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undercoverpena · 8 months

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x. the day which rips and tears

javier peña x f!reader | chapter ten of nowhere to run

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers. ptsd. grief. anxiety. reader hitting someone (not javi). no use of y/n. use of a nickname. mentions of smut. feelings. angst. anxiety. ptsd. love thoughts. word count: 5.8k.

AN: this is the big one. the one I've been dreading. all that grief comes to a head.

dedications: thank you to @yeyinde for letting me chew her ear off about this and my plan because i was so lost in the dark before. thank you @wildemaven for making me realise why writing what you love, matters.

It breaks him.

Not slowly. Not piece by piece. But all at once.

Walking in, chaos ricocheting around the room. Watching shards fall, seeing them shattering into a thousand pieces against the tiles as your hands push, shove and hit.

Then, he finds the utter disappointment etched on Van Ness’s face.

Something has changed, shifted.

On some level, Javi thinks he knows what it could be. He doesn't realise how wrong he is until he hears it through strangled sobs and tears running like a river down your cheeks.

Javi thought he could even begin to know.

The last standing shard, the one that had been there since he came into your life, blasted into fragments before twisting—turning to ash and dust at your feet.

You are standing in ruin, hand extended.

He decides he won't let you stand alone.

A good day, you've decided, is one that starts with waking up beside him.

Before him, when you had clambered for anything to hold on to, it had been perfectly poured coffee, fresh fruit, and no red lights on your commute.

Now, it’s the chance to take in the slope of his nose, to see how smooth his features are as he rests. It's the warmth from his body—how it gently brushes over your skin, his hand, fingers or leg. Him forever pressed against you, wishing to be connected with you in some shape or fashion.

You know there was a time—months ago—when you ran from this—remembering that night when you’d left this room, dressing haphazardly, spotting how his brows had been pinched together. Even if you knew you’d made the right decision back then, Javi is still more than you had him down for. A force, a presence you couldn't ignore. A person who has marked you—left you forever changed.

For someone who in the day never stops, Javi barely moves in his sleep. You take the time to study him, without blinds being in the way or needing to put on a pretence why you were staring. It allows you to take in what a juxtaposition to the forever ticking, thinking—pacing and massaging the bridge of his nose—man you've come to work alongside.

Allowing yourself the chance to admire him, commit this version of him to memory.

You even permit yourself to wonder, thinking of a far-distant future with him—finding it doesn't seem nearly as complex or hard to reach as before. It's easier when you can pretend the world outside isn’t what it is and that this was a different kind of morning, where commitments and drugs weren’t going to demand so much from the two of you.

But that isn’t reality, so you take what you can.

Mentally tracing the bow of his lips, you notice how some of the hairs above curl out. You glance over his cheeks, spotting how his long lashes hang over, casting little spider-leg shadows over his skin. Detecting the dark bags under his eyes, ones you’re sure could be worse, but nonetheless are still there.

Truthfully, you think about how you wish his eyes were open. Suddenly, missing the way his soft brown pools drag you under, wrap you in warmth—how they lap around you like gentle waves, all calmly and soothingly. Him searing emotions into you that are doused in nut brown and peeling your skin off in shades of coffee-coloured lust.

“Morning’,” he mumbles, voice an octave or two lower, all croaky but still dripping in its usual honey.

Your lips curl up into your cheeks, fingers strumming across his shoulder. “Good morning. Did you know you’re very good looking when you’re not talking?”

Keeping his eyes closed, you watch him stretch a little. Muscles and tendons flex under his skin before he rolls lazily onto his side, an arm sliding over you—warm and heavy on your waist.

“You’ll pay for that.”

Humming, you nuzzle into him. Distantly aware that soon, an alarm will cut into the quiet. It’ll do its thing and tear through the perfect morning—make the two of you put on your masks and begin another day of recreating your daily performance.

“I hope I will,” you whisper, fingers sliding over his chest, flicking your eyes to his face.

That’s when you find his eyes are on you. All soft, warm—sparkling with deviousness. A pair, you decide there and then, that you’d quite like to wake up to forever if you’re given the chance.

“Behave, will you?”

Tracing your finger up and down his chest, your teeth nip at your lower lip, staring through your lashes at him. “Do you really want me to, sir?”

For a moment, there’s just silence. No sound of passing cars or a city waking up.

Then, it’s disturbed by a groan before the mattress protests his movements as he pushes you onto your back. His body flushes with yours, sheets loose over the two of you—both smothered in the morning light so you can see the look that spells precisely what he thinks of your comment.

“Someone is awake.”

Curling his lips, he rocks his hips against yours—his hardening cock nudging against your thigh. “I’m always awake for you.”

Weaving your fingers through his hair, you pull—ever so slightly—swallowing his second groan. The two of you falling into your usual pattern, because he's as easy to read as you. The two of you are so in tune now, no instructions warranted—all freestyle movements that are easily read and understood, making words no longer needed.

He slants his mouth against your whimpers, hand on your thigh. They fall in a chant, the beginning of a song he’s the only one that can make you sing. Your voice reaches a new pitch when he rolls his hips, the head of his cock hitting that spot—causing your eyes clench as your lips curl around each letter of his name.

Quickly, you decide that an even better morning is when you come before your morning coffee—when he tells you that you’re doing so well for him.

You’ve always liked receiving stars for doing a good job.

Arriving at work is bittersweet. No scent of him, just the lingering remnants of Javi's body wash that you’d slathered your skin in before dressing. A new addition to your morning, one which has somehow pushed other mechanisms from your to-do list and mind.

One of them being your desk.

You’d have been distressed at the sight of your desk a while ago. The paperwork piling, the unsorted files—pulled and not even opened—all mounting. It niggled at something inside of you, another string of control snapping and hanging in two parts inside of you.

Another coping mechanism gone, robbed.

Even as it tightened your chest, you slid it to the side. Making a neater but taller pile as you adjust your keyboard. The brewed coffee steamed, the scent of it like an enchantress trying to coax you into relaxing into your chair.

You almost do.

Almost.

“Hey, you got a minute?”

Dan never asks, least of all, with a pulled expression and an awkward dance of his fingers. He’s worrying, practically pacing—even if he’s not moving. It’s why you eye him for a second, trying to decipher what is happening behind his eyes and what has wound him up tighter than a yo-yo.

“You good?”

“Are you?”

Narrowing your eyes, you lift your mug—let the heat warm your palm. “Any particular reason you’re asking me that?”

His lip twitches, just enough to show evidence a smirk would have appeared—if whatever was bothering him wasn’t there. “Your desk.”

Swallowing, you lean into your chair. “What can I help you with?”

“Chris said you mentioned a debrief.”

A part of you—one which hammers against your insides—tells you to retract it. To think about the person behind you, the one who’d have to answer for the rules you’d be breaking if you follow through post-debrief. But Dan looks at you, almost pleadingly—even if to everyone else, his expression would have remained the same.

Nodding, you don’t find words—knowing there are none. Making sure to take your mug with you, letting it roast your palm as you follow.

You find yourself entering the room you’ve subconsciously dubbed the phone-tap-room—wondering, if only to yourself—if this is the room now where the real fucked up shit goes down. When the lines blur between being the good guys and the guys who have to ensure the job is done.

From the look on Chris’s face, you suppose it’s the latter.

His conversation from yesterday returns, the way his words had been stitched together to form a sentence rather than fallen naturally. Suddenly, your back straightens. Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, needing your wit, all sense of your emotions and inner workings, as the door shuts behind the two of you.

You expect the silence, the waiting. Everyone waiting for the first person to speak, which is why you decide to take a drink. Coat your tongue in heat and your throat in caffeine.

It’s why you almost choke when Dan begins immediately.

His voice fast, sentence after sentence falling in an array of unorganised disasters—another point to be ticked in the column that everything is fucked. Something you were aware of, you could read a room—could see it etched into the face of your…

Boyfriend? Person? Boss?

Frowning, you take another sip. Your eyes lift back to the conversation only when your name is called. Not Luna—the nickname given to you by someone no longer here. Your birth name—the one you were blessed with, the one used in most of your last places of work before here. Before you became the cautionary tale of Cali amongst agents and the one that others couldn’t read or dare speak to.

“So, you think his cover is blown.”

You glance over, watching how Dan paces in real time now. A sight you rarely see. Not even when you were lost in old, dirty bed sheets with unbrushed hair and tears stained on your cheeks.

Four forwards, four back. It's a pattern you’ve only seen him do a handful of times. One that has stages—all of varying amounts of worry. Your brow arched, cocked. All set to be fired when he finally looks at you.

Except he doesn’t. He chooses to keep his eyes firmly on the floor, practically compelling them there. His conscience twisted, warped—the job pecking at the skin on his bone, changing it. Like it has done to everything.

Clearing your throat, you continue, “Well. You realise you can’t just go blazing in there and grab him. Shit doesn’t work like that.”

Chris, who has been forcibly rubbing his forehead for the better part of the last four minutes, sighs. Loudly. Dropping his fingers, leaving pink marks from their intensity against his skin, as the sound punches out into the air, making your eyes widen, and the embers of annoyance flare up in your chest.

Because you had other shit you could be doing.

Had things that you could be helping with—could even be of need to Stoddard. There were files on your desk that could hold answers, things overlooked with old information, but with the new amounts rolling in now, it never hurts to look at it all again. See if more of the puzzle comes together, if pieces fit more cleanly, and if names and identities were found and matched.

Names to faces you’d quite like made.

Not just for the case, but for you—for sleep, for peace.

But you’re in here, locked away in some secret plot, all set behind dark blinds.

“Hey, you wanna keep me in the dark on the details, all I have is to poke holes in your plan,” you continue, leaning against the wall, tapping your nails against your mug. “Plus, if you’re not actually going to let me in, I have work to get on with.”

“We don’t have much to give you—”

“Oh, he speaks.”

Chris glares, but you don’t cower. Smirking, lightly but with intent—all callous, cold.

An expression you’ve perfected, one shaped before the two of you ended things and, soon after, cemented when things turned to shit.

“Alright, you pair, come on,” Dan says, interjecting.

Ever the peacekeeper, he shoots you a sharper look. One that spells out: be nice. One that you want to fight, but you swallow because it’s him.

Folding your arms, you rest the mug against your forearm—the base of it hot, steaming. It keeps you present as worries begin to try and wrap themselves around you. Something is off. Your gut is angry—inflamed. So much so that you bite the inside of your cheek, letting the silence simmer, thicken.

Because even if they had both somehow decided they needed your help, neither of them had said with what exactly. Something which thrummed in your bones, your gut angry and noncompliant—because it likely involved you risking everything.

Your chance. Your job. Your life.

“Can you… I don’t know, give me a file, papers—something that allows me to do my actual job to help. You promised me photos, information—“

Holding his hands up, Dan moves, grabbing something the two of them had clearly forgotten about. “Yeah, here. Look, we don’t have much. But here.”

