#saul goodman x gen!reader

[tomurderornottomurder]

i don't want to talk; saul goodman

pair. saul goodman x gn!reader

summ. you and your boss are kidnapped cartel style and have a somewhat quiet moment after

gen. angst, hurt minimal comfort

wc. 1.8k+

tw. breaking bad related themes, kidnapping, guns, blood, descriptions of injuries, focus on mouth injuries, death mentions,

note. i still need to finish better call saul. old draft but i really like it.

Your wrists are freshly raw from the rope they had been bound with. You rub at them with your fingers as you twist them around, trying to massage the marks away. You sit in the arid desert on the dry, sandy ground. Your expensive, secondhand suit will suffer from the harsh minerals rubbing against the fine material. Your cheeks should be stained with tears yet none had come even face to barrel with a gun larger than the hand holding it. You were resilient in the moment, strong and silent, something you hadn't been able to be before, yet while facing death, you could finally be. Your disposition was for nothing though as you had made it out alive and yes, you were grateful but what's amazing about standing your ground and living?

The red marks on your wrists remain despite all the effort and you can only manage to sigh in disappointment. Footsteps sound behind you and you have to fight back the violent urge to turn and see who's coming. If it's your captors, goodbye; if it's your boss, well, who knows? Some would argue that it was his fault you were here but you know better, you always have. You didn't blame him and he shouldn't blame himself either, you doubt he would admit such a thing out loud anyway. You were kidnapped together, bound behind the back, bags over your heads; the whole shebang. Even behind you two, a grave dug just big enough to fit your rotting corpses but shallow so as to not show respect. What was respectable about either of you? There was nothing. There was nothing.

The footfalls stop just beside you and in a quick second, you hear the familiar groans of the older man. Saul Goodman, your boss, and he was sitting with his legs crossed like a kindergartener. You almost couldn't believe it but then again, Saul has done more unimaginable things. You look over at him, careful to not look anywhere near his face. You see his legs all crossed and his socks that peak out, you could laugh at them if you hadn't just been threatened with a barrel pressed against the roof of your mouth. You notice how high his pants come up as he sits like that, how his belt looks -too smooth to be real leather and too tacky of metal to be anything valuable. You notice the small scuff marks on his shoes that could only be from today and you wonder why his shoes are so nice and expensive but his belt isn't. You don't say anything though. (Why would you?)��

"Hey-" Saul tries to speak, genuinely too, you can tell.

You snap, "I don't want-" You lose your fire immediately, you can't even finish the damn sentence; he knows what you mean anyway. There's something in your heart that can't be mean to him. Not even now. Not after feeling the cool metal of your kidnapper's gun against your tongue and tasting your blood after your captor hit you with it. Not after sitting in the blaring heat of the sun in the middle of the desert in nowheresville USA with your arms bound behind your back and the heat weaving through your skin, waiting to coil up and take your life like the very snakes that called this place home. Not after all of that can you manage to be mean. 

You don't wonder if Saul feels bad. He does. Of course. He scoots closer, his arm touching yours. He doesn't want to freak you out. He doesn't care that much about you. You're his employee, not much more. But a shiny, purple bruise has a glare that some people -people like him- can't ignore. Right there on the left side of your face, surrounding your eye is the deepest purple Saul has ever laid his eyes on. Marks litter the bridge of your nose and it's starting to swell. Your mouth is worst of all. Blood will not stop rushing past your lips, there are cuts all over inside, a tooth was knocked out in the chaos, your tongue was cut (even just the littlest thing makes it bleed so much), and your lips are raw and scratched. It looks like someone let an animal loose inside your mouth. It's horrible. 

Saul watched it happen. Them, the people who kidnapped you both, shove a gun into your mouth like it belonged there. Twist it around and threaten you as Saul pleaded with them doing what he always does and striking a deal, persuading the audience, getting them on his side, trying to save someone; someone who he had gotten into this mess, someone he cared about -even the littlest bit. You got hit repeatedly, swung at with the gun or knuckles, a mix of the two, or a kick to the ribs. You didn't let out anything. Not a single word. You let Saul do the talking. You took the punches. That was your job in this little operation. Maybe that was always what was supposed to happen. 

