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That was the last sunrise I ever saw. Perhaps the kindest thing the dark gift has given me. // It was the last time I saw my brother. It was the last time I saw the sun. It was the only time I ever felt free.
Interview with the Vampire (2022 - ) // Sinners (2025)
johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 4.8k words, 6 of ?
ao3 link | previous part
a/n: hi <3 this felt like a whirlwind to write so i hope it translates
The car show-wheel show-fighting and drinking show, proved to be all those things at once, making ‘em all right when it came down to it; well, Kathy most of all. But she didn’t end up going, and by the time you were looking for that bike of Johnny’s in the dark, you were almost wishing you hadn’t bothered neither. She had the right idea after all, and she did warn you, or whatever, but when have you ever picked sense over instinct?
It started off nice enough, of course, you know, drinking and eating and chatting, and couples fucking on the hoods of cars too shiny to be fucking on, and cigarettes burning like the world was getting rid of them—but you was liking it enough to not be minding about all that. Even felt good to be out somewhere new again, cause you’ve never had much of a social life since moving back here. And Johnny was handsy and handsome and quiet in all the usual ways he is, and you were feeling real good about that, too. Like you belonged there, and not only belonged there, but belonged there with him, with Johnny. Side by side, yeah, going steady and steady going.
And that Danny kid must’a thought the same thing, cause he did wanna talk to you, and he found a minute when Johnny had gone to take a leak to ask you some stuff—nothing real personal or anything, just stuff you’d expect a guy to be asking when he’s doing whatever it is he’s doing, you know?
He said, “Can I put you down as Lips for this?”
And I said, “Sure, can’t be the only one of these bozos having a boring old name, can I?”
And he pressed the little button of his tape recorder thingy, half-smoked joint on the edge of his lips, clinging on for dear life, and said, “Ah, I don’t know that anyone rolling with Vandals can be boring.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” you asked, cause he was right, in a sort of way, but you know. You like talking a certain type of talk when you’re getting to know someone, don’t you? Specially a someone with a fancy microphone sitting between his fingers like that. “Rolling?”
“You tell me,” he said, “that’s kind of the whole thing I’m after.”
“What? What people think they’re doing vs. what they’re actually doing, you mean?”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “exactly.”
“Well, I could talk your ear off, right down to the bone, on all sorts of things like that if you want me too, but I bet you ain’t got the tape for it all.”
“Oh yeah?” He took a big drag, and let it out again, though the thing looked like it had nothing but paper left in it. “How’d you and Johnny meet?” he asked.
And you know, you promised Johnny, so you just said that you met him around.
“Around?”
“Yeah, around.”
And that you weren’t nothing serious, but weren’t nothing not serious, you know?
“How’s that work?”
“Just does.”
Nothing serious, but something sort of something, and you left it at that, all right, you aren’t one to be breaking nothing without meaning to—
“You don’t wanna talk about it?”
“No, I don’t mind talking about it.”
“But Johnny does?”
“Something like that.”
You’re just spending time with each other, you said, you and Johnny, you’re just getting to know each other and enjoying the fact, that’s all. You didn’t really say nothing about anything after that, every question that went a little too far, you shrugged off, you know, real professional about it, like they do at work when something’s close to the wire and purposely so.
“Johnny ever mention how things with him and Betty ended?”
“We don’t talk about that so much.”
Come on, right, your old thing and your new thing, that’s the kinda stuff no-one’s looking to mix up, and especially not someone like Johnny, you mean, well, what’s the kid thinking asking a thing like that? You had to say something, just to put him back in his place a little.
But then you really, actually, didn’t say much else afterwards, zipped up real tight, you promise—and besides, Johnny came back round about then, and Danny seemed to sense he was suddenly being nosey to a sort of person that don’t like being nosed to, and packed up real quick. Which was a little sad, sure, cause you would’a liked to hear him ask something the both of you could answer, but he just said,
“I’ll talk to you another time, Lips.”
And that was that.
Wasn’t long after that they started fighting, which was all sorts of dumb, and made you really wish you had spent more time talking to Danny, or maybe even gone to find somewhere to take a piss yourself, because, God, what a mess that was.
If it was any other guy, or bunch of guys, it would've really got to you, would’ve maybe even scared you, but, Hell, your boys were as misplaced as the other club they were scrapping, whichever way you looked at it. Something about someone accusing Cal of scratching some bike, something real small you know, and it would’ve maybe been nothing if Benny hadn’t made it something, but he came flying in all hot and swinging, and then the whole field was a mess. All punching and rolling and swearing. Like watching a group of toddlers work out that if they folded their hand up, it could make a, what’a ya call it? A fist. Wow.
