Chapter Text
Kim Wexler stepped off the Greyhound bus into a night that felt darker than it should have, the chill in the Albuquerque air gnawing at her through the thin barrier of her well-worn jacket. She pulled it tighter around her shoulders, thinking not for the first time about how many layers she'd shed—and how many she'd added—since that day she left Red Cloud. The city she'd hoped would be a warm desert oasis welcomed her with a biting wind that ripped through her. The luminescent green light of the bus stop sputtered overhead, and Kim wondered how the city managed to be colder than she'd imagined, not just in temperature but in spirit.
Her breath came out in a cloud, and Kim paused for a moment, inhaling the scent of bus exhaust and distant fried food. Growing up in Red Cloud, she'd learned about cold the hard way. Winters there held a unique malice: bitter winds that howled across flat, deserted farmland, slicing through the thickest coat and scarf like knives through tissue paper. She remembered every miserable walk to school, snowdrifts looming like silent ghosts against the barbed-wire fences—fences that may as well have been the edge of the world. Each morning, she trudged toward the horizon with her cello strapped to her back, the instrument bigger than she was, her feet sliding precariously on black ice. Every day was a test of endurance and willpower, and the image of it—her small figure carved against an endless white terrain—lingered at the back of her mind like a persistent phantom.
The day she left Red Cloud, the temperature was ten below freezing. She remembered leaving footprints in the snow as she stepped onto the bus that would carry her away for good, hoping that she would never have to look back at that bleak horizon line again.
Now, however, as she stood under the flickering light of an Albuquerque bus stop in January, four years after Red Cloud and a whole college degree under her belt, reality settled in. Against the eerie chill of the desert, Kim realized with a sinking feeling that maybe she could never run far enough to escape the cold. Maybe it wasn't just the heavy coat she couldn't leave behind. A memory could be as heavy as any woolen cloth. She shifted her bag on her shoulder—much lighter than that old cello but still as burdensome in its own way—and forced herself forward. The ache in her chest was less from the chill and more from that old fear: maybe the past isn't something you can outrun. Maybe it's always waiting just outside the glow of the next flickering streetlight.
Kim steeled herself against the thought, pushing forward down the block and into the embracing emptiness of the city night.
Before the faint gray light of dawn seeped through the lofty windows of Hamlin, Hamlin & McGill, Kim already stood alone in the firm's subterranean mailroom. She turned on the overhead bulbs, their steady hum filling the cramped space. For her, these early morning hours belonged to her alone—nobody else would disturb her domain before 7 a.m.
She left the door open a crack. In the quiet, she set her purse on an old creaking chair and hung her jacket—frayed but functional—on a nearby hook. The aged Mr. Coffee machine sputtered and groaned as she filled it with water and grounds, its complaints echoing in the empty room. The smell of strong coffee, burnt around the edges, drifted up to greet her. Kim closed her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply, letting the aroma calm her.
As she waited for the coffee, her mind drifted to the argument with her boyfriend that morning—or was it an argument? He had complained, groggily and resentfully, about her leaving so early again. It was a daily routine, an uncomfortable refrain in the symphony of their relationship: "You'd rather be sorting mail than here with me." He'd said it with half-closed eyes and more truth than he intended, the words leaving a sour taste that the coffee would hopefully replace. Now, alone in the waking mailroom, Kim felt a prickle of guilt—not because he was wrong but because there was a ring of truth in it. She felt more herself here than anywhere else in her life. This place was hers—at least, it felt that way when so few things ever had. For just a few hours each morning, Kim Wexler was the master of her world. She didn't know how to explain that to him without sounding cruel or insane.
So she didn't. Instead, Kim turned to the bulletin board where the day's tasks were neatly pinned: assembling case binders, sorting and distributing the daily mail, preparing materials for the behemoth intellectual property case. She sipped her coffee, bitter and scalding. Perfect.
As she began sorting through a stack of documents for a 9 a.m. partner meeting, the mailroom remained noiseless except for the constant drip of the coffee maker and the building's heating system throbbing through the walls—a slow, mechanical heartbeat. Each document was a puzzle piece of some grand legal strategy she could only dream of partaking in, and Kim found herself reading and absorbing the details more often than she should.
