Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"But when the days beneath me,
Scream into my present,
I must always run the race on my own."

Running - IAMX

*

Domingo is nine when Nacho saves his life for the first time.

It happens during a particularly hot summer, in the backyard of the Molina’s house.

Domingo’s mom insisted on throwing a garden party in honor of the family who just moved in a few blocks away, and despite her husband’s protests, she invited half of the neighborhood, not to mention almost all of their relatives. 

Soon after lunch, everyone gather around the pool to sip the remnants of their beers or just bathe under the sun. It’s a nice afternoon, despite the scorching heat. Parents are laughing and talking business. Kids are chasing each other around the yard with water guns. A group of teens is hanging out near the cooler,  maybe debating on the best way to slip a can or two under their shirt without getting noticed by the adults. Even Domingo’s dad seems to have finally relaxed, now chatting with the new neighbor by the barbecue.

The small man arrived alone with his son, a boy about four years older than Domingo.

“Go say hello to Ignacio,” Domingo’s mom encouraged him earlier. “He doesn’t know anyone yet.”

Ignacio is short but broad-shouldered, with large dark eyes and a constant scowl on his face, like he’s always scanning his surroundings in search of an imminent threat. Not the talkative type by the looks of him and definitely not the kind of potential friend Domingo is usually drawn to. Too intimidating. Too much like his bullies at school.

From where Domingo is sitting, on a deckchair, taking a break from his cousins and their childish games (it’s too hot and Domingo’s getting a bit tired of water guns, would honestly rather go upstairs to play with his brother’s brand new Nintendo) he can see Ignacio toying absentmindedly with a basketball near the old rusty hoop fixed upon the garage’s door.

Though Ignacio doesn’t look like he seems to mind being alone. He even shakes his head politely at some point when one of the teens approaches him, probably to ask him to join their group.

Domingo can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at that. He’s never been invited by the oldest kids to hang out. Everyone likes to think he’s still a baby, despite being almost ten, and it sucks. He doesn’t want to be considered like a looser third-grader anymore. He wants to go drink some Dos Equis with them on the front porch. Wants to listen to their stories about high-school and maybe have his very first smoke. He wants to be part of the team.

Ignacio just doesn’t realize his luck. His loss. Maybe it’s different, where he comes from.

To be honest, Domingo is also a bit impressed. He wishes he had enough self-confidence to turn down an offer like that. Be simply content with his own company. Not always desperate for the slightest bit of attention, the slightest bit of acknowledgement…

At this point, the heat is getting almost unbearable and it’s barely four in the afternoon yet. A sharp pain pulsating behind his eyelids, Domingo turns his face away from the sun, trying to shade himself with his hand. The migraine started a few hours ago, when he was being chased around the pool by one of his cousins with the water gun. He feels exhausted, a deep seated tiredness inside his muscles, which is weird, since it’s the holidays and it’s not like he has to wake up early every mornings in order to catch the bus in time.

You probably ate way too much sugar, moron. When Domingo finally stands up, the world twirls around him for a few seconds, enough to make him wince in pain.

He heads for the house. He thinks about lying down for a while, in the dark, away from the crowd. Maybe drink another bottle of Gatorade and ask his mom for some aspirin. He’ll probably feel better in a minute.

As Domingo is reaching the door, he suddenly stops dead in his tracks, feeling eyes on him. He turns around and finds that new kid – Ignacio - , fumbling with the basketball in his hands.

“You okay?” Ignacio asks, giving him a quick check over.

His voice is softer than Domingo imagined it would be. There isn’t a single trace of tease or mockery in his tone, but sometimes even bullies can feign sympathy before they start throwing merciless punches at him. Up close Ignacio looks less old and less threatening, granted a bit more brawny than the average 12 years old, but a boy his age nonetheless. Domingo blinks and swallows some saliva. “Uh, yeah, I’m good.”. Despite the total lack of any sort of disguised malice on Ignacio’s face, he still braces himself for the worst.

Ignacio looks at him, then at the ball in his hand, then at him again. He seems to hesitate just a second before nodding toward the hoop, “You wanna shoot some?”

By reflex, Domingo almost says no. But then he catches it; a flicker of light inside Ignacio’s dark eyes, that goes away in a flash. Hope.

Despite the headache, he nods, dumbfounded. “O-okay.”

Ignacio smiles and immediately starts dribbling. “My name’s Nacho by the way.”

Domingo can’t help it. He giggles. “That’s a funny name.”

Nacho rolls his eyes, but the smile sticks to his face. “I know. That’s what my mom used to call me.” He raises his arms, holds the ball above his head, then shoots, his feet leaving the ground for about half a second before landing back gracefully.

Domingo is curious about Nacho’s mom, but he knows better than to ask questions. He watches in awe as the ball slides through the net and Nacho picks it up again, still smiling. The thing is, Domingo rarely plays basketball. After this little demonstration, he’s sure as hell going to ridicule himself if he even tries to take a shot. An embarrassing blush rises to his cheeks.

Nacho hands him the ball anyway. Domingo takes it carefully. “Your name’s Domingo right?”

“Yeah,” he says, feeling like he might just burst.  

