."
He almost doesn't want to lecture her. Almost. But she's a loose end hanging off a long, long tapestry. Mike, of all people, is well aware of what happens to those loose ends.
"Your," a minute pause, "--husband's got nothing to do with this. Whatever's between you and him is none of my business, and I don't want it to be my business. This conversation is strictly between you and me."
He doesn't spare Goodman's shuttered office a second glance, keeping his gaze calm and leveled on Kim; his tone, for what it's worth, is as sincere as he can get it.
"Five minutes." A jerk of his head back towards the parking lot. "That's all."
She's not sure if she feels the sting of bile on the back of her throat or if it's just in her head. Her lips purse momentarily at the offending word, husband, the word she wanted more than anything and the word that made her happy every single day for six weeks, six perfect weeks. The very work she wants to scuttle somewhere dark and shameful and never think about again because she'd ruined it.
But if it's not about her and her soon-to-be ex-husband, then what is there to talk about? That feels the slightest bit more alarming, like she hadn't thought of some second shoe waiting to drop.
She glances towards the parking lot, to wherever he wants her to go. She tries not to imagine herself hustled into a car, driven god-knows-where, dumped. The bile in her throat is real, but so is her resolve. Things could not possibly get worse.
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mike ehrmantraut | brba/bcs
gus fring | brba/bcs
alexandra trese | trese
aiba | ai: the somnium files
garcian smith | killer7
maeve millay | westworld
lilith cashlin | borderlands
in which jimmy will NOT be served with divorce papers!!
"But his other clients, that's okay?" she says.
Francesca is trapped. There are at least three more apologies in the face she makes, and Kim can only stand there for a moment, stewing. Finally, she nods. She pivots on the spot and walks the meagre few steps away to the curb, where she opens her bag and tucks the manila envelope in her hand back inside. Two people cross the parking lot and slouch towards the entrance; Kim keeps her back turned as they are let in. She imagines she can hear Jimmy's voice beyond the doors, but whatever goes on in there doesn't sound like him anymore.
She breathes out a long exhale. If the situation were reversed, she's sure she could look up at the clear blue skies above and see a little two-engine plane skywriting out big, looping letters: I WANT A DIVORCE.
Instead, she sees a familiar face getting out of his car, one Mike Ehrmantraut. Kim feels the acid in her stomach bubble up. She could leave right now, and part of her thinks it'd be best to, but she lingers anyway, her gaze locked on him, daring him to head for the door without acknowledging her.
If Jimmy wants to play it like this, she'll play. She'll wait.
no subject
Real convenient, then, for that item to stride through the strip mall parking lot, heels clicking, perpetually-curly ponytail bouncing.
Mike watches her from the driver's seat for a few minutes. It plays out like it should: she tries, she gets sent away, she steps off. Only, she doesn't step off. Kim Wexler's waiting. A couple of junkies pass her by on their way through Goodman's doors, and she's still waiting.
With a weary sigh, he unlocks his car door, hauls himself out of it, and makes a beeline for the curb.
"Goodman's not taking any meetings today." He eyes her, brows furrowed, lips pressed together in a tight line. His eyes flicker over to the shuttered, silent door: "Renovations, I believe."
With the bullshit out of the way, Mike tugs back the sleeve of his jacket to glance at his watch. He's got time before Fring needs him. Should be more than enough to set Wexler straight. His gaze pulls right back up to the woman's face as his hand drops back to his side.
"Miss Wexler? I think we oughta take a walk."
no subject
But for what? To put Jimmy through that feels like an unimaginable cruelty, and to draw any legal attention to either of them would strip them of the only thing left: their safety from the law, and each other.
She doesn't know what to do. She just knows she needs this divorce –– she needs it to be over, for both their sakes and everyone else's.
Her fingers close around the strap of her bag, just for want of something to hold onto.
"Why?" she says, but it might as well be a no the way she's rooted to her spot on the curb. "Did Jimmy tell you to escort me off the property?"
no subject
"Nope."
He almost doesn't want to lecture her. Almost. But she's a loose end hanging off a long, long tapestry. Mike, of all people, is well aware of what happens to those loose ends.
"Your," a minute pause, "--husband's got nothing to do with this. Whatever's between you and him is none of my business, and I don't want it to be my business. This conversation is strictly between you and me."
He doesn't spare Goodman's shuttered office a second glance, keeping his gaze calm and leveled on Kim; his tone, for what it's worth, is as sincere as he can get it.
"Five minutes." A jerk of his head back towards the parking lot. "That's all."
no subject
But if it's not about her and her soon-to-be ex-husband, then what is there to talk about? That feels the slightest bit more alarming, like she hadn't thought of some second shoe waiting to drop.
She glances towards the parking lot, to wherever he wants her to go. She tries not to imagine herself hustled into a car, driven god-knows-where, dumped. The bile in her throat is real, but so is her resolve. Things could not possibly get worse.
"Five minutes," she agrees.