#bcsp

The sound of a knock on the front door jolts Kim out of her focus, a block of Administrative Law text still swimming in her field of vision as she blinks once, twice; fog slowly clearing as she pushes herself up from the floor.

Squinting through the peephole, she frowns slightly before swinging the door open to reveal Jimmy, grinning and holding up a grease-stained paper bag.

“Delivery!” he chirps, motioning behind her with his free hand and she steps back to let him in, brows still knit together. 

“What?”

He spins around in the entryway to face her again, bag crinkling in his grip. “Did you eat dinner?”

Kim opens her mouth and closes it again. 

“I’ve got...” she gestures towards the coffee table where a mound of granola bar wrappers are stacked high and Jimmy raises his eyebrows, setting the bag down on the kitchen counter. 

“Fine,” she relents. “But it’s nine o’clock at night. You haven’t had dinner yet?”

He shrugs. “I could eat again.”

Ignoring her pointed look, he moves into the kitchen and opens the first cabinet, peering inside before closing it again and moving onto the next.

“I know for a fact you skipped lunch today,” he says, eyes lighting up as he locates the plates, grabbing for two and maneuvering to close the cabinet door with his elbow. “You’re going to collapse in front of a copier tomorrow before you even get to the exam if you don’t eat something more than a protein bar.”

Kim’s stomach grumbles in spite of herself as she watches him unload a paper-wrapped burger and a cup of french fries, gravitating towards the smell of fried food and resting her palms against the cool marble of the counter as he carefully arranges a plate.

“Comfort food, Kim.” He looks up to meet her eyes, holding out the plate, and one corner of her lip twists up before she takes it, padding back to the living room and lowering herself to the floor. 

Snagging a single fry from her pile, she watches Jimmy dump the rest of them onto his own plate, his eyebrows leaping up as he scrambles to catch the few ricocheting onto the counter.

“Ketchup?” She calls in his direction and he nods, licking salt from his fingers before reaching for the fridge and grabbing the plastic bottle from the inside of the door.

He hands it off as he perches himself on the edge of the couch cushion nearest her, balancing his plate on his knees before leaning forward to swipe one of his fries through her fresh glob of ketchup and she swats his hand away, shaking her head.

“How are you feeling?” He gestures to the pile of notes spread around the table, and Kim shrugs, biting into her burger. “Want me to quiz you?”

“God, no,” she mumbles through a mouthful of food. “Wouldn’t wish a paragraph of this on my worst enemy.”

“Ah, c’mon.” He picks up another handful of fries. “I’m already here, I might as well stay.”

He seems to not hear his own words until they’re out of his mouth and she sees momentary panic scrub across his features, watches him rush to swallow his mouthful of food. 

“I mean, that’s not why—I was gonna head out after I made sure you got some nutrients—”

“Jimmy.” She cuts him off, reaching a hand up to his knee. “You’re fine. Don’t leave. I think I’ve got some ice cream in the freezer, and then you can quiz me if you really want.”

He looks down at her hand on his knee and she follows his gaze, letting it rest there for another moment before she rubs her thumb back and forth, gently squeezing her hand once against the denim before pulling back. 

Kim can feel the ribbed fabric of the sofa digging into her bare skin, back arching into the insistent press of Jimmy’s palms on her hips, can hear the scrape of his denim-clad knees shifting on the linoleum floor, breath hot on her inner thigh. She can see Jimmy’s hair ripple between her fingers as she brings one trembling hand to his head, guiding him closer, planting the other hand next to her, fingers splaying out on the cushion. She can smell the acetone in the air of his office, two of her nails still glossy with fresh polish, the chemical tang sharp against her heightened senses. 

She can hear the radiator groan in the corner as Jimmy’s mouth connects with the juncture of her thigh, feel the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt as she brings her hand down to fist in the soft cotton, taste blood when she tugs and his tongue moves slowly, slowly, slowly—

“Fuck,” Kim hisses into the phone, letting it drop against her shoulder as her hand flies to her lip, coming away with a swipe of red.

“Kim?” Jimmy’s voice sounds far away through the speaker and she scrambles to grab it, bringing it back to her ear.

“Sorry,” she grimaces, hand coming out from under the covers to reach for a Kleenex from the nightstand. “Bit my lip.”

She can hear shuffling on the other end of the line, his own sheets rustling as he repositions himself. “Isn’t that my line?”

“No, really, I’m bleeding,” she mumbles, the word coming out like bweeding through the tissue pressed to her mouth and she sighs, frustrated. “Why aren’t you just here?”