His headache is worse than before. It’s piercing his skull and making him nauseous. He should tell Nacho. That was a terrible idea. “Look, I don’t—"

“It’s pretty easy once you get to it,” Nacho explains with all the patience in the world. “I can teach you if you want.”  Domingo stares at him with wide eyes, heart fluttering with confusion. Why would Nacho want to teach him how to play basketball instead of go hang out with the other- definitely cooler - teens on the porch?

Suddenly, the world turns out of focus. Domingo staggers on his feet and almost loses balance because of the slippery floor. Like a light being switched off Nacho’s expression change brutally. Domingo sees his mouth moving without a sound as Nacho tries to reach out for him. The ball bounces back on the ground and Domingo’s vision blacks out. An invisible force is pulling him backwards. He’s too weak to fight it.

It all happens very fast.

Next thing Domingo knows, he’s lying on the hot concrete, completely soaked. There’s a weight sitting on his chest, so heavy he can’t breathe. His eyes snap open and widen in fear.

He doesn’t remember anything except his mind going blank and the sensation of his body hitting a hard and cold wall. Domingo coughs. Water gargles inside his throat.   

Someone gives him a light tap on the cheek. “Try again.” The voice is soft and steady.

Domingo obeys and finally, finally is able to gulp some air down. The action makes his lungs constrict with pain, but it’s worth it. He’s never been more grateful for oxygen before.

“There you go,” The person above him murmurs. Then, louder : “He’s breathing.”

Domingo thinks he hears his mom somewhere, thanking heavens, and then there are fingers in his hair, someone holding him tight against their chest. Domingo blinks to clear his vision and he comes face to face with none other than Nacho. The boy is kneeling next to him, shading him from the sun. His clothes are damp and his hair is dripping wet on the floor, but he looks deeply relieved, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Domingo finds it hard to tear his gaze away from Nacho’s. What the hell just happened?

“You okay cariño?” Domingo’s mom asks him, cupping his face. “You passed out and fell into the pool! Thank God Ignacio was quick to react.” Her eyes are watery but she’s smiling from ear to ear. Still in shock, Domingo gives a slow nod. Nacho saved me?

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, voice hoarse. He doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for, but it seems like a good thing to say.

She gives him a kiss on the forehead, before squeezing him tighter against herself. There’s a small crowd towering above them but Domingo is too overwhelmed to pay them attention. He turns his head toward Nacho again, opening his mouth to thank him but before he can say anything, Nacho leans down and gives him an awkward pat on the forearm. “I’m glad you’re fine,” he just says before standing and grabbing the basketball on the floor as if nothing ever happened, ready to pick up right where they left it.

And Domingo can’t help but think; Did I just make my very first real friend ?

*

Chapter Text

*

Nacho was supposed to pick him up twenty-five minutes ago, and he still hasn’t shown up.

The night is starting to get cold. Domingo walks back and forth on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes after cigarettes under the yellowish streetlight, trying very hard to convince himself he hasn’t just been stood up by his best friend for the sake of some girl he’s just met.

There’s a party happening tonight at Carlos’ place. A good occasion to meet new people, maybe some college students. But mostly just hang out together since it’s been a while.

Nacho spends a lot of his time with his girlfriend now, and Domingo is pretty sure Nacho only accepted to go to the party with him because he feels guilty for having ignored his calls lately.

Whatever. Domingo sighs and crushes his cigarette under his shoe. He’s tired anyway, having worked all day at the store. Crazy how ignoring his dad’s passive aggressive jabs and offering fake smiles to uptight gringos and middle aged couples can take a toll on his energy.

Domingo checks his watch; almost 1AM. There’s no reason to wait anymore, Nacho probably forgot about him at this point. Or maybe Domingo is just letting his childish jealousy blind his judgment and something else happened. Something bad. His stomach tightens at the thought. What if Nacho couldn’t make it because he got into an accident? What if his dad got sick?

Fuck, Domingo thinks with a pang of guilt, what a shit friend I make.

Domingo shoves his hands inside his pockets and starts to walk back toward his own house. The streets are empty and silent, with only the occasional car passing by on the road. He’ll call Nacho once he’s home, just to make sure he’s fine. And if he’s still ignored, well…

Domingo is about to reach a corner, when he suddenly hears a car slowing down behind him. He glances over his shoulder, pulse fastening with hope as he expects to see Nacho’s van. Unfortunately, his friend isn’t the one trailing after him. Domingo’s heart skips a beat, an usual bodily reaction whenever he sees the glowing red and blue glow of a police light. He can’t help it. Cops make him nervous.

Domingo’s head snaps back and he continues to walk as if nothing, albeit a bit faster than before. But the car approaches him still, casually picking up his pace. Domingo tenses, breath hitching. Just ignore them, his mind instructs him. You’ve done nothing wrong.

Domingo keeps his eyes fixed on the ground, even when he hears the window rolls down and one of the two cops sitting in the car hail him. “Hey!”

Domingo doesn’t react. He’s currently experiencing an internal struggle inside his head, hesitating between the need to bolt out of here and risk being chased around the block until he’s out of breath or simply stops to listen to whatever they have to say like a polite citizen.

In the end he does none of that, just keeps on walking, despite his heart hammering in his chest and his stomach in knots. It’s okay, Domingo tells himself. Just need to go on until they get bored and decide to leave.

But the cop reaches out through the open window and snaps his fingers.