It’s a swap. He takes your mug, fingers brushing yours—eyes meeting yours in a way that whispers gratitude, even if his voice has yet to say it. Your hand taking the file, it scratching against your fingers, thumb brushing over his, finding something on his face that unsettles you.

More than being hidden behind blinds.

Sliding your thumb over the folder, you release your anger in one breath. Not shooting Chris a look. Not wanting to swell the rage back up inside of you as you slowly open it—spotting the map, the circles, the clear indications of a plan they’d tried to put together. You recognise the building, having seen it from other pictures—briefly in the distance when you were down there.

You recognise the names in red writing—similar to the ones on the board you pass each day.

It isn’t until you move the map to the side do you find a selection of handwritten notes—ones you recognise belong to Dan. The chicken scratch you’ve had to decipher when he’s left lunch plans on your desk or notes on things. A smile wanting to spread, to slide, and then—

You see it.

That face.

It’s instant the way a shudder runs up your spine, ripping, smothering over anything that had been there prior.

You consider turning, giving them your back—taking the chance to stare into the eyes that have plagued you for months. The ones that haunt you.

But you can’t move. Your throat trying to close. Air, all of a sudden, a luxury you don’t have.

Your palms sweat, glueing themselves to the page. Not allowing you to close it—not allowing you to drop it. Just forcing you to stare, to greet his face as your legs feel weak, and shaky as your stomach twists and knots.

It’s like everything you’ve been feeling but turned up a notch. Like you’ve been wrenched through the floor and placed in the past—but with the memories of the present. With the knowledge of what is to come. The scent of Cali, the air around you suddenly rich with iron, your skin stained in rich scarlet and ichor. None of it yours, none of it ever belonging to you—

Even if you wish…

And wish…

Your name cuts through the room. Slicing.

But it’s not enough to dull the whispers, the pleading chants of Luna from the lips of your former best friend. It fills the space around you in a chorus—like a voice out at sea trying to tempt you to rocks and demise.

You’re trapped, stuck—misplaced. All lost somewhere between the past, present and a mist-covered future.

Even if your feet are planted in your work shoes—the ones digging into the cheap flooring of the building. Even if you can hear the voice in your head, the one banging against bone, screaming that you’re here. Safe. Protected.

That you’re not in a building in Cali. You’re in a room with people who get it, who understand.

You won’t believe it.

Sucked in. Suffocated. Hand still holding the picture, the photo—all ink and various shades that etch out into the face that plagues your nightmares. The one you see behind your eyelids when you blink.

It rises—all of it.

Like thick bile clotted with lumps, your chest is tightening, and your skin is desperate to be itched.

Sunshine yellow, splintered sobs—

You want to scream, to beg—to plead. Save me, pull me back, save me. But your throat barely permits a gasp, never mind a plea. Instead, your suffering begins to show in your hand, a tremble, a shake. Something you can’t rid with ease as it travels down your fingers, showing in a slight movement of your fingers as they struggle to keep hold of the rest of the file.

You try to move your feet again. Do something. Anything. But you almost stumble, your body not your own—it’s his and the past’s.

It feels wrong to be here, as though things are catching up.

Chasing, darkness coming in—

Then it spreads, the shakes.

It floods up your wrists, into your shoulders.

Filling your lungs, burning, the flames licking up your oesophagus, even as you try to swallow. It blends with shame. With guilt. You survived, and she did not—

It finds anger and uproots the depths of the trauma that made your tongue prefer alcohol to coffee. Your heart is racing, dancing and pulsating before it pounds and aims to ravage.

You can’t tear your eyes away—even as they rip through you.

Shred the last pieces of you that had remained scratched, but intact. His eyes are on you, as though they’re in the room. Spearing into you, the same as they are in your terrors. The visualisation of your fears—the thing that goes bump in the night, what hides down dark alleyways and on corners when the sun has set.

The face is still the same—no scars, no new haircut—

Someone touches you as a flinch ripples out, lifting your chin,

A flinch rippled out as Dan steps back, as though he’s suddenly aware of how hard you’re breathing, how defensive you must look.

“Hey, you ok—“

“W-What’s his name?”

It comes out shaky. Breathy.

Wrapped in tightness that makes it shoot out. Spat. Poisonous. Your voice whips around the air before silence spreads in its wake. Then it hums. Everything.

The tension.

Your grief.

The trauma that has both broken you and kept you together.

Dan is looking at you, even as he steps back. Concern slowly webbing across his skin as he pauses his pacing—

“Chris.”

It’s sharp, the way you spit out his name.

If he’s aware there’s something wrong, he’s not showing it. Masking, like he constantly fucking does.

“Salcedo,” he says. “Jorge Salcedo. He has a wife…”

He begins speaking, and it’s all monotone. Handing information to you like it’s nothing. But it isn’t nothing.

He’s not nothing.

Your hand drops the file, his face falling to the ground as tremors rumble through you. Your edges crumble, the foundation cracking from the centre rather than the edges.

“—He’s helped us loads, and he’s prepared to—“

“Sal-ce-do…” you whisper, cutting Chris off.

You can feel it—how the room tightens. The air constricts, vines from the past cutting through reality, slicing one by one. Walls shoot up from the ground, separating you—just like it did before. You, the damaged shell and them, the untouched souls. Not helped by the way they’re watching, all three of them—the ones on the floor continuing to make your bones shake in their place, unable to control it.

Even if you try to stop them—try to hide how much you’re being consumed by anger that has been sitting, somewhat diluted, but ever heavy in your chest. Having done so since that night—

Sunshine yellow.

Those eyes. The way they pierce through your sleep and hang around your dreams. How, that even here, you worry they’ll be around the corner.

Breathe.

That’s what you say to yourself. A reminder, a wishful thought. Because you can hear your blood pounding in your ears, your legs still shaky, not confident they can keep you up for much longer.

Not as the floor continues to be tugged from you, attempting to be ripped—

But you’re strong. So much more than you once were. Your back is straight, feet planted. Not willing to be taken, choosing to fight, to battle. To go to war against the feeling which has already robbed you of so much.

Your jaw tightening, gritting. Because—

Because…

Splintered sobs—

“He tried to kill me, y’know?”

You don’t offer to pick up the file, leaving it there, sliding it across the floor with the heel of your shoe. Watching, studying, how the colour drains from Chris‘s face as your own hardens.

Watching the dots connect. One by fucking one.

The first thing you note, there’s no guilt. No apology. Nothing falls from his tongue as you stare down the man you once lay with.

Sunshine yellow, splintered sobs—

“Salcedo. Your reason. The man with his wife and his adorable kids… he t-tried to kill me—they killed her. My f-friend. Your…” your finger points, shaky in the air—your whole arm, in fact.

Other words, clot, clinging to the side of your throat as you swallow.

Something stitching, something ugly that you hope can’t be true as you watch his expression. See it being created as you continue.

“He sat in his fucking car—“

Your voice cracks, loud and undignified, the calmness evaporating, feeling the energy inside you—inside the room—vibrate. Feeling those eyes back on you through the car's front window as her blood soaked through your dress to your skin. No lights on. The passenger seat empty.

Just watching.

“—and he watched me f-find her. His headlights turned on. He would have killed me or the person with him.”

He stares, and your eyes flick to Dan.

It takes you a minute.

The rage had amassed into an exchange of words that had needed to be spilt. Now they were gone, and you were left with something else—the creation in front of you.

A thing far worse than the acknowledgement, the sentences that rotted in your chest.

You’re embarrassed at the time it has taken you—heart sinking. The new feeling spreads over you as your body is slammed into it, suddenly thrumming with pain.

Your head tilts, lip quivering. “How long have you known—that it was him?”

“Luna, we didn’t—“

You’re quick, shooting a glance, “Not you, Dan. Him.”

It’s the look you’re used to.

The soft, almost puppy-like expression that used to undo you. Now, it hardens you and makes you want to rip out his eyes and feed them to him.

“Spit it out, Fiestl—“

“A few days ago.”

You can smell the road.

Feel the heat as if you’re standing there as you go looking for her. Watching, like a movie, how it plays out in front of your eyes and behind your lids. How you’d been shouting her name, painting it across the unlit buildings and quiet streets—

Sunshine yellow, splintered sobs, carmine-stained palms…

Even in the dark, the temperature had been suffocating. It had wrapped its arms around you and dug its claws in.

He shuffles, Fiestl.

The sound cuts through the tension and your story.

Your hands are shaking. Your body is vibrating.

Carmine-stained palms. Carmine-stained.

You trace your lip with your tongue, lifting your eyes to meet Chris. “You’re a piece of shit—“

“I… I didn’t—“

Chest tightening, your nails digging into the flesh on your palm as you try to push past it.

Sunshine yellow—carmine-stained palms. Dead. She’s dead. Cold. Splattered in crimson.

Dead.

You make the mistake of looking down, finding the eyes again. It forces you to snap your eyes back up, finding yourself confronted with an unreadable expression on one, and concern painted on the other.

“You can do this on your fucking own—“

Chris’s hand comes out as he calls out to wait, the words not meeting your ears, but his touch…

Cold. Dead. She’s dead.

It spreads like wildfire. It is like the key in a door that should forever remain locked, your body twisting, moving more quickly than you thought possible as your hands shove, push.

Your hand balls up, closing, becoming a fist. It moves, pulling back before connecting, landing on his chin—knuckles against bone, a crack sound—before you pull back again, fingers unwinding, palm-flat as it lands, slapping against him as it erupts out of you.

Words spit. Tears fall. None of it lessening.

Chris taking it all. Not trying to stop you—no one trying to stop you.

The mist having descended, the lights on, but nobody's home as it swallows you, eradicates you. It all rises from where you kept shoving it into, weaving around freely in your veins, turning everything good into red.

“Let me expl—“

You collide your palm, it stinging up your wrist before you’re yanking it back to do it again.

“—I hate you, Chris. I hate—“

And again.

“–you killed her. You had her killed. You lied, you lied, and you lied again—“

Your palm flattens, connecting with his chest as your words slide through the air. They rip up, rising from beneath buried pretence to cut him—to wound him.

You don’t stop.

Won’t stop.

Not until you have no more to hammer into his chest. Words falling, laced in the hatred you’ve tried to keep back—because he had hurt you, but now he has wounded you. Left you covered in scars no one could see. Left you broken, parts of you forever wrecked—withered and wilted.

“—you knew, you knew and st-still—“

The words were not able to come. To leave.

That is, until an arm wraps around your waist. A scent you know like it was your own. The arm, belonging to someone you know, pulling you back—tearing you back, dragging you.

All of it allows you to breathe, for your lungs to fill with something other than hatred and brimstone. Let things settle as your spine connects to the chest you’ve woken up against.

You know it’s Javi.

You know it before his voice sounds, demanding an explanation; you knew it from the firm but gentle way he had pulled you back—how he held you as you tried to thrash to get back to Chris.

It’s his words that still you.

Whispered, all close to your ear. “Cariño, enough.”

His touch is like an extinguisher, but it’s his name for you that smothers the flames and the room.