But as she began to shift to her next task, muffled voices in the hallway abruptly broke the silence—unusual, this early. Kim froze, her body stiffening with alertness. Voices at this hour in HHM's depths were like ghosts haunting the corridors: unexpected, unwanted, and unsettling. She set down the documents she'd been holding, heart pounding, and strained to listen.
One voice rose above the other, authoritative and clipped: Charles McGill. She recognized the tone instantly. The building's most prominent ghost of them all. Charles McGill, a founding partner, and a man whose presence felt to Kim almost god-like. The mailroom door stood ajar, and Kim's breath caught in her throat as the footsteps approached.
"Knock, knock," came Charles McGill's voice from the doorway, smooth as glass but carrying that undercurrent of tension.
Kim's heart skipped a beat. Charles McGill, all silver hair and stern lines, stepped into the mailroom. Kim managed a polite smile, though she was certain her eyes betrayed her surprise and confusion. Behind Charles stood another figure: a younger man, perhaps in his thirties, with shaggy auburn hair that curled at the ends and a shirt that practically screamed for attention—paisley in burnt orange and gold swirls.
"Mr. McGill," Kim finally managed, fighting to keep her voice steady against the sudden dryness in her throat.
Charles McGill offered a polite but tight-lipped smile. Even his pleasantries carried a hint of some internal tension. "I've brought some additional help for you in the mailroom," he said, stepping aside to fully reveal the man behind him. "This is Jimmy."
Jimmy stepped forward, extending a hand out to Kim. His grin was crooked, apologetic, and strangely warm. "Hey," he said. "I'm Chuck's brother."
"Oh." Kim's eyes widened in surprise as she glanced back at Mr. McGill, noting his edgy expression. She returned her attention to Jimmy and shook his hand decisively, not trying to be rude.
Charles nodded curtly, adding, "I'd like you to help him settle in—start him with basic tasks: sorting mail, applying postage, learning how to handle the copier, that sort of thing." There was a note of admonition as he looked at Jimmy as if to say: Don't screw this up.
Kim noticed the subtle emphasis on 'problems' and 'concerns.' "Of course, Mr. McGill," she replied carefully.
Seemingly satisfied, Chuck nodded curtly, "Excellent. Then I'll leave you to it." With that, the elder McGill turned and moved down the hallway, his footsteps echoed and then faded away, leaving the two of them.
Kim studied Jimmy as he turned about studying the mailroom in turn—his slightly rumpled clothes and a demeanor that seemed both confident and uncertain. He looked less like a new employee at a respectable law firm and more like a guy who might be nursing a drink at a dimly lit bar this early morning, out of sync with the structured, professional environment. It took Kim a moment to process that this was Charles McGill's brother—the man whose reputation for polish and perfection preceded him. The contrast striking.
"So," Jimmy said after a beat, spreading his arms to take in the mailroom. "You're my mailroom guru?"
"I guess you could say that," she replied, trying to sound professional. But there was something about Jimmy's crooked grin that softened her resolve. She'd always been drawn to strays, considering herself one, and Jimmy McGill looked like a stray if ever she saw one.
He shrugged apologetically. "Well," he said, "I'm at your mercy. Show me the ropes. The whole loom if you can."
"Okay," she replied quietly. "First things first: coffee." She gestured to the coffee pot, the bitter brew steaming in the cold air.
Jimmy's eyes brightened. "Ah, coffee," he said with a grateful sigh. "The lifeblood of early mornings." He took the mug Kim offered, sipped, and winced slightly at the acidic taste. "Good," he managed, eyes watering slightly. Kim hid a smile behind her own coffee cup.
She directed him to a stack of documents on the table. "We're assembling case binders for a meeting this afternoon. The pages are numbered, so it's mostly about putting the copies in the right order."
Jimmy nodded, setting down his coffee. He picked up a few sheets of paper and flipped through them. "So, sort pages and put them in binders," he repeated, half to himself, half to Kim. "I can do that."