“Hey you!” he repeats, louder this time.

Shit. Domingo freezes on the sidewalk. Slowly, he turns around to face them, letting his hands slide out of his pockets, just in case they start getting the wrong ideas.

The cops are watching him with an half amused, half wary expression on their faces. One of them is big and burly, pushing fifty, the other just a kid, who still manages to look menacing in his uniform despite being probably fresh out of college.

“Hear us the first time?” the older cop says, inclining his head. “What’chu doing here at this hour of the night all by yourself?”

Domingo swallows around the lump in his throat. “Just walking home, sir,” he answers, avoiding the man’s gaze. The cop huffs and exchanges a quick look with his colleague.

“Planning on going somewhere? I heard there’s a party going on Fourth Street.”

Domingo shakes his head. “No, I- I just finished my shift.” he lies, embarrassed. “Heading home, now.” He stands here on the sidewalk, arms hanging by his sides, unsure on what to do. Why can’t they just fucking drive off already?

The cops narrows his eyes, studying Domingo from head to toes, like he’s trying to confirm something. Feeling himself flush, Domingo shifts awkwardly on his feet.

“Working on a Saturday night, huh? How old are you, kid?”

“Seventeen.”

The man turns to his colleague again, this time with a satisfied grin on his lips.

“What d’you say Pete? Fits the profile alright?”

The other man – Pete – leans over the dashboard to also get a good look at Domingo. “Well, lemme see…” He checks something on his notebook. “Suspect is Hispanic, aged between 16 and 21, often seen hanging around in this precise neighborhood.” He shrugs and puts the notebook back in his pocket. “If you ask me, Ed, seems like we just hit the fucking jackpot tonight!”

Domingo blinks. What the fuck are they talking about? He stares at them incredulously.

Ed’s teasing smile vanishes brutally as he steps out of the car. He looks far more intimidating now standing up, two heads taller than Domingo and with thick arms that could crush him like a fly if he wanted to. Blood running cold, Domingo takes a step back.

“Wait, what are you doing—” he sputters, choking on his own words. “I’m not—”

“Turn around and face the wall with your hands up. C’mon, we ain’t got all day.”

“What?” Domingo’s eyes jumps back and forth between the two men. He’s confused but mostly terrified. Why are they treating him like a criminal? It doesn’t make any sense.  

The cop glares at him. “Are you deaf?” His hand hovers over the gun tucked in his belt. “Don’t make things harder than they already are for you, kiddo. You had your fun pulling a weapon at that helpless cashier but now you’re toast. No need for this little puppy dog act.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” Domingo tries to argue, feeling his knees tremble dangerously.   

There’s no way he’s getting arrested. Not tonight. Not ever. His dad will kill him.

This time, it’s Pete whose whole demeanor seems to switch as he grabs Domingo by the neck and forces him to turn around, glaring at him with cold dead eyes. “You wanna add “resisting arrest” to the list? It’s too late now. You’re going in, pretty boy, whether you like it or not.”

Domingo holds his hands up and stares at the wall in front of him. He’s trembling like a leaf. Not because of the cold. Not even because of what these cops might do to him, but because he can’t stop thinking about his dad’s reaction when he hears that his son has been arrested for trying to rob a store. Even if I tell him I didn’t do it, he’s never gonna believe me.

That’s what his father has been waiting for all along. Someone to confirm what he’s always been thinking; that Domingo is a loose cannon, an ungrateful brat, and that it was just a matter of time before he ended up on the wrong path, throwing his future in the trash forever.

One of the cops pats him up and down, probably searching for a weapon of some sort. Domingo stands very still. “Well, look at that,” Ed says after a while, dangling a little bag of weed right under his nose. “Not so innocent after all.”

Domingo clenches his jaw. His eyes are stinging. “It’s not mine.” He’s not stupid enough to carry pot around with him, especially not when his dad has taken a recent habit of rummaging through his stuff whenever he feels like it. But these guys really seem hell bent on signing his death warrant tonight, one way or another. It makes him sick.

“Sure,” the cop snorts, all proud of himself, “And I’m the fucking Queen of England!”

He addresses his colleague again. “Get me some handcuffs. Let’s get this over with.”

Pete gestures to his belt, but his movement is cut short when a rutilant red car suddenly races pass them at a phenomenal speed, engine roaring loudly and smoothly. Domingo peers over his shoulder just in time to see the passenger of the red car throws a cup of strawberry milkshake at the cops’ windshield while yelling :“Fuckers!”

The pinkish liquid splatters on the glass and the red car disappears around a corner, leaving only chaos and confusion in its wake.

“That little shit!” Ed cries out, already reaching for his walkie-talkie. He releases Domingo with a shove and heads for his own car, a disgruntled Pete on his heels. Domingo watches, eyes wide, as the cops completely forget about him in order to go chase down the milkshake throwers.

After they’re gone, Domingo stays stunned for about half a minute before the reality of the situation catches up with his mind and he finally decides to make a run for it, too happy and relieved to even try to understand what the hell just happened.

He’s about halfway down the street when his saviors’ car cuts right in front of him, stopping so abruptly the tires hiss. The girl on the passenger seat waves him over. “Get in, quick!”