Your body softening, pliant. Almost ready to burst differently—tears burning your eyes, stinging, making it hard to see, thick and feel.

It’s why you turn in his hold. Blurry eyes searching the outline of his expression—looking for any confirmation, a swirling sickness in your abdomen that he could have known too.

But you don’t find it.

Not in his eyes—not in the soul he allows you to see from time to time.

Your head instinctively tilts, and you want to ask, make sure he knows why—because this isn’t you—needing him to know that, needing him to understand. Wanting to rid the confusion in his eyes, and the pain in your own.

He’s trying, you can see.

Attempting to come to a conclusion with the information at hand. Ticking, like Javi does—but this time, for a reason that has nothing to do with the case.

A sob breaks. Your shoulders sinking, body depleting, even more so as Javi's hand rises, all set to touch your cheek.

And you want him too. Just him. Just Javi.

“I’m…” you begin to whisper, swallowing.

Tears coat Javi’s fingers as he gives in, brushing your cheek with his thumb. An explanation wanting to fall, to tell him—wanting nothing more than to share with him.

Instead, your lip quivers. “I’m done. With it all, g-getting Cali, Colombia… f-fuck it all. I quit.”

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. Process them.

Your feet force you back, stepping as the back of your hand comes to your mouth, movements groggy—like they don’t belong to you. Watching in slow motion as Javi’s hand remains in place where your cheek was, before it slowly descends.

Then, you’re a passenger. Your hand finds the door handle, feet carrying you forward as your body storms through it. The eyes off the office fall to you, but you’ve grown so used to them, that they don’t slow you. They don’t force you to wipe your cheeks or stifle the sobs that try to crack through you.

Each step is heavy, with the heel landing solidly, but your legs still feel weak. Your vision is blurry, yet somehow, you manage to avoid desks as you hunt for your own.

Bag, keys, coat. You tell yourself. That’s all you need.

The back of your hand is still pressing against your lips, choosing not to look at Stoddard even as he stands. Not wanting to be greeted by more concern and faux pity—

Until you realise that Stoddard is standing because you know he’s behind you.

Hot on your tail. You can hear it now as your hand wipes your face as you almost reach your desk, hand reaching out, wishing to grab your items.

Bag, coat, phone—

But, he’s quick. Javi is quick, good and perfect.

The only thing that can bring you any comfort or calm. But, you want to fight against it. Want to sit in this, let it eat you alive, surrender to all the energy you’ve spent trying to keep yourself standing, working and doing.

That thing in your chest burns again.

All acidic, travelling north of your throat. It mixes with the anger, the shoved-down annoyance that you’ve fallen for him. Having only ever wanted to see what the fuss was about, discover why talks of his prowess had rippled through the office before Escobar landed face down on the roof.

You’d wanted just to know whether his cock could really make you see the stars and the heavens—dispute the rumour. Forget, be able to forget with someone who didn’t know or care to ask.

Now, you’re pretty sure you love him.

And you suspect he loves you, too.

You imagine it’s why his hand is wrapping around your elbow, leading you to his office, why you don’t fight it as it happens. No longer able to run from it—from how you feel, from your past, from your grief.

Suspecting it’s why, as you step through his office, you feel things begin to crumble and crack. His door shutting feeling final, the blinds being closed, feeling the curtains coming down at the end of the performance. You no longer need to pretend, to fake it—you can break, crumble and snap.

And you do when he’s back in front of you, feeling him pull you close until you’re burying your face into his chest as it falls from your lips.

All in horrid, choking sobs.

Vibrating. Gently soothed from you as his fingers massage the wrist of your balled-up hand near his ribs.

“Breathe, Cariño. Just breathe.”

I love you. I love you. I love—

“I s-should say that I love—“

“Shh,” he whispers. “I know, I know. I do, too.”

And you relax, fingers clutching his shirt—soaking your tears into the fabric. Letting him hold you again, letting him actually try to comfort you more than just using him. Let his feelings seep in. Let his words warm the coldest parts—the ones shrouded in darkness from old heartache and fear.

“Javi, you have things—“

He holds you tighter, more insistently. “We can stay as long as you need to.”

And then you break.

Fully.

Not in neat parts, but messily. Letting him see it all, how there were pieces held together by sheer hope and grit, and others somehow having been teetering in place for so long, they were always bound to fall.

“Salcedo is… h-he’s the one who came for me.”

You feel him still. His body tensing against you—his heart quickening in the chest you’re pressed to, right against your ear.

In the silence, you’re sure you can hear how his brain even begins to whirl. Just lightly, almost drowned out by how you gnaw at the side of your cheek until it stings—tasting blood as it smothers over bitter coffee and earlier apprehension.

“And h-he knew. Fiestl. He-he put the… fuckin’ pieces together sometime between asking me to help and p-putting me in that room.”

Your voice shakes, quakes—

It all begins somewhere in your throat before it latches on, cutting into your words. Fragmenting them, letting them hit the air all in pieces, just like your heart.

It takes you a moment, a second before you realise you’re being seated. Finding yourself arranged until he’s sitting beside you, somehow weaving in close, allowing you to touch him as much or as little as you need.

Searching his eyes, your throat tightens at the look of concern—how his finger brushes over your cheek before dropping to his lap.

You’re not sure how long the two of you eventually sit beside one another for—not touching you—just staring. A mirror of last night, when he’d asked you about Texas, about a life way after all of this.

His silence is an odd comfort—usually, you’re so used to cracking under quiet. Yet, with him, you settle. Relax into it. Shoulders slide from your ears as your body grows tired from all you’ve been through.

No one knocks.

No one comes to find you—no one even rings.

It’s like the world outside goes quiet while yours still recovers from the earthquake.

In time, you let your fingers slide over his—feeling their warmth, the small healed scars and calluses on his fingers as you sigh.

“I’m… I’m really done.”

And his mouth opens, then closes.

“But not with you,” you add.

Tightening your hold on his hand, a shaky breath rips through you as you half-smile.

“You, I'm not done with.”

The leather grumbles as he moves, and he says nothing, just pulls you into the crook of his neck as his arm comes around your shoulders.

“You have to save him,” you whisper, staring at a patch on the carpet. “Sal… the man who has helped. He has k-kids. They... they don't deserve…”

Then he kisses your forehead. In understanding and in comfort.

An act that makes your eyes close and the last knot of tension fade from your body as you sink into him—clinging, like a starfish trapped on a rock, being battered by the sea.

an: i feel i should apologise for the wait, but this chapter was horrible to write because so much of her anguish and trauma had to come out from somewhere. this piece has way more shards of me than it should, but i hope you appreciate them all ✨

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popentertainment-moviereviews · 6 months

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DRACULA, A COMEDY OF TERRORS

Starring Jordan Boatman, Arnie Burton, James Daly, Ellen Harvey and Andrew Keenan-Bolger.

Written by Gordon Greenberg and Steve Rosen.

Directed by Gordon Greenberg.

Playing at New World Stages – Stage 5 – 340 West 50th Street – New York. Run: Through January 7th, 2024.

A New Live Production, Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors, Reveals A High Camp Side to this Story of The Undead Count

One thing you can count on every Halloween is an appearance of Dracula or, at least, some form of a vampire added to the mix. That could mean a re-run of the many classic films with the undead count such as Universal’s original version of Dracula (with Bela Lugosi) or Hammer’s The Horror of Dracula (with Christopher Lee). But this scary season doesn't necessarily require an appearance of the original bloodsucker himself. It could include some resurrection of his character in a movie, play or live visual presentation in some haunted house.

In 1897, when Irish author Bram Stoker published his long-wrought novel Dracula for just six shillings, he didn’t realize that he’d created one of the most iconic figures of all time. Though this story of an aristocratic, undead mastermind was popular in its day, little did Stoker know that his blood-drinking, soulless monster of the night would become the source of countless permutations, reinterpretations, and re-examinations of this creature and its implications. There’s even a Bram Stoker Festival in Dublin which celebrates the Gothic, the supernatural, the after-dark and Victorian as well as the Count himself.

Of course, along with Stoker’s horror classic, the inevitable humorous satires, parodies, and various send ups cropped up. From a tale of the ageless Count needing to leave his ancient homeland to resettle in England to tap fresh blood, the original gothic narrative has often been revised with sometimes hilarious results.

Now, through Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors, this battle with the master of the undead receives an outlandish rethink. Enabled by a compact, five-person cast – Jordan Boatman, Arnie Burton, James Daly, Ellen Harvey, and Andrew Keenan-Bolger – this rapid-fire comedic reimagining of this archetypal tale garners guffaws and lots of snickering.

Taking off from the original’s classic characters, they’re transformed into these versions: sweet Lucy Westfeldt, vampire hunter Jean Van Helsing, insect consumer Percy Renfield, and behavioral psychiatrist Wallace Westfeldt, among others. Here they find themselves in a faux British country estate which doubles as a free-range mental asylum. With its cast of slapstick, quick change comics who switch roles with the aplomb of fast handed pickpockets, this Dracula not only makes you scream, but it does it with laughter. The show also exposes a fundamental ridiculousness that illustrates just how resilient the original concept is: it can take jabs even at its core of terror and still retain a certain majestic-ness.

Through its compact 90-minute show, elements of goth, camp, and variant sexuality are thrown into a gender-bending, quick-change romp. With all the wacky characters, a pansexual Gen-Z Count Dracula tops the list of existentially challenged characters.

As a buddy of notorious gay Victorian author Oscar Wilde, the actual Stoker was believed to be a closeted gay man in a repressive England, so his novel was rife with suggestive sexuality and gender reversals. Director/co-writers Gordon Greenberg and Steve Rosen’s send-up of this novel is meant to be viewed through a very contemporary lens.

Just as the book transcended other Gothic horror of its day, this comedy rises above being simple holiday fare. Make your way to the Westside’s New World Stages for a comedic jab at the jugular.

Brad Balfour

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#Dracula A Comedy of Terrors #2023 #Theater Review #Jordan Boatman #Brad Balfour #Youtube

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camzverse · 27 days

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fnaf spider-man au....................

-what are ness and greg's spider names?

-what do u want their suits to look like?

-does freddy + ellis tony and cassie know? do they help keep gregory and vanessa's secret?

-are the animatronics villains in this au??

-do you know how crazy this au is making me? /j

GIGGLES. FNAF SPIDER-MAN AU.....

-ok sooo. i havent decided what i want vanessas spider name to be yet but ive been calling her spider-van in my head lolzz. i literally cant pick what i want it to actually b tho.. i have no idea </2 (i would gladly accept any suggestions though Blinks rapidly.) andddd gregs is "spidey" ! (storytime. so its bc like. the press had just been calling him "spider-kid" and he thought that name SUCKED ((plus he thinks it makes him sound like hes some child and hes 15 in this au)) so he came up with it on the spot so that theyd start calling him anything but that and the name just stuck ^_^)

-i drew a little basic design 4 nessas suit actually!!

