#cw for mentions of canon-typical child death / suicidal ideation / gun violence

[tenderjock]

Despierta, mi bien, despierta

Three days on the edge of the world and one day back home.

: :

The sunset is beautiful.

Before the last golden summer light slips below the horizon, Carlos snaps a picture on the phone that Jensen had given him. It doesn't do the view justice, of course. The mountains look distant, the sky puke-orange and watery. Carlos saves the picture anyway.

He knows that Jensen tracks him, is the thing. If he didn't have the phone on him at all times, maybe Jensen wouldn't be able to track him, but that's quite frankly not an option. Still, it's both uncomfortable and uncomfortably familiar, that feeling of being watched. Carlos hasn't been in a town bigger than three hundred in two months, hasn't spoken English in much longer than that, and hasn't felt the need to acknowledge his former teammate's complete fucking lack of boundaries. Hasn't really felt the need to acknowledge his former teammates at all.

His chest feels tight. Carlos turns the phone off and tucks it away in his pack. Once it is secure, he goes about setting up his camp for the night. He probably should have started doing that before dark, for optimal backpacking safety, but there's still plenty dusky purple twilight to see by.

It's February in Patagonia. This high in the mountains, the air is crisp and cold and thin. When Carlos settles in his bedroll for the night, he places an unsheathed Bowie knife and his hat next to the small, banked fire, where he can easily reach them if the need arises. He doesn't carry guns anymore. He didn't realize, at the time of deciding this new fact about himself, that it would make him feel so very naked all the time.

Carlos frowns at the stars winking into existence above him. Before his mind can start spinning in the way it has been threatening to do since he took that goddamn phone out, he rolls over and squeezes his eyes firmly shut.

The moon rises and sets, and Carlos tosses and turns below her pockmarked face.

: :

The next morning, he hikes approximately fifteen kilometers before lunch, not a record-breaking distance by any stretch of the imagination but it's something. Carlos finds a sheltered alcove along the line of a steep cliff – a nest, the part of his brain that he cannot fucking shut off says – boils some water, drinks it hot and slams a disgusting MRE. After he's eaten, Carlos lays down on his belly in the dirt and wriggles forward until the ground falls away under his chin.

He stays there for the rest of the day, breathing slowly in and out of his mouth. A hawk wheels through the clear mountain air below him, and Carlos watches it spin, wind brushing the brim of his hat and the locks of dark hair that curl around his cheekbones.

: :

It's the fourteenth. His little calendar notebook that he's been very carefully keeping says so, and Jensen's phone confirms it. When Carlos wakes up at dawn, he doesn't immediately break down camp for the morning. Instead, he digs out a strawberry-flavored protein bar and a box of long-stemmed wooden matches. He sticks one into the unwrapped protein bar and sets it on fire.

It's not the best birthday cake, but Carlos has had worse. He watches the match burn down, humming Las mañanitas to himself. Before he can psych himself out, Carlos takes a picture of the gray-yellow sky, the dark cliff dropping off suddenly below his perch, and sends it to Jensen.

Prior to starting his day's hike, Carlos very carefully turns the phone off and then very carefully tucks it in his pack. Jensen could probably track him even with the phone off, but the thought doesn't make anxiety curl in his ribcage anymore.

He starts walking, one scuffed boot in front of the other. It's a start.

: :

It's Jake's day off, which is technically every day now because he no longer has a job and is rich as sin due to all the money he funneled out of Max's – Maxs's? – accounts before all the shit went down. Anyway, he's in his boxers at his sister's kitchen table, stuffing himself with Special K Red Berries because Rikki refuses to buy better cereal. Says it's bad for developing teeth, or what-the fuck-ever.

There's a knock at the door. Jake reaches for a gun that isn't there. He considers the lack of weapons, the probability of assassins being sent after him at his family's home in suburban Massachusetts, and his ability to fight said assassins My Little Pony underwear.

"Ah, hell," Jake says to himself, puts down the bowl of cereal and shuffles over to the front door.

It's Cougar.

It's Cougar, and if he isn't a sight for sore eyes Jake doesn't know what is. His hair is longer, and braided back, which is a good look on him. He's bundled up, because it is early March in New England and Cougar always hated the cold. He's dark-eyed and stubbly and minus a rifle but still wearing that stupid cowboy hat, and it's Cougar, it's Cougar, after months of nothing but a little dot on a computer screen and the occasional blurry, lopsided pic of a wilderness scene.

Seriously. The man has no concept of the artistry of photography.

Jake blinks at Cougar. Cougar blinks back. After a moment, Jake manages to get his mouth back in working order and blurts out, "You're in Argentina!"

Cougar's steady solemn mouth tilts. "My phone is in Argentina," he says, and really, that's the oldest trick in the book and Jake should've fucking expected it.

Before Jake can respond, Cougar pushes his way in. He's got a duffel on his back and he smells fairly unwashed, which – Jake kind of thought that the days where he could identity his teammates by musty human funk scent were firmly behind him, but here they were. And it's not – it's not bad.

It's just Cougar.

Cougar starts casing the place, checking sightlines and exits. Jake stares at him, uncharacteristically lost for words. He hadn't expected to see Cougar again for a while yet, is all. To be honest, a part of him hadn't expected to see Cougar ever again, not after Cougar looked at him with his eyes like burning holes in his face and told Jake that he dreamed about those kids every night. Not after they got back in the States and Cougar up and disappeared, leaving every gun he owned and a piece of paper that just said Hasta luego.

That had been Jake's comfort, for the last eight months, that if Cougar was gonna off himself it would be easier to do with a gun. That and the phone, making its slow sure way south across Latin America. They had kept Jake from grieving too early. Or maybe it had helped soothe the grief that was already there.

"Coug, man," Jake says finally. Cougar doesn't look over but his hat tilts a little, which is almost the same thing. "You – you okay now?"

Cougar is silent. He lets out a slow, measured breath, then nods. "Yeah, Jensen," Cougar says, quiet like a silver sunrise. "'M okay."

#the losers comics #the losers #cougar alvarez #carlos cougar alvarez #jake jensen #the cougar lives (and solo backpacks patagonia) ficlet #cw for mentions of canon-typical child death / suicidal ideation / gun violence #also posted on ao3 #vayan con dios angelitos #what have we got to lose #vertigo comics #myfic