Domingo doesn’t hesitate. He jumps inside, whole body shaking with adrenaline and blood thumping inside his ears. The car immediately takes off. On the backseat, Domingo finds himself almost nose to nose with a massive rottweiler, who growls and leans over to sniff him. He flinches so hard the back of his head hits the window with a loud thud.

“Leave him alone, Remy,’ the girl groans, reaching out to push the dog away from him.

“Sorry for the wait. You okay? Fucking cops, man.”

Domingo’s heart jumps with joy at the familiar voice. He lifts his head and sees Nacho looking at him in the rearview mirror, concern and excitement blurring his features.

“I-I’m good.” He looks around, frowning. “Whose car is this?”

Nacho laughs and nods toward his girlfriend. “Lysha’s. Pretty nice, huh?”

“Nacho’s so in love with it,” Lysha rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling fondly. “We had to go pick it up at the garage hence the delay.” She sobers up and turns to Domingo. “What did those pigs want with you?”

Domingo shrugs. Now that he’s safe and adrenaline is starting to wear off, it almost feels like he just woke up from a bad dream. “Apparently, I tried to rob a store.”

Lysha winces. “Ugh, screw them.”

“You sure you okay?” Nacho asks him again. “Did they hurt you?”

Domingo shakes his head. “I’m fine, man. I swear.” Nacho doesn’t pry any longer. 

They continue to drive around town for a while. Nacho knows Albuquerque like the back of his hand and he rapidly manages to outwit the cops and lose them on the road. They all decide to give up on the party. None of them is really feeling it anymore, anyway.

In Domingo’s mind, it’s becoming clearer and clearer by each passing minutes how so many things could have gone wrong tonight if not for his best friend and Lysha risking their own safety to distract the police.

He thinks about the day him and Nacho first met. It’s funny. For as long as he can remember, Nacho has had a habit of saving him from the worst situations.

God, Domingo owes him so much.

Blinking some embarrassing tears away, he turns his attention back to the enormous dog drooling next to him. Swallowing back his fear, Domingo gives him a tentative pat on the head. Remy’s ears perk up and he lets out a groan that almost sounds like a purr.

Domingo huffs. Maybe if he’d been walking one of those with him tonight, the cops wouldn’t have dared to mess with him. 

*

Chapter Text

*

Nacho gets him out of jail.

On the drive home, they sit in silence in the car. Domingo knows Nacho has never been much of a talker, but today his silence feels different; thick with accusations.

And Domingo gets it, really. Getting busted was a stupid move, that got him into a dangerous situation. If it wasn’t for Nacho and that lawyer, he would probably still be stuck in there, for God knows how long.

Nacho’s eyes don’t leave the road. His jaw is set and his shoulders tense.

Domingo wants to reach out and force him out of his thoughts, but he keeps his hands to himself. Enough drama for today.

“You know, it wasn’t that bad,” he blurts out at some point, when the quiet gets too overwhelming. But Nacho stays silent. He keeps staring ahead, gripping the wheel tight.

Domingo sighs and turns his head toward the window to watch the landscapes fly by.

It’s the truth. Prison wasn’t as terrible as he’d imagined. He didn’t stay long enough to become accustomed with it anyway. Yet, Domingo couldn’t prevent the childish smidge of pride from growing inside his stomach at the idea that he’s now known as someone who’s been inside. 

For the first time ever, it feels like he finally belongs in the game. As long as he doesn’t think about what the DEA has in store for him, Domingo can relish into that newfound sense of power. And shit, it really does feel good.

“I know I fucked up,” he tries again, shifting on his seat. He shoots a glance at Nacho. “But it’s over now. You don’t have to worry about it, man. I’m never going back in.”

At long last, Nacho turns to him and Domingo immediately stiffens when he sees the glint in his eyes.

“How can you still be so damn naïve?” Nacho snaps, voice low and angry. “It’s not fucking over. It will never be over. Not after all of this!”

“B-But I’m fine with it.” Domingo shrugs, cowering a bit under his friend’s glare. “Whatever.”

Nacho shakes his head. “No you’re not.” he huffs. “This line of work never suited you very well, you know. You trying to act all tough and unbothered won’t change a thing, trust me. I know you better than anyone.”

“Do you?” Domingo can’t help but scoffs bitterly. It’s not like they talk or hang out much anymore. Domingo is aware their relationship hasn’t quite been the same ever since he became a dealer of his own and Don Hector came back in town, but it took a severe U-turn after that day at El Michoacán.

Without even thinking, he touches his cheekbone, the spot where a bruise had blossomed and stayed there for days, a constant reminder of what had happened behind the walls of that tiny kitchen. God, just thinking about it makes him want to throw up.

Ignoring his question, Nacho focuses his attention back to the road. Domingo thinks he might be imagining the shininess in his eyes. “I won’t always be around to protect you.”

“But I don’t need protection,” Domingo folds his arms on his chest, annoyed. They’re not teenagers anymore. Does Nacho really think he can’t handle himself? “Why are you always treating me like a god damn kid all the time?”

Nacho sighs and rubs his face. “I guess I just had so much hope.” His voice sounds hollow, like all the fight was suddenly drained out of him. “How many times did I tell myself ‘Hey, Domingo’s gonna be fine. Won’t go down the same path as me, I’ll make sure of that.’. But you’re such a stubborn little shit.” His sad smiles fades away as quickly as it appears. “And now it’s too late. We’re in so deep it’s gonna take a fucking miracle to get us out of here.”  