SO SOMETHING LIKE THIS !!! ill probably change it somewhat bc im not that happy with the colors n stuff but likee. :333 . its kinda based off the vanny costume (and ghost spider) ! also i realized . vanny has that same eye shape and bald ass head every spider-man has its really funny to me

anddd i havent drawn gregs suit yet but i was thinking it would look like the standard spider-man suit but the blue and red switched !!! and lighter shades!! so like a lighter mostly blue suit with red parts. ykwim ??

-cassie is the only one who knows ^_^ she was actually there when greg got bit and also when his powers kicked in. They were freaking the fuck out together<2 . at first she only knew ab greg but then she accidentally ended up finding out vanessas identity too lolz. anyway cassie keeps their secret LIKE NOBODYS BUSINESS. shes covering for greg so well she deserves a medal. ellis and tony have noo idea theyre cluelesssssss. they def find out eventually but thry have no clue for a long time lmao. also tony would totally be obsessrd with trying to figure out the spider duos secret identities. hed have a blog about it i feel it in my soul. Alsooo frankly im not even sure how ill fit freddy into this au. I REALLY WANT TO but i havent thought of anything. hm maybe fred has kind of like a reformed villain thing going on and ends up teaming up w spider duo to help them out. hmmm i actually like that concept.. if i do smth like that with him he'll most likely know their identities then

-ya the animatronics are villains!!! ill probably fuse some of them with the classic spider-man villains so like theyd be similar to those villains while still mainly being the animatronics if that makes senseeee

-vanny do u know how crazy this au is making ME. we will simply be crazy together

#cam.txt #spider duo au #<-temporary tag . ill call it something else eventually #also i js realized theres soo much beckory potential in this au....... Gigglingggggggggg #theres also tape girl x vanessa in this au. MWAHAHAHAA ok im done now bye

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sepublic · 2 years

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There’s something simultaneously horrifying and hilarious about Dracula’s more direct methodology today. He’s always been someone who prefers to take things the long way, enjoy the scenic route; Dragging things out, using subtlety and manipulation and subterfuge. There’s a human grace if you will, with how Dracula never says to Jonathan’s face outright that he’s trapped, never directly locks him down; But makes it clear to Jonathan that he’s trapped nonetheless. And of course Dracula’s more discreet bat methods with Lucy up until now...

So to have him just bust through the window, make full use of that power after the teasing terror of him being able to but never actually doing so; It’s like that Dog window jumpscare from the first Resident Evil game. You’re so accustomed to and expecting creeping, building dread that you can keep track of from this dude, so to have him suddenly flip a switch truly catches you completely off guard, and I have to wonder if this is how it feels to Van Helsing and his research on how to prepare for a Vampire.

The uncharacteristic-ness of it all goes to show that you can only plan so much against the supernatural, how helpless you are; So much hinged on knowing and exploiting the rules of the game and he just tossed them out the window. A game of calculated chess has suddenly become a free-for-all. Dracula likely knew exactly of this surprise he was creating by going for brute force; And all the while, you get the sense that he just snapped out of impatience, because yeah playing with his food is nice.

But by the end of the day, it’s all a facade to the hungry, brutish monster that he is at the core, and all of his slow-paced schemes fall apart in favor of a hit-and-run tactic when he’s hungry. You know how it’s always the scariest when one who is so calm suddenly reveals their anger and goes for that first and foremost? That was Dracula tonight. No more games, no more playing around, we get a clear look of his awesome powers in direct action against his victims.

He’s pulling off the mask and the fact that he feels comfortable to reveal so much means that the victim has no chance of relaying that to others and he knows it. Good god. There’s something truly terrifying about seeing this monster just force its way in and knowing that all of your cleverness and knowledge is only so effective against a thing that just doesn’t care and wants your death that badly; Desperately squirming and wriggling its way in as you’re trapped by the very fortification you set up, with a clear and agonizingly long, open view as you and the beast meet eyes and make your feelings clear. Seeing Dracula toss the game aside and go right for the kill makes it dawn on you how helpless you always were, how futile the efforts you were afforded by his supposed complacency were; He was complacent and right to be so. You were dead as soon as he chose you, you never had a chance.

The slow build-up of Dracula’s terror, his indirectness and caution even, retreating at the sight of Mina; It was all worth it just for this. It’s only more perfect with the few days of suspiciously peaceful hiatus after our characters seemingly fixed things, making the shock hit that much harder.

#dracula #dracula daily #meta

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funtimespringscare101 · 6 months

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My Thoughts on the FNAF Movie

*If you haven't watched it and you don't want fucking spoilers, ignore this post until you do! It's seriously worth the 8 year wait!*

Mike and Abby are so fucking cute together! Abby is my favorite character in the movie and she's so autism coded.

A DREAM THEORY BOOK... Wow, Scott just loves making fun of Matt, doesn't he? Also damn Mike threw hands with a parent.

OMG ITS YA BOI WILLIAM AFTON! WHY DID YOU HESITATE SAYING "SCHMIDT" STEVE?! THAT'S A BIT SUSSY!

MATPATTTT OMG YOU FUCKER YOU WERE IN THE MOVIE YOU MOTHERFUCKING LIAR! LOL His Character is called Ness. Do you mean Van-NESS-a? Ah? Get it? get the FNAF SB Theory reference? no one? Okay...

So the Aunt of the Schmidt's was the other mystery villain. I hate her already. Thanks Scott for making a character perfect for slander.

Why do you have to bring the enragement child into the movie? Why fucking BB? Gag is funny but come on. it's BB. The most mutually hated character in the franchise.

NGL Max really didn't deserve to die man, Aunt Bitch just roped her into it.

Vanessa got blushing fr with the fucking rizz she doing on Mike...

Abby and the Animatronics are the best fucking thing in the movie. Hands down.

Golden Feddy!!!!!!!1 Also if Aunt Bitch is dead. Good. Stay Dead. You and your Cigarette smelling ass.

Cory's whole cameo is a mood, man. Bro's tired of shit.

Not gonna lie, I didn't expect Vanessa to be William's daughter in this continuity. Like, at all... I was expecting, however, for Vanessa to reveal that her name is a cover (like Book! William/Dave in the Novel Trilogy or Movie! William/Steve) and her real name is be Elizabeth.

"I always Come Back." HE SAID IT!! HE SAID THE FUCKING THING!

*Hears the Freddy Laugh starting in the credits* "No... " We are Waiting every night- *Screaming in FNAF*

FIVE NIGHTS AT FREDDY'S IS THIS WHERE YOU WANT TO BEEEE? I JUST DON'T GET ITTTTTT!

Lol the Smugness that Movie! Cassidy has watching William suffer in the suit in the backroom.

#Five Nights at Freddy's #FNAF Movie #Five Nights at Freddy's Movie #FNAF Movie Spoilers #Five Nights at Freddy's Movie Spoilers #Funtime's Thoughts

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qnewslgbtiqa · 3 months

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Hannah Gadsby drops lineup of Netflix special Gender Agenda

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/hannah-gadsby-drops-lineup-of-netflix-special-gender-agenda/

Hannah Gadsby drops lineup of Netflix special Gender Agenda

“The last time Netflix brought this many trans people together, it was for a protest. So, progress,” Hannah Gadsby jokes in their new genderqueer comedy special Gender Agenda.

The Australian comedian signed a big deal with Netflix in 2022, after publicly slamming the streaming service for its handling of celebrity transphobe Dave Chappelle.

But at the time, Hannah, who uses they/them pronouns, had a request: that Netflix create a stand-up special featuring genderqueer comics from around the world.

That project is now titled Gender Agenda, and arrives on Netflix on March 5 with Hannah hosting and a lineup of seven performers.

They are Jes Tom, Alok, Asha Ward, Chloe Petts, DeAnne Smith, Krishna Istha and Mx Dahlia Belle.

Jes Tom has written for queer favourite Our Flag Means Death and recently wrapped the Elliot Page-presented one-person stage show Less Lonely.

Alok headlined the NYC Comedy Festival in 2021, and has appeared in Cara Delevigne’s Planet Sex and Netflix’s Getting Curious with Jonathan Van Ness.

Asha Ward is best known for being Saturday Night Live‘s youngest-ever writer.

Chloe Petts is currently touring standup show If You Can’t Say Anything Nice.

DeAnne Smith featured in Netflix’s Comedians of the World and is a regular on the Australian comedy festival circuit.

Krishna Istha was a writer for Season 4 of Sex Education and is currently working on a trilogy of performance pieces about trans motherhood.

Mx Dahlia Belle founded the Portland Queer Comedy Festival and took on Dave Chappelle in a high-profile open letter in 2021.

youtube

Hannah Gadsby explains Netflix stand-up special

Hannah Gadsby told Variety, “There is such a wealth of brilliant genderqueer comics out there, but such a dearth of representation on the major streaming services.

“Meanwhile jokes about trans people are becoming more and more lucrative.

“So it seems only right that at least some of those jokes be told by actual trans people themselves.

“I am beyond thrilled to bring this lineup together, showcasing seven extraordinarily talented comics and to use my platform (and Netflix’s…) to hopefully help catapult them into the spotlight that they deserve.

“They (and I mean ‘they’ in every sense of the word) are some of the funniest, smartest genderqueer comedians from around the globe, and it was an utter delight and true honor to share the stage with them.”

Back home, Hannah’s new solo stand-up show Woof! tours Sydney and Melbourne in March and April.

Lots more on Hannah Gadsby:

‘Amoral algorithm cult’: Hannah Gadsby rips Netflix

Hannah Gadsby signs new deal for more Netflix specials

Hannah Gadsby talks their marriage with ‘spouse lady’ Jenney

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

#comedy #hannah gadsby #Queer TV

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guess-my-next-obsession · 2 years

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Boss — Chapter 20

pairing: javier peña x CIA!OC

warnings: angst, pregnancy & symptoms, feelings of inadequacy, narcos stuff, very fluffy ending

words: 3.9k

series masterlist

The mission had proven to be a disaster—and a mildly dangerous one considering the precious cargo Valeria was carrying in her stomach.

Miguel Rodriguez was nowhere to be found, the agents Javier boasted about seemingly taken for a run by their “insider”. She oversaw the destruction of the condo, the agents desperate to find anything that might help save face with their boss.

Valeria stood in the messy living room of the condo, her hand on her stomach over her bulletproof vest, the anti-nausea meds she’d taken that morning now worn off.

“Hey Chief,” Fiestl stepped into the room holding a book. “Think we found something.”

“A book?” She sighed and reached out for it, the agent giving her a worried look as he took in her pale and sweaty face.

“Are you okay, Chief? You look sick.” She rolled her eyes and nodded, definitely not about to tell Feistl about her pregnancy before she told her fiancé.

“I’m fine. What—ugh—what is this?” She fought the vomit that was creeping up her throat as she opened up the book, eyes scanning over the nonsense. “This is code. Is this—“

“Their ledger.” He smiled proudly as he watched her nod, am impressed smile making its way onto her face. A loud banging interrupted the moment, her eyes shooting up in a squint.