They worked in companionable silence for several minutes, the soft rustle of pages providing a steady rhythm to their task. As Kim slipped back into her familiar morning routine, her initial wariness began to ease. Jimmy followed her lead diligently, methodically aligning each page. She caught herself glancing his way occasionally; the sight of him biting his lip in genuine concentration made her grin. Every once in a while, she could feel his eyes on her as well—quick, curious looks, as if he were trying to gauge her reaction to his efforts.
Eventually, the silence seemed to press on Jimmy, and he cleared his throat. "So," he began cautiously, "how long have you been here?"
"Two years," she answered, her eyes on the papers, as if looking away might break some unseen spell.
Jimmy nodded. "Two years," he repeated, his voice strangely reverent, as if the very idea of two consistent years might be a marvel to him. "Did you always want to work in a mailroom?"
A flicker of a smile crossed Kim's face. "Not exactly," she replied as she took a deep breath. "I'm in law school. HHM is helping me through it. Part of the arrangement is that I work here in the mailroom."
Jimmy's eyes widened in admiration. "Law school? That's… wow, that's impressive." He paused, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Big plans, huh?"
Kim offered a small, tight nod. She had big plans, all right, though they felt more like secrets she kept locked away in a hidden room of her mind. Sometimes, she even kept them secret from herself.
"Are you from Albuquerque?" he asked, turning his full attention to her, the task of sorting papers becoming increasingly forgotten.
"Uh, no," Kim said, her voice betraying her usual distaste for small talk. "I'm from Nebraska."
Jimmy's face lit up. "Nebraska? The Cornhusker State.” He paused before continuing as if waiting for her to say more. "So, what brought you here?"
"Work. School." She replied the usual way before finding herself hesitating, fingers tensing on the stack of papers in front of her. She glanced at him and saw only warm curiosity in his eyes. "And... I needed a change."
A somber understanding passed over Jimmy's features. He nodded. "Yeah. I get that," he offered reassuringly. And then, with a slight, ironic grin: "Albuquerque's not exactly the Promised Land, but… it's different from Nebraska, right?"
Kim couldn't help but let out a short, sharp snort. She wasn't sure when she first arrived, but now, "Yeah. It is."
For a moment, they sit together in a comfortable silence, bound by some understanding of mutual secrets and unspoken hardships. The overhead lights, buzzing like a hundred microscopic trapped wasps, cast their harsh blue on the dusty corners of the mailroom, but Kim no longer felt alone.
"So," Jimmy said after a moment, glancing around. "Just the two of us in the underbelly of HHM?"
Kim shook her head. "Ernie comes in around eight, and Bert's in later."
Jimmy glanced around again, an amused crease forming on his forehead. "It's quieter than I expected," he remarked. "I was imagining something more... I don't know, like All the President's Men , papers flying everywhere and phones ringing off the hook." His tone carried a hint of disappointment as if he was more accustomed—or even drawn—to commotion than calm.
Kim raised an eyebrow at him, unable to resist a teasing smile. "You know that was a newsroom, right? Not a mailroom." She motioned to the neatly organized stacks of documents around them. "Give it a couple of hours. The chaos usually starts around 9."
Jimmy looked back at Kim thoughtfully. "That's why you come in early, right? Have some peace in your domain before it gets nuts?"
Kim stopped, caught off guard by his insight. "Yes," she admitted, a warm flush spread through her. She was used to people misunderstanding or dismissing her early mornings.
"Although, I guess I kinda blew that for you today. Sorry about that," Jimmy's voice carried a note of genuine regret as he dropped his gaze. He apologetically picked up a stack of papers, turning his attention to them as if to make amends through diligence. Kim watched him for a moment.
"No, it's..." Kim began, planning to politely white-lie of reassurance that she didn't mind. But as she spoke, she realized her words held more truth than she'd expected. "It's actually nice."
As she caught Jimmy's eye and he offered her that crooked grin, Kim Wexler smiled back, a tremor of anticipation ghosting along her spine.
Jimmy McGill—Charles McGill's brother and her new coworker. His arrival was an unexpected twist to her day.
Kim felt a faint thrill course through her, a sensation both unfamiliar and strangely known all at once.