As his friend’s words take sense in his mind, Domingo feels cold dread seep inside his veins. How could he be so wrong? Nacho isn’t mad at him for getting busted and thrown to jail. Nacho is frightened. And if Nacho, the person he’s looked up to the most in his life, the man who’s so close to the cartel he might as well be considered part of the family, can be so afraid of what the future has planned for them he’s dwelling into such cynicism, then what is Domingo supposed to do, now?

Who is he supposed to believe in?

It’s gonna take a fucking miracle to get us out of here.

They reach his apartment. Nacho parks in front of the building and cuts the engine without saying a single word. A heavy silence stretches out in the car. Eyes cast downward, Domingo is still mulling over Nacho’s words.  

He used to be so jealous of Nacho and the career he’s made for himself. He used to envy his beautiful house and his fancy cars and the way he always manage to make dealers shrink under his glare, to be seen and impose respect with only his presence and reputation.

But now he looks at Nacho, all beat up and withdrawn, the ambitious glint long gone from his eyes and replaced with constant grief, and he’s not so sure anymore.  

There’s a question on his tongue but he decides to keep it for himself. How long is that thing with the DEA going to last? Aside from the basics, no details were given to him about his new role as a consultant. He’s just followed the rules without arguing because that’s what was expected of him. Because that’s what Nacho expected of him.

But now, with a clearer head? It kind of sounds like he’s just made a deal with the devil.

“I have to think about my father,” Nacho says at last, pensively brushing his fingers over the steering wheel. “I have to deal with so much more shit that you could imagine.” He sighs and looks at him, a hard expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Domingo.”

And Domingo doesn’t have to ask why he’s apologizing. The answer is obvious enough.

I’m sorry. But you’re on your own now.

*

Chapter Text

*

It’s a busy but rather quiet day at El Michoacán. Well, as quiet as it can be when Lalo is around anyway. But even if Domingo still feels queasy in his presence, he’s used to the constant auditive nuisance and doesn’t have time to give Lalo much thoughts when dealers show up one after the other during all afternoon.

For once no one really forces on small talk and everybody seems eager to leave as quickly as possible. It’s not hard to guess the boss is spooking the guys away, like a scarecrow in a field.

Lalo’s presence can be suffocating, even when he tries to be nice and friendly, always teasing and probing like he deserves to know all the secrets of the universe. And Domingo should know, being the one on the receiving end of his quips almost five days a week. He believes he mastered in the art of fake laughing at this point. He wonders how Nacho can remain stoic everytime Lalo pokes him on the cheek or wraps an arm around his shoulders. It’s like Nacho doesn’t care if he’s treated like the boss’s favorite pet anymore. The Nacho he knew would never have let anyone nickname him “Nachito” without throwing some punches first.

But again, people change.

The sun is hanging low in the sky when Domingo finally checks the wall clock. It’s half-past six in the evening. Panic seizes him brutally as he realizes that his last guy, Luis, was supposed to show up thirty minutes ago, with the money he missed out on last week.

Relax. Domingo tells himself, shifting a bit on his seat. He might just be a bit late.

“I promise, man.” Luis had whispered to him the last time he’d been there, with pleading eyes and making sure not to be heard by the others. “I wouldn’t be short if I didn’t have to pay for my mom’s treatment last month. You know she’s still sick, right?” Domingo had hesitated. He knows Luis’ family well. They used to all live in the same neighborhood when they were kids. He’s even been to school with the guy and seen Mrs. Ortiz a few times. Domingo remembers her perfectly, all skinny and frail, body ravaged with cancer. Could he beat up a guy just for caring for his mother? At the end, he had sighed, ignoring the voice in his head that told him he was just being a pussy. “Come back next week without fail, okay? Don’t fuck this up” And Luis had promised again. “You can count on me, man.”

But minutes pass by and the door remains desperately shut. Fear slowly creeps up inside his body the longer he stares at the door. There’s also anger burning in his chest. How could Luis just screw him over like that? Using his sick mom as an excuse? Is he aware how much of a risk Domingo is taking, lying to his boss on his behalf?

Now what choices does he have? Either he makes up the difference with his own money before someone notices something is wrong or he tells Nacho and Lalo the truth, and then who knows what will happen to Luis. Or what will happen to him. Nobody likes a fucking liar. Especially not Salamancas. Swallowing dryly, Domingo risks a glance over his shoulder, toward Nacho who is sitting right behind him. Nacho looks up from the stash he’s been counting, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Are you done?” he asks in an impatient tone. 

Fuck it. Should I tell him? Domingo opens his mouth but the words die in his throat as soon as Lalo barges into the room whistling, a towel over his shoulder and a shit-eating grin on his face, smelling of spices and smoke. He pats Nacho’s back on his way and then his dark eyes find Domingo’s, who turns his head so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. Nevermind.  

 “I feel like I’m interrupting something,” Lalo looks over at them. “Everything’s alright, chiquitos?” Domingo bites his lip. His heart is pounding against his ribcage. 

“Yeah,” Nacho answers in a careless voice, and Domingo can picture him shrugging. “Domingo’s just getting ready to leave.”