“What the hell is that?” Valeria groaned and walked towards the sound, spotting Agent Van Ness tearing into the shower wall. “What the fuck is happening?”

“I’m being thorough.” He continued at his task, her fingers reaching to rub at your temples.

“We don’t have enough time for this. We’re already—“

“Chief Hernandez,” the attorney general walked into the room and demanded that her agents quit what they were doing. “You’re in violation of article 22–“

“Violation of what? Arresting a fugitive?” Feistl spat at the officer, Valeria’s hand raising to calm him down.

“Feistl—“

“No, fuck that. Miguel Rodriguez is in that wall.” Van Ness raised his sledge hammer once more but she called out his name to stop him from doing anything.

“I demand that you cease your search and leave the premises.” Valeria sighed at the officers orders, eyebrows furrowed together as she looked at her two eager agents. Although she admired their drive and tenacity, if they continued to do anything at the current moment, they’d be shipped back to the US and taken off the roster completely.

“Let’s go.” She watched as they threw a fit, her temper suddenly becoming much more difficult to control now that there was a human being built inside of her. “That’s enough. We’re going.”

“Fuck this.” Feistl mumbled under his breath as he passed her to walk out, Van Ness giving her a glare as he followed him.

She felt like shit, not only for failing to capture the godfather, or the fact that her agents now resented her, but because she’d been holding in her vomit for the past hour.

She barely made it outside the building when she doubled over by a bush, the crew of agents and officers giving her odd stares as they watched her throw up. “I’ll shoot whoever I catch staring at me right now.”

All the agents around her dispersed into their vehicles while she wiped your mouth and stood up. She walked to the jeep she came in, Feistl and Van Ness waiting in the front of the car while she climbed into the backseat.

“If we want to catch him and keep him, we have to follow the laws. If it wasn’t for the officers, I would’ve picked up a hammer and joined you, but this all means nothing if we’re shipped back to Washington.” She spoke through labored breaths, the men nodding and mumbling their apologies. “Let me talk to Peña about the fuck up before you guys call him, okay? This is on me.”

“Well, he’s less likely to strangle you given the upcoming nuptials.” Van Ness attempted a joke, but she gave him a stare that even she could acknowledge looked exactly like Javier’s unimpressed glare. “Two peas in a pod.”

“Can we go now? Or are you going to keep trying out new material?” The agent said nothing, simply pulling out and heading back to the airport so that she could catch her plane back to Bogota.

•••

Javier stood in the humid heat of the Colombian jungle, surrounded by a militia and his old Narcos leak, Don Berna. He couldn’t have imagined a place he’d like to be less, but their company was necessary if he wanted to get Jurado’s wife back after she was kidnapped.

To make matters worse, his bulky cell phone got no reception out in this wilderness. He walked around the camp like an idiot, holding his phone up to the sky in hopes of being able to make a call to Valeria to let her know he was safe and to ask how the op went.

“Good luck with that.” Don Berna spoke in Spanish, chuckling at him and watched as Javier shot him a glare, lowering the cell and putting it in the holder on his tactical belt. Javier walked into the wooden shelter, irritated and desperate to get away from his company. “Look at us, Peña. Who would’ve thought we’d both be bosses. Did they give you a nice house?”

“It’s okay.” He mumbled back in Spanish, checking that the extra pistol he kept on him had bullets in it.

“You should see my house. Everyday I take my shits in a different bathroom. My wife loves it.” Javier shot an amused look over at Berna, chuckling at the thought of him finding love.

“Your wife?” He chuckled and turned back to the gun.

“I’m a family man.” He replied sternly. “I bet you’re still living out of a suitcase.”

Javier tensed at the mention of his past reputation, though he equally was uncomfortable at the thought of correcting him and talking about Valeria with a man so criminal. He slammed the clip into the pistol and walked off, Don Berna chuckling at how well he was able to get under his skin.

Right now, he needed to focus on the upcoming rescue mission—not his ever-present worry for his fiancé. He was about to be walking into the jungle at night, armed men everywhere looking to kill him and the woman he was sent to rescue. The best thing he could do to protect Valeria was to not get himself distracted and killed—even if it was next to impossible to rid her well-being from his mind, he had to try.

•••

“You’re a piece of shit.”

Christina Jurado’s words played over and over in Javier’s head as he sat at the airport, waiting for their flight back to Bogota after having successfully rescued her from the jungle.

Though he’d just risked his life to save her, she showed little appreciation for it—though, he didn’t blame her. It was partially due to him that she was kidnapped in the first place, and it was completely due to him that her husband was locked up in jail.

Still, the words struck him hard—the sentiment having been played over and over in his own head for years now, never verbalized by anyone until that moment.

Javier stood up and walked out of the room, his hand scratching at the back of his neck as he tried to think about better things, happier things—like Valeria. He found a private area in the airport and pulled out his cellphone, dialing her apartment’s phone number and listening to the dial tone.

“Hello?” Her voice was eager, as though she’d been sitting by the phone for the past two days. And little did he know, she had.

“Hey, baby.” His voice was immediately soft, a smile growing on his once sour face at the sound of her voice. It had been a long time since he’d gone two days without speaking to her—the last time being their breakup.

“Javier, thank god. I’ve been worried sick, trying to call you but it never went through. I started to think…nevermind.” Valeria didn’t want to verbalize the fears that filled her over the past two days. “How did it all go?”

“We’re at the airport now, gonna catch the next flight.” He turned his head to look into the room Christina was sat in, sighing at the remembrance of her words. “God, baby…I can’t wait to see you. It’s been…been a hard couple of days.”

“Are you okay? You sound…I don’t know. Sad.” Her brows laced together as she listened to him, desperate to have him in front of her so that she could see through whatever lie he was about to tell her to downplay his feelings.

“It’s just been a hard time. And I miss you.” His eyes closed for a moment as he focused on her breathing. “I miss you a lot, mi vida. Not leaving you again.”

“I miss you too, baby.” She frowned at the pain in his voice, wishing she could reach through the phone and hug it all away.

“Agent Peña, there’s a call for you. It’s urgent.” She heard his secretary speaking to him in the background, Javier’s sigh sounding out through the line.

“I gotta go, baby. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”

“Be safe. I love you.”

“I love you.” He ended the call and put his cell phone in its holster before grabbing the one his secretary was holding. “Peña.”

“Ambassador here. Jurado’s dead. Stabbed in the neck by an inmate.” Javier felt the wind getting knocked out of him at the news. Not only did he lose his best witness, but he also was to blame for putting Jurado in that position in the first place. Now, he had to go tell his wife that her husband was gone—for good.

“Peña, the plane is boarding.” Javier’s secretary was ushering Christina out of the room she was sat in, his face pale as a ghost as he lowered the cellphone from his ear and hung it up. Christina looked into Javier’s sorrow filled eyes and instantly knew what happened. She shook her head and tears welled in her eyes as Javier opened his lips to speak, but nothing could come out.

“No…” She shook her head and began to sob, Javier’s arms reaching to pull her in for a comforting hug but she pounded her fists against his chest. Crying hysterically, the guards had to hold her back from Javier as she screamed at him. “This is your fault! Your fault!”

As if he needed her to let him know. He already felt it deep inside his bones. She was now a widow because of his choices. All because of his choices.

•••

Valeria was sitting on the couch watching a local news station when Javier came home. Her head whipped over at the sound of the door opening, quickly getting on her feet and walking over to him. Javier had managed to hold in his tears all the way home, but the minute he saw her, his composure completely slipped away. His eyes met hers and that was all it took for him to break into a sob, falling into her arms, his head resting against her chest as she held him tight.

“Javi, whats wrong?” She’d never seen him cry like this before, his hands gripping her close as though he was a terrified little boy. She walked him to the couch and turned off the news, pulling him closer into her arms and rocking him as he wept into her shoulder.

“J-Jurado…he got killed…his wife…it’s all because of me.” He buried his face deeper into her neck and clung on tighter, his body shaking against her. She was glad he couldn’t see her face—pure grief, shock, and concern all over it.

She knew just how much of an impact these deaths had on him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Her heart split in half as she thought about the thoughts that must be running through his mind—guilt, shame, inadequacy. It hurt the most because he wasn’t anything near the monster his brain convinced him he was. But she knew nothing she could say right now could fully convince him that he was a good man, so she just held him tighter and kissed his head in hopes that actions would speak louder than words.

“I’m a piece of shit. She said it and…it’s the truth. I’m a fucking piece of—“ Javier was cut off by Valeria’s lips on his, kissing away the salty tears that fell down his cheeks and gathered there. He fought it for a moment, trying to repeat himself over and over, but soon he melted into her like her kiss was his only saving grace. His hands on her waist gripped her so tight it nearly hurt, but she happily welcomed his desperation. “You’re the only thing…only good thing I have.”

Her heart ached for him, pulling his face away and looking into his red eyes, eyelashes wet and clumped together from his tears. It was a startling sight to see such a strong and perhaps emotionally calloused man falling apart right in front of her. She ran her thumbs over his cheeks before kissing his brow bone, eyes closing as she rested there and breathed him in. “I’m not the only good thing you have…anymore.”

He pulled back to look into her eyes, his still full of tears as he watched her begin to shed a few tears of her own. She smiled and chuckled, wiping the tears away as she looked down at her stomach. Javier’s eyes followed hers and looked lower, a broken gasp slipping from his lips when she rested her hand over her stomach. He furrowed his brows and chuckled out a sob, a look of pure disbelief all over his face.

“Surprise,” she offered with a shrug, studying his frozen state of shock carefully. Javier’s hand shook as it reached to rest over hers on her stomach, a smile finally growing on his wet face as he lifted his eyes back to hers.

“Is this for real? You’re really—“

“Pregnant? Yeah, baby, yeah I am.” She nodded and let out another chuckled sob, Javier’s hands reaching for her face and pulling her deep into another kiss. Their tears mixed together on their lips as the two of them kissed all the pain away, overwhelmed by the immense and sudden joy of the news. When Javier pulled back, he shook his head, eyes dropped back to her stomach.

“I…god,” he chuckled and wiped his tears off his face with his palms, lifting his eyes back to hers and furrowing his brows. “I love you. I wish there were bigger words for the way I feel about you…about you both.”

She chuckled through her tears and felt her life’s purpose suddenly shift. Now, the only thing in the world that mattered to her was the man in front of her and the product of their love inside of her.

“I’ve…I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since finding out—“

“Yeah, when did you find out?” He interrupted, his tears now fully dried, his eyes red and tired as he relaxed into the couch more.

“The morning you left for the op.” He nodded before remembering that morning’s interaction, his lips parting as he looked at her.

“Wait—when you said you were ‘pooping’, you were actually finding out that you were carrying my child?” He chuckled as she looked away with a guilty smile, his fingers coming to pinch her chin. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“Because,” she smiled bashfully as she came to rest her head on his shoulder, her hand dancing against his jean clad thigh. “You we’re about to leave, and I was about to go on my op, and I knew if I told you you wouldn’t allow either of those things to happen.”