Real load of tools.
At one point, Johnny had three guys hanging off him, and if you weren’t rolling your eyes so much, you could’ve thought that was impressive, you know, holding his own like that. But it was all just nonsense, and you were getting no sort of attention or consideration or nothing.
And like you said, if Benny hadn’t come in like that, and punched the guy when he was just talking to Johnny, only talking, the whole thing could’ve been avoided. They had no real reason to be fighting like that until Benny came in hotter than anyone with any sense would’ve, and he kept going like that, right up until his hand went through a window and the blood and the glass got all mushed up into some guys face—and that’s when Johnny finally had the brains to put a stop to it.
Thank God, you remember thinking, somebody finally told the dog ’no’ before he bit down too hard.
Never seen nothing like it, and what was weirder still? Afterwards the lot of them sat down with a crate of beers, and the guy that was accusing Cal of scratching, ended up sitting right there with him, laughing about some other story from another day. Like nothing ever happened, while their fists were still bleeding and their noses were going all black and blue.
It’s whatever, right? Guys being dumb fucks, and fucking dumb about it. The way you look at it, it had nothing to do with you, still got nothing to do with you, and as long as they were only hurting other fools like themselves, you ain’t too worried about it.
But it did sort of bother you afterwards, how Johnny was with you. He went even quieter than quiet. Spoke to Benny a little, and to Brucey. Took a beer from you to hold it against his knuckles—though it wasn’t much cool by then—and that was sort of it. When you was sitting about the place later, he didn’t even sit by you; just took a lean against his bike and left you between stinking drunk 1, and stinking drunk 2, which is what you’ve taken to calling Wahoo and Corky, cause you’ve never seen them anyway different.
You figured maybe he was tired. Or embarrassed. Or hurting from the scrap like an old man should be, but none of those things explained kind of ignoring you the way he was.
You couldn’t make peace with it—you still can’t—and by the end of the evening, you were standing while they were all sitting, and Johnny was across the circle from you there, and he hadn’t looked up at you since the fire got started. Too busy drinking and listening to Cal telling some story about a pot smoker he knew back some time ago. Which really did start to bother you. Cause, what? The fire, or some story you’ve heard a million times, is more interesting to you, John?
“I think I ought to be heading out now,” you said, real loud so the conversation died a little, and you sure enjoyed killing it. “Don’t fancy camping out here,” you said.
Then everyone was looking at you, but Johnny last, and no-one said anything until Corky said, “I’ll take you.”
Which would have sure enough been a death sentence, but did you more of a favour than he even knew, cause it got Johnny groaning and pulling himself up like it was the hardest thing in the world.
“Fuck you talkin’m bout,” he muttered, “fuck you will, Corky. Come on. Come on, Lips.”
And then his arm was over your shoulder and your arms stayed crossed, cause for a second you weren’t sure you wanted him touching you like that, though that second didn’t last anywhere near as long as it should’ve. If you had any pride, that is.
“So you do remember me?” you said, trying to be smart and cutting, in that petty way you can be, when things start stinging more than they itch.
“Huh?” he said. “What’s that?”
But he was already turning you toward that bike of his, somewhere out there in the dark. Red, shining, beacon that it is. So you decided to leave it.
And maybe it was a punishment, and maybe it was just a coincidence, and maybe it was kind of sort of both—but after that, you went away for a little while.
You got some friends a ways from here that just had a baby, well, you say just, but you’re hearing it’s—she’s—starting to crawl already, so maybe your just and their just ain’t really the same thing—but they had a baby anyhow. Two people that were stuck in the same company as you, and used to eat lunch with you, but two people people that got the fuck out of there when you didn’t, and made better for it, you know. Not that you hate your job, but it won’t be the end for you, and they took a highway to the start of the end; the good end you reckon, marriage, baby, big house with a fenced in yard, and you’ve never seen them since.
So you go to them. Figure you owe it to them, for being the only ones there that were worthwhile making friends of, and owe it to yourself to do a little something or other every now and then. Can’t just be work, porch, Johnny, sleep, work, forever now, can it?
You pack up a little case, and wrap up those baby suits that are almost definitely too small by now, and stuff the lot and yourself onto a bus that goes overnight, cause you really aren’t keen on staying up for long journeys on your own.
They’re real happy, by the way. And the baby’s a dream, round and squishy and smiling like she knows everything you don’t, and it’s real good seeing them again. Felt like sitting right there at the lunch table like they never left, and if you’re honest, the whole time you’re there, you never mentioned Johnny once to them. Cause they wouldn’t…well, why would you? And you find you don’t really think about him all too much either. It’s just baby noises in the day and drinking when the house is finally quiet.