“Is that so?” Lalo walks toward Domingo’s table. “But it’s not even six yet. Got something planned tonight?” He plops down in the chair in front of Domingo, smiling from ear to ear, the way he does everytime something picks up his interest. Domingo wills himself to ease the tension on his face, even though his feet suddenly feel cemented to the ground.

“Not much, actually,” The money bag that has been resting against his ankle the whole day seems to burn through his jeans. Lalo’s smile turns radiant. 

“¡Bien!” He throws his legs up on the table and crosses his ankles. “Since you’re not in a hurry, you and I can have a little chat.” He chuckles. “We barely know each other after all, huh?”

For lack of a better response, Domingo just nods. He knows he’s threading on dangerous grounds but it’s always hard to determinate if Lalo is genuinely being friendly or if he has something more sinister in mind. But with what happened (or rather did not happen) today, leaving now would look suspicious.

“So, Ocho Loco. You went to college?”

Domingo tries not to let his confusion show. He never thought Lalo would be interested in this type of information about his life. “Uh yeah. UNM.”

“Nice! What did you study?”

“Business.”

“Business, eh?” Lalo lets out an impressed whistle between his teeth. “So that means you must know your math well?” He shoots Domingo an odd look.

They stare at each other for about half a minute, under the flickering light on the ceiling. And then the smile on Lalo’s face falters just a tiniest bit as something passes between the two of them. An unspoken truth. Domingo’s stomach sinks low.

Lalo’s eyes reminds him of marbles; dark and almost lifeless, in perfect contrast with the rest of his demeanor. He thinks, lie detector, and stills on his chair, feeling chills run down his spine. 

“I-I guess so,”

Lalo watches him with narrowed eyes. “Oh, you guess so?”

Domingo averts his gaze, focusing on an old coffee stain splattered on the table. Through the sudden and heavy silence now can only be heard the sound of his rapid breathing and the shuffling of paper as Nacho keeps counting cash behind his back, completely oblivious to what’s happening.

Lalo tilts his head, trying to catch his eyes. “Come on, we’ve played poker together. I’ve seen you in action, man.” He leans forward and adds in Spanish ; “I know you know how to count.”

When Domingo doesn’t reply, Lalo grabs the money bag then plunks it down on the table, the loud thud making Domingo jump and look up.

“So tell me,” Lalo says, pushing the bag toward him with a sly grin on his face. “How much money is in this?”

Domingo clears his throat, willing his vocal chords to work. “One hundred and fifty-eight thousand.” The lie burns on his tongue.

“Fifty-eight, huh?” Lalo laughs and pats the bag. “I think you should try again.”

Domingo blinks as a wave of panic washes over him. Surely, Lalo can’t have figured about…? No, he’s been so careful to never let anyone near the bag except when he went to take a quick smoke outside, about two hours ago… But Nacho stayed inside. Nacho wouldn’t have let Lalo double check after him, like he’s just one of those untrustworthy random dealers they meet every day. Would he?

Domingo turns his head toward his friend to ask him a silent question, but Nacho’s expression is as unreadable as ever. He holds his gaze for about three seconds before looking away to focus back on his work.   

“No, no,” Lalo snaps his fingers and Domingo immediately whirls around on his seat, heart squeezing in pain. “I know he’s very pretty but I need you to focus, chulito. How much?” 

Domingo winces. “I think--one hundred and fifty.”

“There you go!” Lalo leans back on his chair with a big smile, sticking his hands behind his head. “You probably thought I didn’t care about the business as long as my guys do as they are told, right?” He gestures toward the bag. “Well, I get bored sometimes.” His face darkens suddenly as he adds “And while I was checking your stash to make sure you do know your maths, I couldn’t help but notice a gap of eight thousand bucks that you, for some reason, didn’t feel the need to mention to me.”

“Look, uh,” Domingo feels his throat close up. “I have some money with me. I-I can make up for it, if you would just let me go grab—” He moves to stand up.

“Sit. Down.” Lalo’s voice is calm and steady but there’s the unmistakable hint of threat in his tone. Domingo obeys and lowers his head, nervously waiting for the hammer to fall. Fuck. He messed up so bad. What’s going to happen to him now?  

Lalo addresses Nacho. “Who didn’t show up today?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then; “Ortiz. The one with the neck tattoo.”

“He promised he was gonna come back with the money today!” Domingo interjects, eyes desperately darting back and forth between the two of them. “I’m sorry, guys. He told me his mother was sick and I just—I just thought I could trust him."

Lalo laughs. “¡Qué mono!” He shakes his head fondly. “A little rata with a heart, eh? That’s too sweet, really.” Domingo’s cheeks heat up with shame.  

“But too bad that’s not how things work here,” With one swift hand movement, Lalo beckons Nacho to come over as he keeps talking. “There are rules to respect, you know. No exception.”

Domingo hears Nacho’s barely conceded sigh, the chair’s legs scrap against the floor as he leaves his seat and suddenly he’s there, standing close, hands folded in front of him and watching Lalo expectantly. Flashbacks of their last time together in the kitchen rip through Domingo’s mind, making his whole skin ache with phantom pain.

He isn’t sure he can endure another beating. Not today. Not by his best friend.

“I accept your apologies, though” Lalo reaches out to grab one of the newspapers on the table beside him “Mistakes happen to everyone.” He glances at Nacho and nods toward the gun tucked in his waistband. “Shoot him.”