“Hey,” he laughs. “I wasn’t the one who had an early day in court tomorrow.”

Kim crumples up the tissue and tosses it onto the nightstand, glancing at the alarm clock, the red 12:24 AM glowing back at her mockingly. “Yeah, well.”

She settles back into her pillows, a warm silence between them, and Kim closes her eyes and imagines the telephone line springing out of her apartment and across town, the curve of the wire turning corners and climbing hills, the zap of electricity sparking into Jimmy’s hand at the back of the nail salon.

“I just want...” she lets her hand drift down again, eyes still closed, palm hovering over her belly and she hears Jimmy’s breath hitch on the other end of the line. 

The bed is empty when Jimmy startles awake, bleary eyes scanning the room, and he rolls over to look at the alarm clock: a bright 1:22 AM bleeding out of the darkness. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he lurches out of the tangle of sheets and hunts on the floor for his underwear, kicking around the dark shapes littering the ground before resignedly nudging open a dresser drawer to grab a fresh pair of boxers.

The balcony door is open, and as he makes his way around the sofa, he sees Kim leaning against a far corner of the railing, gaze resting over the parking lot. Her profile is backlit by the fluorescent gleam of the streetlights, and he can hear one bulb humming somewhere nearby, a staccato buzz emphasizing each flicker as the light cuts in and out.  

She’s wearing his missing boxers, the cast on her right arm slung across the front of an oversize grey t-shirt, her other hand holding a cigarette over the edge of the railing. As he watches, she brings it to her mouth, loose wisps of blonde hair blowing in the soft night breeze, the crackle of tobacco loud in the silence.

Jimmy tentatively steps into the pool of golden light at the edge of the doorway, moving slowly in an attempt not to startle her, but she simply turns her head, eyes meeting his without a hint of surprise. Pursing her lips, she releases a thin stream of smoke and shifts her weight, holding out the cigarette to him. 

He takes it from her, examining it between his fingers for a moment before lifting the hand to his mouth, and his vision narrows to the end point of the cigarette, a sharp line pointing directly to Kim. The tip flares as he inhales, producing the illusion of flame sparking against her torso, and he closes his eyes.

Letting the deep inhale burn in his lungs just a moment too long, he hears an echo of her voice in his head: Smoke inhalation. So he didn’t suffer. 

He remembers it in vivid snapshots.

The final glow of the day’s sun illuminating loose curls of golden hair around Kim’s shoulders, the tip of her cigarette flickering from across the parking lot where she leans against his white Cadillac. 

Her shoes unceremoniously kicked off in the living room at their new apartment, one black pump tipped over on its side to reveal the cherry red sole, a concealed underbelly bleeding into the tip of the heel. 

The dark stain on the collar of his bright yellow dress shirt, her mask of total control lost against the door of Saul Goodman’s new office, breath hot against his neck as she grasps for fistfuls of starched cotton.

Righteous Red reads the bold print at the bottom of a lipstick tube on the bathroom counter, and Jimmy remembers cracking a joke. Kim Wexler, the most virtuous criminal defense attorney in all of New Mexico. A slippery smile slides up and down her cheeks but she stares straight ahead into the mirror, water running as she brushes a damp cotton pad over her face, a burgundy smear momentarily stark against her skin before being wiped clean.

It all comes back to him through the crimson splotches that swim before his eyes when he awakes shouting from a nightmare, arms flailing out to reach for her and finding only cheap, thin sheets when his vision clears.

Jimmy straightens from his place in front of the open refrigerator when Kim comes out of the bedroom and he watches her lean against the door frame, sweat glistening on her shoulders as she toes off her sneakers. 

“Hey,” she pants, bare stomach heaving as she sticks one foot out in front of her. “When did you get home?”

“Few minutes ago.” Jimmy closes the fridge door and watches her stretch for another moment. “Looking good, Jane Fonda.”

She eyes him wearily as she pads into the kitchen to grab a glass, holding it under the sink and flicking the tap. “It’s a black sports bra and leggings, Jimmy.”

“You’re glistening,” he says, shrugging his arms out before gesturing back towards the bedroom. “I just don’t think I’ve seen you actually use that thing yet.”

She takes a long swallow of water, regarding him over the rim of the cup. “Turns out it used to work as something other than a hanging rack for your dress pants.”

“Multifunctional.” He grins and she rolls her eyes, glass clinking as she sets it down on the counter.