“Fair.” He chuckled and squeezed her closer, kissing the top of her head. “Anyways, you were saying that you’ve been thinking? I hope you’re not about to break-up with me, cariño. The baby brewing inside you is gonna make that a little complicated.”

She chuckled and shook her head, lifting it off his shoulder so she could look him in the eyes, their faces only an inch from each other.

“No, never gonna break up with you, Javi.” She delighted in the softness of his smile, her words providing a necessary reassurance. “No, I, uh…I thought being back in action was what I wanted. Thought it would make me feel fulfilled, but during the op…all I could think about was our child and…it all just felt so insignificant—being out in the field.”

Javier’s eyes bounced quickly between hers, his heart beating solely for her as he listened to the softness in her voice.

“And, so…I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s time for me to resign. End my contract early.” Valeria sighed out as she got to the point, feeling nervous as though he’d be disappointed in her. “But if you don’t think that’s a good idea, you know, I’ll stick with it and finish out my contract, but I just feel so consumed with love for the two of you that I can’t focus on anything else—”

“Cariño, mi vida,” he chuckled softly and shook his head, his eyes softening with absolute tenderness and affection. His hand reached to rest on her cheek, her head tilting into his touch as she gave him a shy smile. “I’m done too.”

“What?” She chuckled and lifted her head from his palm to study him better.

“I’m done with this. After tonight, after…” He trailed off, still not quite ready to visit those feelings of remorse and guilt again. “I’m done. I don’t want to do anything involving this shit anymore. Guns, drugs, death…I don’t want it anywhere near either of you.”

Valeria felt her chest rumble as a surprise sob hit her, a smile on her face as she began to cry. He gave her an adoring frown as he wiped her tears away, his other hand coming to rest on her stomach.

“All I could think about in that fucking jungle surrounded by evil, awful men was you. And now that I know that you’re carrying our child—that we’re starting a family? There’s no way I can go back out there and do this shit. No way.” She nodded and leaned over onto his chest, his lips pecking the crown of her head. “Tomorrow, I’ll be handing in my letter of resignation to the Ambassador.”

“Yeah?” She lifted her eyes again to watch him nod, his eyes lowering to her lips. He placed a soft peck to her swollen lips, lingering there and giving her a few extra kisses out of sheer need. “Guess we can hand them in together.”

“What are we gonna do after we tell the government to fuck off, hm? Where do you wanna raise our family?” He accepted her as she climbed onto his lap, his fingers combing her hair out of bee face, eyes darting across her features to sear this moment in his mind for the rest of his life.

“I’m not close to my mom, and truthfully, I don’t really care to be. But you are close with your dad, and I love your dad too. What do you think about staying close to him in Texas?” She watched as Javier smiled widely, chuckling to himself. “What’s so funny?”

“I just never thought this dream would come true for me.” She was rendered speechless under the weight of his sincerity.

“It’s happening,” she nodded and lowered his hand from her face and back to her stomach. “What do you say to us raising our baby in Laredo? They can grow up with their abuelo…hear him tell stories about their abuela. And when they get old enough, maybe we can tell them all about the silly fight that made their parents realize that they couldn’t live without each other.”

“God, baby…you’re going to make me cry again.” He chuckled and wiped the tears in his eyes away before speaking again. “I…would love that. Is that what you want? I don’t want you settling down somewhere just because—“

“I felt more at home in Texas around you and your dad then I ever did around either of my parents in Arizona. I want this.” She pressed her lips to his in a soft peck. Javier cradled her face and pressed his forehead to hers as she sat on his lap.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about your dad passing?”

“I don’t know, I just…I don’t know how I feel about it, so…it never made sense to bring up.” She pulled back and shrugged, her heart racing in her chest at the change in topic. “My dad was not a easy man to love. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he nodded and stroked her hair back, his tone softer than the world’s finest cashmere. “We don’t have to talk about it, cariño.”

“Thank you.” She offered a weak smile before climbing off his lap. Javier grabbed her hand before she could walk away, pouting his lip out. “Where are you going?”

“Turns out morning sickness happens all day.” She chuckled before tugging her hand away from his, the urge to vomit growing stronger with each passing second.

“Oh, shit. Do you need anything? Meds, food…anything?” He stood up and followed her to the restroom, watching as she shook her head and gently pushed him out of the doorway of the bathroom by his stomach.

“Just for you to not listen to me throwing up.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head at her request.

“Cariño, you really think a little throw up is going to scare me off?” Valeria shrugged at his question, her hand covering her mouth as her vomit began to make its way upwards. There was no time to argue, her body lunging over to the toilet and letting it all out. Javier sat down on the edge of the tub next to her, rubbing his warm hand over her back as she remained doubled over. “My mom used to tell me that boys were an easy pregnancy, but girls sucked the life out of the mother. Guess we’re having a girl.”

“Hooray.” She croaked from where you sat, Javier’s chest rumbling with laughter at her unenthusiastic tone.

“I’m so proud of you, cariño.” It was the sincere truth, and it went far beyond the fact that she was carrying his child and dealing with the sickness that came along with it. He was proud of her for every single thing she did, all the time. “You’re a one in a million kind of woman, I hope you know that.”

“I would cry if I had the energy.” She sat back against his knees, her head resting on them as she panted. “I love you, Javier. More than I’ll ever love anyone.”

“God, cariño, I love you. More than anyone. Forever.”

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#javier pena #narcos fanfiction #javier peña x you #javier peña angst #javier peña fluff #javier peña x y/n #javier peña x reader #javier pena fic #javier pena fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic

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deadlinecom · 8 months

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undercoverpena · 11 months

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viii. darkest times, that you now know

javier peña x dea f!reader | chapter eight of nowhere to run

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers. no use of y/n. smut themes. feelings. someone realises they love the other. angst. anxiety. ptsd. Wordcount: 5.5k.

AN: i try not to use flashbacks often, (other than little speech injections) but i had to include this one. forgive me. thank you, as always to the wonderfully patient, @yeyinde who loves luna as much as me and tells me constantly i'm doing good with this. and also to the amazing @guyfieriii who cheerleads more than i deserve

He suspected it would come in waves.

One moment you’d be smirking, sending flirtatious jabs at him. The next, you’d be silent, unease stitched into your expression, a haunted look in your eyes. He was right, and it hurt, bruised and stung.

He wonders if he asked too much. If he pushed too hard. If the lid on the box you’d wanted to keep closed is now too heavy to shift back into place.

Javi suspects it more when he hears you talking in whispers at your desk, phone close to your ear, head in your hand. Nodding, sniffling, trying to breathe as normally as possible.

“I just... wish you were here. I... miss you.”

You said it to the person with such ease—all etched into a breath, it makes his fingers tease the edges of the file as he waits for you to be done. It worms into him, those three words. It unlocks the chain around his jealousy as it tries to break out and consume him.

“Yeah, yeah. Speak soon, Van Ness.”

It shrinks, sliding back into its usual place—stuffed down under the belief that it’s just him. That you keep waking up next to him, that you let him part your thighs, and it’s his name you moan when you come.

It comes in waves.

One moment, you find yourself able to fill your lungs with ease. The next, they’re tight. Unable to take even half a gasp, never mind half a breath.

It eases in the days that follow. Through conversations with Van Ness, normalcy at work and oddly, hearing someone calmly sleep beside you. A noise, you had strongly suspected, would drive you insane.

With Javi, the soft lull of him as his chest rises and falls makes you feel calmer. Your ear being able to hear his heart, how it patters and beats, is a soothing reminder you’re present—not lost to past memories.

The ones which threaten to wrap their tendrils around your ankles and pull you back under. Dunking you in the horrors that have been burned into the back of your mind.

Prior to confessing it to him, you had felt you’d done well to stuff it down for as long as you had. Now, the lid was thrown aside, it wasn’t hard to feel the past’s fingertips sliding along your back, pushing into muscle and bone. From the murder to the loss, it all swirled around, crawling across the walls of whichever place the two of you decided to stay at—etching itself into pleasant moments and his soft, kind eyes.

Javi had held you for so long, you had worried about what would happen when he let go. Whether you’d crumble to ash, dirty his floor with your dust.

You hadn’t.

But you had been almost boneless, his arm supporting you, leading you to his bed. Your lips ghosted over his, desperate to cleanse the night of all that had been spoken, but he’d held you to his chest instead.

Tomorrow, cariño. Let me hold you for now.

Back then, you’d thought it was for him. Surrendering your need to forget for him. It wasn’t until you woke, feeling empty but not as broken as you expected, did you realise it was all for you. His fingers spread across his bedsheets, finding your hand lying between the two of you, taking it in his while watching you with sleep still clinging in his eyes.

I’m here.

He says it so easily, so normally, yet it doesn’t convince the doubt—the ones which have snuck in through the cracks caused by the earthquake of your confession.

Before that night, there had been nights when the two of you hadn’t slept together. Few and far between, but they existed. They were usually because you’d spent too many minutes laughing and joking, your legs over his knees, a cigarette in his hand with the smoke collecting along the ceiling. Then he’d yawn, and you would follow as he mumbled about getting some sleep, and you didn’t argue. On those nights, whatever you didn’t do in the night, the two of you made up for in the morning. His scent mixed with yours—all Javi-musk and your worn-out perfume; his lips running across your neck to your jaw, finding your lips as you tasted your name on his tongue.

Not cariño. Your real name.

The one which sounds so good embedded in his grunt. His thumb decidedly leaving bruised kisses, almost close by to another—a litter of finger paintings along your hip.

Javi’s hand ghosted over them now. His forehead free of creases, his breaths low and heavy. It made you want to sleep too, to curl up into him closer—let him fight away the things which hurt and wound.

It’s three days post confession until your wrists are pinned above your head, and he’s telling you how good you feel—how you were made for him. Your moans confirm how right he is, kissing him whenever he provides the chance, nails scraping down his spine when you’ve done what he asked—when you gave him two before he tried to get a third.

You’d been waiting for the shift—the change.

It doesn’t arrive then but arrives days after that. All gentle and kind, nothing like what you’d been secretly bracing for. A part of you, just enough, has settled, and found a way to live with itself. Enough to appreciate him. How alike he is to whiskey. That he’s all honey and sweet, yet scorching—and that under it all, there are notes of many other things too. Ones which bubble until they’re over boiling, flowing over the floor and climbing the walls, ready to coat and soak you in it—

He’s yours.

You’re not sure if it’s something he fully knows or if it’s something you want to accept. Preferring to fight him, push him back, keep him just at a hands length over an arm. Because you do like him close, have grown used to him—

Secretly, you’re very much his too.

A shift has happened. A turn of the tides. It’s there, swirling around the two of you—both attempting to be oblivious to it all, but finding instead that it’s really rather obvious.

When the two of you began, he was merciless in his pursuit of your pleasure—of hearing the noises you could make. Now, he’s torturous with it.

Dragging it out.