A deafening silence falls like thunder in the room as Lalo reports his attention back to the paper, humming something under his breath. Domingo feels Nacho tense. He turns to look at him, breathless, his eyes wide with fright. What did he just say?

Nacho is glaring at Lalo, lips pressed into a thin line. He’s not moving a muscle, and Domingo finally observes Nacho’s stony features break and blend into a mix of confusion, fear and hatred as he shoots daggers at their boss. 

Still reading, Lalo makes an impatient sign toward him. “Come on Ignacio, anywhere you want.” He says it like it’s nothing, just a minor task to accomplish.

“Lalo…” Nacho’s voice is firm, but Domingo doesn’t miss the faint tremor of pleading there.    

“And make sure he doesn’t bleed out too much.” Lalo adds, absentmindedly brushing his fingers over his moustache. “I don’t feel like cleaning up.”

Nacho moves to take his gun out of his waistband, but then a light flickers on his face and he stops to exchange a rapid look with Domingo before turning back to Lalo. “It’s my fault.” 

Lalo cocks an eyebrow. “Your fault?"

“I let Ortiz go. I told Domingo to keep quiet and let me handle the situation.”

Frowning, Lalo finally looks up from his paper. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. If you wanna blame someone, blame me.”

A few seconds pass and then Lalo lets out an astonished laugh. “Dios Mio, Nachito, don’t ever think about starting a career in Hollywood.” He shake his head, still giggling. “You’re bad at this, man.”

“I’m not lying,” Nacho tries again, unblinking. “I was there and I made that decision." He gestures toward Domingo. "Just ask him.” But his words are in vain. The grin on Lalo’s face is quickly replaced with an annoyed scowl. “Alright, enough of this shit.” He waves Nacho off and goes back to reading. “Just do what I say.”

Nacho glances back at Domingo and sighs as he reaches for his belt with a shaky hand. 

Before anything else can happen, Domingo jumps out of his chair, so fast it topples over on the floor with a loud noise. He recoils backwards until his back hits the wall and through the rushing of blood in his ears, he hears himself croak out : "Nacho? Please, I’m sorry…”

Silent, Nacho raises his arm and points the gun at him, aiming for his left shoulder.

Shock hits Domingo like a truck. Nacho is going to get through with it, whether he wants it or not. He can see it on his face; Nacho has swallowed down his feelings and retreated back to his usual stoic self, just like that. Shooting Domingo is no longer more than a random, uncomfortable part of his job. 

It hurts more than he could ever have possibly fathomed.

Bracing himself for the inevitable, Domingo closes his eyes and grits his teeth, pulse jumping painfully in his chest. You’re on your own now.

“Oh man,” he hears Lalo cackle all of the sudden. “You both should see yourselves!”

Domingo snaps his eyes open. Nacho is still facing him but he’s now looking at Lalo with his eyebrows furrowed. Lalo rises to his feet, a smirk on his lips. “Relax,” he says, carefully taking the gun out of Nacho’s hand before tucking it back in his own belt. His gaze switches to Domingo and he holds up his hands in apology. “I’m totally messing with you, guys!”

Lalo approaches him and gently pats his cheek. “You’re shaking like a kicked perrito.” Domingo can’t breathe. “Sorry man.” he laughs. “I mean it when I say I forgive you. You did good you know, all things considered.”

Domingo ducks his head and exhales shakily, not quite believing what just happened and how close he came to getting shot. A door shuts somewhere and when he lifts his eyes, he notices Nacho has left the room. Lalo glances over his own shoulder. “I think I made him angry. My bad." He shrugs and chuckles again, not looking sorry at all, and Domingo‘s fist suddenly itch with the need to punch him in the teeth until Lalo finally learns how to shut the fuck up.

The rest of the evening happens in a strange haze. Lalo lets him go eventually, but not after warning him that he won’t be so indulgent next time, whatever the hell that means. Nacho is nowhere to be found. Domingo races back home, locks his door, and spends the night replaying the events in his head like a film. He doesn’t sleep a wink.

A week later, he opens his door to find Nacho standing in the hallway. It’s the first time they see each other since the whole ordeal with Lalo and Domingo can’t hardly mask his surprise. He thought him and Nacho were done for good. He even avoided the restaurant like a plague, after hearing grasps through some of the other dealers of what supposedly happened to Luis Ortiz during his absence.

The rumor spreading around was that someone barged into Luis’ house in the middle of the night, beat him to a pulp and then cut off his tongue. Domingo didn’t try to confirm the veracity of the story for himself. He just bought a new lock and started sleeping with a gun under his pillow, just in case.

He lets Nacho in and they sit awkwardly on his couch as Nacho talks business in a factual voice, avoiding his gaze. He doesn’t mention Lalo, or the restaurant, or even Luis, and to be perfectly honest with himself, Domingo is grateful. He prefers it like that, pretending things never happened. He would rather have a distant, robotic Nacho than no Nacho at all. This way at least, it’s easier to pretend that they’re still friends, despite everything.

After informing him about his next assignment in a few days, Nacho stands up and heads for the door. Domingo knows he can’t keep him any longer. He tries hard to ignore the way his heart flutters painfully in his chest as he watches him go in silence.