You can't shake the metal that had been in your mouth. You can't shake closing your eyes and making peace and just being quiet and waiting. You don't even know what you were waiting for. Death or release or life after all of this? Freedom or pity or indentured servitude? Sweet peace or life-long guilt? It wasn't fathomable. It wouldn't be for years. 

You almost jump at the touch. Saul's finger graces your bruise. You hold back a hiss and you wonder what he's doing. There are things you know and there are things you wonder about. Saul's touch not feeling like fire against your skin is something you can only wonder about, you will never understand that -for lack of a better term- relief. You sit silently with your legs bent in front of you and your back straight waiting. For death, release, or sweet, sweet peace. You can't choose in this one. Freely, your fate is decided by one Saul Goodman. You trust him enough for that yet you wouldn't trust him with your car keys. 

You don't want to look at his face, especially not his eyes. You know what happens if you do. You can't deal with that right now. He makes that mission difficult. He takes his fingers off your bruise and places his thumb at your nose. In a strange way, it was like a medical examination or at least with the precision of one. Like he was assessing you for damage. Maybe not so medical-like after all. You wouldn't expect less from him. It almost makes you smile. He was tallying up his losses. Smart move, you think. 

He reassigns his thumb to swiping blood from your chin even as it still dribbles out. Your poor mouth; all beat up for the senselessness of it. He wants to examine your mouth, maybe see what exactly is going on in there but he finds himself at a loss (funnily enough). He can't see this looking very good. He can't imagine how you'd interpret it and he's at a crossroads. Maybe he should talk to you? But that directly disobeys your earlier word. But he's the boss? Who tells him what to do? You, you, of course. 

He's yet to see your tears from this. A normal person would be concerned. A normal person is no Saul Goodman. 

The blood seems to stop at least flowing out of your mouth but inside is a whole other story. He wipes his your-blood-stained thumb against his already bloodied shirt. His head turns as the wheels of your captors' vehicle squeak and kick up dirt creating clouds of shit he'd rather not inhale and neither would you. He flips open his phone, one bar, good enough. He flips the phone closed. He's not so scared anymore.

What you'll think of him he cannot say nor can he decide and maybe that's good. You should have your own feelings about him, he couldn't stand it if they weren't yours. Maybe he could for a while but that's not forever, it's temporary and fake; stale like potato chips that have sat in your kitchen for months now with the bag open and you mean to throw them out, you really do, but you never quite get around to it and they are always, always just left there in the end. Your feelings for him couldn't be stale potato chips. 

Maybe he should have thought it through better but those clouds of dust must have gotten to him because he presses his thumb against your bottom lip and he doesn't say anything or give you any sort of look, you just open your mouth. It's like an active warzone inside. There's blood here and a cut there, some deep indent northbound, and an empty space where a tooth should be. Your raw lip does not feel good against his thumb. He hates it actually but it stays there for a good long moment as he totals the loss of your mouth. It was like a bomb exploded and he was picking up the missing limbs. His mind entertains the idea of what you'd look like with a gold tooth, he doesn't like it. 

He lets his thumb off your lip like letting a foot off the gas and then there's eye contact. Yours meet his, his meet yours. You look empty. You look like you're about to cry. He couldn't blame you. He was probably going to go home and cry about all of this later. 

He pulls all of his limbs away from you and against himself as he sits at your side. He doesn't look at you or turn his head. He feels your head rest against his shoulder and it's like he's allowed to breathe. He lets out a deep sigh like he's been absolved of all sins. He's quiet. He hears your sobs. They are deep and powerful sobs that he can tell you need to let out. He wraps his arm around your back, maybe even holding you a little closer. 

The sun's harsh glare washes over you both. The air is dry and humid and the horizon is baking. It's like you're in an oven. You've been kidnapped and shrunk and placed in an oven with your boss because life is cruel and why shouldn't you be trapped in an oven? But you're not. Kuby is on his way to pick you both up and you're never going to speak about it again. Saul will not mention the gun in your mouth or the crying. You will not speak thanks to said gun in the mouth and you won't care to regale anyone on how you were kidnapped and beaten up and left to cry on your boss' shoulder because why would you?