He enjoys how it knots and curdles in your lower abdomen as his knees dig into the back of your thighs, rocking into you, pulling back halfway before stuffing you full again. Repeating it, slow, long drags which make you quiver and moan—some pressed into his hot skin, others kissing the air and his ears.

He’d fuck you slow if it meant hearing his name roll from your swollen lips in multitude. You allow him to fuck you slow if it means he’s here with you longer.

Not that he leaves, not that you ask him to or you find he wants to go.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

Opening up, you take all of him in. How the light from your lamp casts shadows that only enhance him—that illuminate the path of his jaw and makes his eyes more intoxicating than usual. Your hand gripping his shoulder, finding his lips brush over your wrist. Innocent and yet very much deliberate.

“There she is, mi cariño.”

He’s an addiction. Torture. Something that you can’t breathe with or without. Your fingers brush over the hand propping his weight up as he snaps his hips to yours. Fingers fluttering over his, the other curling into his hair.

He sees all of you, knows all the things that make up the fractured parts, and still remains. Ironically, you’d closed yourself off to finding someone else to care for, only for it to pull him into your web.

He and his rhythmic heartbeat soothes your soul; Javi and his eyes make your breath slow, and pull a smile so easy from your lips it’s like he commands it from you. Javi and his lips that make you never want to kiss another soul again. Who reminds you of what impatience feels like, making you wish the hours away so the two of you could begin stealing the minutes at night.

Javi makes you breathless—and not just with how he fucks you. Sliding off of him now, finding a place next to him, lying in the crook of his arm as you think. Chest rising and falling, mirrored by his own.

His fingers brush over your cheek, eyes tracing each curve of your cheekbone, the way your nose arches and lips bow. You’re on your side, doing the same, fingers fluttering over his chin—taking in how beautiful and dark his brown eyes are. How the hair around his mouth slopes perfectly around it.

“Cariño…”

Your lips are curling, ready to answer him. Tease him. Call him bonita, mi amor. But the phone interrupts you—yours. It blares from the side you're on, moving before he can wrap his hands around you to stop you.

To beg you to leave the work behind and just be.

You don’t leave to take it. Picking up his t-shirt from the floor, pulling it over yourself as you perch next to him, his fingers pulling down on the neck, mouth finding your shoulders as you lift the phone.

He’s on you, as much as he can, with a phone suddenly in your hand.

“Hel—“

It’s me.

You’re sure he hears it—Fiestl’s voice. Especially from the way he freezes.

“Oh, hey, Chris? Did I—did you need something?”

You feel him stiffen more so, his mouth slowly dragging down your clothed shoulder, lying back on the bed as you move the fabric to cover your hips, shifting in place on the bed.

It’s easier to turn from him, not willing to meet his eyes—see something in them you cannot truly unpack or process.

No. It’s… a friendly call.

You sigh. It falls from your lips to the air. “Now isn’t… Now isn’t a good time.”

You with them? The person you’re seeing…

He must be listening because you don’t hear him take a breath in your pause.

Something twists inside you, mouth open in response, but no words arrive—because it’s more than seeing. You see Javi nearly all the nights available and yearn for him in the moments in between. The two of you are cautious in the day, but not almost as much as you should be—all of it harder to keep apart following talks of Luisa.

The old version of the two of you, the one that could fake ignorance that it was something more, stood foreign and far back. Out of reach. Fading into the past as something new tries to emerge in its place.

You fight with yourself about asking him to leave, just for a moment. So you can tell Fiestl to stop calling if he doesn’t need something—that friendly doesn’t mean friends.

But, you’re sure Javi would stay out of pettiness. Not because he doesn’t respect your requests, but because you see the ember of anger in his eyes now he knows it all. Having likely stitched the rest of the clumps of your story from before with the reasons your previous relationship withered in the first place.

You lean your head back, licking your lips as Chris says your name.

Not Luna. Your name.

Making you shift on the bed, purposefully turning so that you can see the words land where they need to.

“Yes. Yeah, I’m with him now.”

Javi’s eyes snap to you, blinding you in brown.

Oh.

He likes it. He enjoys the confirmation—all evidenced by the soft, slow, smug smile he tries to hide. Staring at you, likely not even listening, as you awkwardly bid goodbye until you throw your legs onto the bed, leaning back, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“They okay?”

“Cut the shit, Peña.”

It doesn’t come out as sharp as you usually would when he’s testing you. It’s tired and withdrawn—your eyes closed as you massage your nose.

“Fine, Fiestl, alright? Or is he a bit lonely?”

With a slap, your hand falls to your bare thigh, eyes flipping open as you stare at him. Something churning, burning, flooding your chest as you shoot the fire with your eyes.

Almost wanting to warm him with flames.

Because even if it’s clear, he’s pleased you told him you’re with him, it’s still knotting inside of him: the jealousy. All green-eyed and poison-tongued. It’s simmering like a broth, bubbling and spitting, all set to overspill and ruin the cooktop.

Something which bothers you because all of this is confusing. It’s a mess of feelings you can’t unweave from others—a mess of ropes tangled together when you had initially only wanted uncomplex and fun.

You didn’t want to… fall.

“What?”

“Why are you doing this?”

He blinks, but there’s no clarity in his eyes. No shift in his expression. Likely, not even knowing.

You know he likes to push, likes to edge things to near self-sabotage for the sake of preservation. He does it with how often he skirts the rules, and wants to take things into his own hands.

Maybe it’s because he, like you, has become aware that things are changing, developing. That you’re beginning to matter far more than a colleague he once just liked fucking. That he likes falling asleep beside you and waking up tangled in your limbs…

Because that’s what you feel too, that it means something, that it’s—

“Is he lonely out in Cali or something?”

You narrow your eyes, skin cold, spine straight.

It stings, almost wounds. Only finding the strength to turn and throw your legs back off as you stand.

“I’m just trying to understand, cariño,” he spits, throwing the sheet back as he grabs his trousers. “He begs to go but keeps calling you—almost like he wants to be back here.”

“That’s... just stop, Javi before you go too far.”

He knows it. He fucking knows he’s close. You can see in his eyes that more words had been lingering on his tongue. The apology slowly falls across his tongue. That’s already too late to be delivered.

Instead, you’d instead hope he’d just tell you the truth. He’s jealous, bitter—annoyed.

“Stop making whatever your issue is about Chris—“

“Chris, now? Huh.”

“Oh, fuck off, Javi. Yes, he’s Chris—because when I was bouncing on his cock I wasn’t calling him Fiestl. I was calling him Chris.”

“You call me—“

“I call you fucking Javi, so get a grip.”

He’s in front of you now, lightly pushing you up against the wall, eyes staring into yours. Your jaw tightens to the point of shattering, and you hate it. Hate how you want nothing more than to tell him that Chris doesn’t matter, that he shouldn’t matter.

Mostly, you despise wanting to kiss him, curling into him.

Sighing, you take a breath. “Why are you complicating this?”

His finger traces your cheek, and you want to ask him to stop. Not because it’s not nice, but because it is. Because you want to tell him you can’t stop thinking about him. That you want him more than you have wanted anyone else.

And it goes against everything.

Your intentions from the get-go were never this—

“Javi, when this is all over—with Cali. You’ll go, and I’ll be relocated—so why are you ruining this? What it is right now. Tainting it all with… fucking jealousy.”

“Come back to bed,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles against your cheek

You almost do, your knees almost bending, ready to follow. But something stops you. Something that scares you more than those dark eyes that haunt your nightmares and bullets.

You don’t want to lose him.

The back of your hand runs across your face. “No… no, I think you should just go.”

“Cariño—“

Your hand find/ his chest, but it doesn’t push. Not yet. Just resting, feeling him brace as though he expects you to.

More words churn, sitting on your chest and tongue as you open your eyes to see him studying you, eyes wider than you’ve known possible—looking more puppy-like than a person. His jaw cocked to the side, fingers wrapping around your wrist gently.

“I just wanted to fuck. That’s it. And you…”

“Me, what?”

“I can’t do more than this.”

Burning it into him. Hoping he can understand. Needing him to read the panic and the pain you keep so well hidden usually.

And he does, in a way.

“Is this because of Lorraine?”

“Who?”

“My… the woman I was meant to marry.”

You don’t mean to, but you snort. Wanting to find the right words to tell him that his commitment issues, and all the apparent other number of issues he wears like a badge of honour, have nothing to do with it.

That he’s not listening, not really.

Your face drops before you slowly shake your head, hand curling on his chest, almost brushing against his skin. “No. No, Javi. It’s because….”

“The intern… Katie?”

”If you think I blame you for fucking the intern, I do not.”

“No?”

“No, Javi. She’s fucking hot.”

“Then why—“

It scrunches your face, his confusion. Tongue struggling, words fading from your throat as you stare at him. Unmoving and unblinking, wanting to both ask him to hold you again and also get out of your place.

Wanting more, even if there’s not a lot more for him to have.

“I don’t have a heart to give you.”

Swallowing, it settles. Sitting between the two of you.

A new confession that seems heavier than the previous.

“You know what happened… you know it all, my past, my mistakes, so why… why are you complicating this?”

“Because you’re….”

“I’m broken, Javi—“

“No. No, you’re….”

It hangs.

Whatever he had been about to say.

No words, just a sea of possibilities. Not sure if they’re good or bad, pecking and nibbling at you all the same.

The room is thick with tension. It’s layered with the scent of the two of you from before you’d answered the phone. The one you regret ever picking up. Wishing instead that your brain was silent except for him, feeling so full you could never think of a single thought apart from his name.

Instead, you’re fighting him. Not even sure what you’re fighting him about. Wanting him to go but not really wanting to ask, scared he would—even more scared he won’t.

Licking his lips, he lifts your chin. Eyes pulled to his. “Because you’re you, cariño. Because I don’t fucking do this with anyone else—I haven’t. You know this. You know my past too. So you know you are different. And I…”

Want you.

The unspoken words dance from his eyes.

They hum along in the silence, backed by a tune of relaxed breaths and fading tension. Javi brands them in, doesn’t stop staring until he’s sure you hear them—feel them, understand them.

And then you sigh. One that says you won’t ask him to go without saying it. One that he replies with a sigh of his own, thankful you won’t.

“Javi…”

Meeting his eyes, feeling him brush his fingers over your forearm, your palm still against his chest. Nodding.

“I don’t miss him. I’m… I’m glad you sent him. Not because he’s my ex, and I’m petty. But, because sometimes when I see his face, I see hers, and I can’t fucking breathe—can’t even think.”

It's then he runs his fingers up and down your forearm. Roots you, in this way, he continuously tries to do.

Annoyingly, it works.

Feeling yourself slowly stop shaking, holding his gaze, wondering if he sees shards. Sees the way you’re broken that can never be repaired; see the holes in you left behind by grief and trauma.

You lean your head against the wall, closing your eyes as you swallow. “I remember the day after. When I woke up here, the other side of the bed was empty.” You force a smile. “Javi, I was glad. I was glad he’d gone, I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want him here. I had nothing to say to him, no words to speak.