Suddenly, halfway through the room, Nacho turns on his heels and meets his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have shot you by the way,” he tells Domingo, straightforward and sympathetic. “I hope you know that.”

Too choked up to speak, Domingo answers with a nod and a frail smile. Of course, man. Nacho returns his nod, like they just reached an understanding, then finally leaves the appartement. Once he's gone, Domingo buries his face into his hands and sighs deeply. He wished Nacho would have just stayed quiet. 

Because they both know damn well how big of a lie this is.

*

Chapter Text

*

He’s going to kill that Pinkman kid.

If it wasn’t for him and his big mouth, Domingo wouldn’t be stuck in a dirty basement with a bike lock around his neck and his lungs on fire, completely at the mercy of some chemistry teacher and his dumbass crackhead partner.

When Emilio first started hanging out with Jesse, Domingo was so taken aback he had laughed at his cousin’s face. No way in hell that scrawny little white dude from the suburbs would make a good cook or survive more than two days in the business. He also couldn’t help but cringe at the way Pinkman acted around them, all careless and cowardly, too much like a spoiled kid who didn’t know shit about the world and only wanted to look tough in order to impress others. 

Too much like Domingo himself, back when he was his age, which is something Domingo has had a very hard time admitting, but the truth nonetheless. 

And now he’s here, staring at the dark staircase in the basement of that loud mouth, with only a bucket and unnerving silence for company. He’s not as much scared as he should be, all things considered. It’s not like he doesn’t know how to bide his time and keep calm even in dangerous situations or how most things work in the game. 

Hell, he has dealt with cops, angry dealers, rival gangs, the whole package. He’s even dealt with the cartel itself and came out of it perfectly well and alive. Stronger.

Domingo is sure as hell not going to let a gringo in tighty-whities be his downfall. He would find the situation hilarious if he wasn’t so damn angry. With them. With himself.

He thinks about his cousin. Now dead, partially because of him. If Domingo hadn’t rated him out to the DEA, maybe none of this shit would have happened.

Earlier, he watched as some chemical liquid dropped off the ceiling, staining the asphalt. His stomach churned at the sight. Who knows what those two crazy sons of bitches are even doing up there. He doesn’t have time to dwell on his guilty conscience though. He must think of something. A plan.

Thankfully, Pinkman presented him with everything he needed to know about his captor. Walter White has no idea what’s coming for him. Domingo will make sure to avenge his cousin, one way or another. He could go to the cops, as soon as he gets the fuck out of there.

That story would make them laugh. But in all honesty, Domingo is tired of being a rat.

For a while now, he’s been toying with the idea of finally saying fuck it and leave town. Nothing is really keeping him there anymore, except his deal with the DEA, but maybe if he’s careful, by the time they realize they lost their precious asset, Domingo would already be long gone. The idea makes his heart tightens with envy.

Maybe this whole thing is exactly what he needed at the end. To finally realize how much he’s in a dire need of change.  

How nice would that be? Get home, pack his bags, leave a note, take his dog and drive north, not stopping until he is forced to. Abandon the game forever.

Do the thing others could never do. His throat constricts at the thought.

He misses Nacho like a limb sometimes. What would Nacho do, if he was me?

It would be much easier with him still around. But Nacho is gone and for once in his life, Domingo has to save himself. Alone. 

He imagines that his friend would stay patient, confident and self-controlled, never letting his façade crack one bit. Nacho would try to bargain his way out, gain his captor’s trust, and then stabs him in the back. If there’s one thing Domingo has learned during all his years slaving away for the cartel, is that no crime against one's own blood should ever go unpunished. 

Fortunately for him, his chance of getting back at Walter comes quicker than he expected. The man passes out in the middle of the room and, with his thoughts still on Nacho, Domingo doesn’t hesitate before he reaches out and shoves the broken piece of plate inside his pocket.

Against his skin, the cool porcelain immediately becomes a comforting presence. He has never killed anyone before but the thought of sticking this inside his cousin’s murderer is almost exciting.

His heartbeat fastens as he watches Walter stir and wake up, confused. Domingo thinks, How the hell did that dude got himself into such a mess? And when he finally gets the answer to his question minutes later, everything starts to make sense again.

Walter White is dying of cancer. This is his last chance of ensuring his family’s future. And despite the anger coiling in his gut, Domingo can’t help but pity the guy.

When Walter offers him a beer and sits down with him to have a chat, his revenge’s fantasies waver a bit inside his mind and Domingo finds himself playing along, nearly forgetting all about his situation or the fact that he is literally tied up to a pole and that the tired-looking man before him actively tried to poison him to death just hours ago.

When Walter leaves to get the key, Domingo closes his eyes and lets out a relieved breath. He thinks about Nacho again as his fingers wrap around the piece of plate inside his pocket.

This guy is going to die anyway. The voice in Domingo’s head sounds just like him. Just get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. Start a new life. Follow your dreams.

Domingo only holds the sharp stick as a reminder. He isn’t sure he’s got it in him to kill another human being anyway. He’s too exhausted. Mentally and physically. Not to mention full of renewed hope.

Walter comes back with the key. “So you’re not angry?”

And Domingo shakes his head. “Whatever man. I just want to go home.”

There’s a beat of silence before Walter answers with a worn out sigh. “Me too.”

*