“And then he appeared with a mug in hand, and I tried to tell him to go, but… I had no voice. This croak came out. One that took more energy than I could spare. And so he stayed, ignoring the look in my eyes and the hatred in every breath he heard.”

You blink, meeting his stare. “You have nothing to be jealous of. I don’t love him, Javi. But I do owe him. He saved me when I gave him no reason to indicate I was anything worth saving in the state I was in. That’s it.”

He nods, swallowing back whatever words begin to froth in his throat. Because there aren’t any.

There’s not a single thing he can say.

“I do miss Van Ness, though.”

Smirking, he places his hand back around your wrist, watching you slowly slide your fingers over his chest. “Yeah?”

“He’s a grump, but….”

“He’s your friend.”

Softly, you smile, one which makes your eyes unfocus as you think. It broadens for a second before it flickers back to normal. “Don’t tell him we’re friends, he’ll shoot himself.”

He presses his forehead against yours, watching his eyes blur into one big beautiful one. “Being your friend that bad, bonita?”

“Sometimes, I’m better at being friendly.”

He swallows, likely realising the implication. “You gonna let me stay, hermosa?”

Your lips slide into a smirk before you lift onto your tiptoes. “You going to do that thing with your tongue.”

It’s nice that he kisses his response to your lips, letting his hands spread around your waist as a further confirmation.

You have a bad feeling in your gut when you watch him change for Cali—not helped by his newfound determination on your behalf.

I’m gonna get him. Okay.

You’re not sure what he expects from you. Something which sits on the tip of your tongue.

Don't do this for me. Don't use what happened to me, what I told you as fuel.

You know it would shift things between the two of you. Both light flooding in where you’d tried to keep things in the shadows, while also allowing weeds to grow in between your two’s garden.

It just hadn't crossed your mind it would seep into how he wanted to do things. That he'd empower the guilt he felt and churn it into making things better.

That passioned guilt growing increasingly stronger, oscillating as though sharing it had been what he had needed to know he could push harder.

You’re going to do this right, though. Aren’t you? Cariño… Don’t let your misplaced guilt and need to get even be the reason you go charging in like a fucking asshole. I am fine. Except you’re not.

You weren’t.

Not that you told him that.

Narrowed eyes, empty soul and self-deprecation aside, you held yourself strong as you stare him down. Knowing he sees it all now, as you see him—the two of you open. Likely more than both of you had been with someone else in a while.

Each time you find yourself in this battle, the one where you want to surge forward and marry your lips to his and the one where you want to protect yourself, you can’t help but think about the beginning. Back when you had wanted him to rip you apart, tear straight through you.

Now, you hoped he’d stick around to sew you back together. Ask to be something, to confirm the unspoken commitment was felt from both sides.

It wasn’t even a craving being with him now, not a desperation. It was something more intense—something akin to feelings you can’t begin to accept.

Fearful. Self-preservation attempts to spread through your muscles as you let him heal over old burns and kiss unseen scars. It’s more than precision the way he does it. It’s a desire to worship you—you see it in his eyes each time clothing items fall into an abandoned pile.

He starves you of him in the moments between and makes you simmer in want until you’re allowed a stolen moment. A brief brush of skin before you’re in his place—heading to his bed—making up for the gruelling hours of silent glances and back-and-forth snark.

It used to be easier to hide, stem off your desire for him. But now the adoration brims, the same one swimming in his own eyes before the two of you try to blink it away.

And now, as much as you feel the same, the wall you used to hide behind is missing. Clay and ruin splayed across the metaphorical floor, the hammer he’d put in your hands and your own need to prove you trusted him, attacking it until nothing but the base of the wall was left.

Now you’re left shale and the vulnerability of letting a person in. A feeling of unease, a tremble to your bones that no rational thoughts settle or pep talks in the mirror. Because you think you really like him. More so, maybe even—

“You think you could sort this,” Stoddard asks, pulling you back.

Eyes blinking from the clock to him, a frown beginning to deepen on your superior's forehead.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll do that now, Neil.”

Stoddard doesn’t move, hovering over your desk, a shadow cast over the papers that haven’t moved.

“Something else?”

“You sure you’re alright?”

Tilting your head, you force a frown. “Yes, why?”

Shifting his glasses on his nose, he lets out a heavy exhale. “You only call me Neil when you’re stressed…”

Swallowing, you try to blank your face.

Paint the picture of perfection—the one mastered, having cleverly shifted it into place for months.

“I…”

“You want a drink?”

He’s asked before. Many times. But this is the first time you almost answer yes, even with Dan’s voice chirping in the back of your head, pecking away.

Smirking, you drop your eyes as you take a breath. “I do, but not the kind you’d get me or be able to find in that kitchen.”

“He’ll be fine.”

You blink, something shaking inside of you.

Masterfully attempting to find a way to explain that it isn’t what it looks like (even if it very much is). That you’re worried about him because he’s your boss, and not—

“Van Ness is a good agent.”

You sigh, smiling. Taking a slow breath that refills your lungs as you stand, file in hand. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

The words on the page become a ball of ink, of nothing.

A while ago, your pen became a chewed mess—indented with stress and anxiety. The lid barely able to fit into place.

All because you’ve heard nothing, and it’s now a new day.

The coffee you’ve been pouring down your throat have begun to irritate you, somewhat vibrating as they attempt to disagree with your empty stomach and prickled nerves.

You’re about to make another drink, standing, hand hovering over your mug, when you hear the elevator—the ding so loud in the silence of the quiet office.

You watch them walk in.

Time slowing, heart resetting. No more hurried banging, but calmer, softer—almost gently.

Fiestl’s eyes land first, a soft tug of his lips, that half-smile you used to adore but now feel nothing for. An emptiness spreads through you that swallows all the anger you used to feel, making it easier to tear your eyes away.

Then, it’s brown eyes, followed by a tight smile. Soft ones, the ones which showcase every emotion even if Javi wishes they didn’t. The eyes you stare into, the ones which swallow you whole.

The ones you’ve missed, worried about…

But, it’s neither of those reasons why you move nor slide from around the desk, allowing your eyes to land on the face of the third. The taller one, the one who looks deeply unpleased to be back—even if he never wanted to go in the first place.

Your feet move, passing desks, moving towards them. And it’s only as you get so close, do you see the minor inflexions—spot the way Javi is watching in mixed confusion and relief. Realising, as you almost reach him, that he thinks the movement is for him. That you want to collide in to him—and you do, distantly. Somewhat buried underneath the words neither of you will say, scattered across the wall you used to have around you that he helped you pull down.

In your head, it’s his arms you run into.

The expressions he lets show makes your heart bloom, seeing he wishes it too. It dawned on him, realising you need a friend, not a lover. Someone who knows it all, who can read you without so much as hearing a sound come from your lips.

It’s why your feet don’t slow, going and going until arms wrap around you and your head meets a chest.

And that panic, the one which has been bubbling since the lid was peeled back, softens to a simmer. The spitting stopping, the tremble of your wrist lessening.

A calmness that feels like water splashing over you, soaking you in bliss as you feel him stiffen under your touch.

Like only Van Ness would.

You’ve missed him—all six-foot-three of him, feeling his hand cup the back of your head, the two of you just clinging.

Just like you did the first day back at work, when he found you in the file room, barely holding yourself together. Do you want to get lunch? He’d asked, knowing—but not knowing.

Caring, but not needing all of the answers. Sure.

FLASHBACK

Stealing one of his fries, you dip it into his ketchup, watching him slowly shake his head—the sunglasses covering eyes, hiding the Van Ness stare.

The one gutting you in their own special way.

“You should have ordered fries.”

“Nah,” you grin, biting it in half.

Resting his elbow on the table, the Colombian sun beats down on the two of you. Your eyes glance past his shoulder, seeing people—couples, friends, families. You hear the laughter, and how it flows with the breeze; you smell the food from the truck, blending with the unique scent of Bogotá.

It somewhat makes you glad he made you get dressed and threatened you with carrying you outdoors, until you did.

You almost smile. Almost.

Then you hear her—even if you shouldn’t.

The higher pitched sound of her laugh, the snort—almost able to feel the ghostly touch of her leaning closer and her hand grasping your forearm as she laughs.

She was a pincher. Always had been.

And your throat tightens, hand wishing to reach to cup the place she usually grasps. Your lungs ache, oesophagus almost closing as you feel your chest rising and falling, falling and rising—

Fingers releasing the fry, dropping it to your tray, any evidence of a smile stolen, taken.

“Hey…”

You feel him, his touch—all solid, accompanied by kind eyes. His glasses down his nose, Van Ness’s fingers on your wrist, pulling you back, stopping you from falling back over the cliff—

“Just breathe, okay? Just bre—“

“I can’t do this. I can—I can’t do this. I need to go home. Need—“

His thumb digs into your pulse, not enough to bruise, but to flick your eyes to his. His chin dipping, eyes stern, a smidge of sauce on the left side of his lip.

It stands out, almost like a stain, a blemish—like blood.

And then it’s scarlet, your hands coated in it. Yellow. Red. Orange and the rest of the fucking rainbow.

Fear snakes up your throat, and you grab his hand, holding it, clutching on.

Save me. Save me, please.

So like the words you cried to Chris, the ones pleading with him to get you out, to bring you home. Back to the place that felt so absent of her—the one you’d left behind. Her body in a mess, a state, one that you can blink and see tattooed on the back of your lids.

“Breathe,” Dan repeats.

Softer.

Kinder.

His hand shoves the tray aside with a clatter as he takes both of your hands and grabs them in his.

“You’re safe. I’m here. You’re safe.”

It croaks, his name. Not one syllable but several, tears streaming, mixing with poorly applied makeup and sun lotion.

Not that he cares. He doesn’t care one bit.

Just repeating that you’re safe, over and over, until the two words crack through the surface and meet your soul.

Not stopping until your lungs fill with air, your pulse slowly steadying. And even then, he holds you a little longer.

“You’re safe—“

“So are you,” you manage to whisper, opening your eyes, gripping his hand in the same way he grabs yours.

You remember the chips, the sauce on his lip, the way he didn’t care about clutching you tightly even if, before that day, he’d rather slit his own eyes than offer comfort.

He was sarcasm embroiled with bitterness, a person who’d been a friend but then slid up into best.

“You’re safe,” you whisper against him.

Just for his ears, unsure if he’ll remember when you feel him move.

“So are you,” he whispers back.

You smile, looking up, slowly letting go, the two of you standing so close as you fight back an array of tears—grateful ones blended with guilt.

One for Dan—thankful he’s back.

One for your friend: the one no longer here.

And for Javi, who is still standing behind the two of you. The one who is running his hand across his face. The one you think you’re in love with—afraid of what the fuck that even means.

an: *smirks* also sorry if there are errors, i began to feel a bit unwell again (cause by me needing to eat greasy food before my stomach was properly healed) and i was too excited not to share.

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