Which you think you needed, really, just for a change. Just you and them, you as you used to be, not even that long ago. Like opening the door to a neighbour who’s been away for a while.
You’re glad you went, and you’re just as glad to come back. Johnny creeps up on you on the bus home sorta, like, you’re trying to sleep, but you get thinking about him again, about how good it’ll be to see him. To kiss him. To tell him about your trip into the land of the normal people, where none of you guys are ever gonna belong.
But when you do get back, God, a week could’ve been a year.
Johnny turns up the next morning, Sunday, like he’d been coming by every day, or something, like he was coming by just to prove that you weren’t there still, only to find you actually were there, and, fuck, he looks so different. You almost feel like you don’t know him when you clock him through the window.
What it is, you see, is he’s not wearing his jacket, his colors. No leathers or patches. Got some blue shirt on and a white one underneath it, like he’s a, well, like he’s just some truck driver, or something. Some regular guy. And he’s not on his bike neither, he’s got the car, so when you’re opening that door it feels like you’re greeting a stranger.
A stranger who says, “Where’ve you been?” before you’re even off the step.
No hi, no hello, no thank God you’re back, I missed you so much, baby. Just, where’ve you been?
“Around.” You hug your arms a little. What’s going on with you—is what you wanna ask him, but he cuts you off right as you open your mouth.
“What’s that mean?” he asks, though he’s saying it like he doesn’t believe you before you even answer, like he’s mad at you, almost.
And look, you know, you’re not really in no position to be petty about it, seeing as you took a trip without saying nothing, and he’s not being any ruder than he might’ve been some other time, but it grates on you. Gets your hackles up. It’s only been a week, right? Just a week. What the hell can happen in a time like that?
“It means I’ve been around, Johnny. Seeing friends up state.” He don’t look satisfied by the answer, rattling his keys in his hands still, lingering on the street down there. So you say, “I got a life too, you know. I don’t just sit around, waiting for you to swing by.”
You don’t mean it like a real insult, just a matter of fact thing, and he seems to take it as much. Which is almost as worrying as if he didn’t, cause he really doesn’t seem like the man you left behind the other weekend.
“You could’ve told me,” he says, “could’a let me know.” And he is mad at you, you think, but he’s something else too, and he can’t even look at you really, just stares at your feet, at the step you’re waiting on.
So you drop down onto the next one, to give him a little help. “I could’ve,” you say. Probably should of, but you don’t feel like saying that part, cause, well, you’re not perfect and you don’t try to be. Who is? Gotta give yourself a little leeway sometime, don’t you?
He clears his throat. Flicks his eyes up for half a second that you don’t miss. “I was worrying about you.”
“Yeah?”
“Wrong fucking time to take off, Lips.”
He says it like he means it, in more than a boyfriend grumbling about missing a few kisses kind of way, which makes you frown, and cross your arms, and say his name once to get him to finally look at you. “Something happen?”
He shakes his head, no surprise there. Always fighting it on a reflex. Then he looks down the street to the right of him, then at his keys, thumb toying with one of them, and then he nods. It’s small, but you see it.
“You wanna come in?” you ask, and he makes a noise that’s Johnny speech for yeah, but I won’t be saying as much, so you turn back, up to the door, and he follows like he never has done before.
*
“Sit down. I’ll get a beer.”
Johnny grunts, but does what you say—and you hate that. You really do, you have to make yourself look away from him and into the kitchen before you can think too much on it. It’s just more fucking clues of him being all outside of himself, blue shirt, tired eyes, slack shoulders as he drops into the couch, there’s something up with him, sure, but it’s more up than it ever has been, you know. And you hope this isn’t your fault. It really can’t be all your whole entire fault, right?
Something happened, he said, something, not you, but something. And he was annoyed sure, but not cause you went away, only that you weren’t here when that something happened and he needed you to be, yeah? That sounds sort of reasonable, don’t it? Yeah, that’s all it is, you’re sure.
The fridge is empty, cause of course it is, but there’s a warm box of bottles in the back of the cupboard, so you take two of them out to him.
“Sorry,” you pass him one, “would’ve chilled ‘em if I knew.”
“S’okay.”
He pops the cap with the end of one of his keys, and then he holds it back out to you, cause he’s figured out what you haven’t—that you didn’t bring nothing to open them with—and switches his for yours, then opens that one too.
You take a swig at the same time. Him sitting, you standing. Looks real fucking weird from where you are, Johnny sitting in that beat up couch your Pops left behind. You never did think about what it’d be like to have him in here, and honestly, it’s sort of like nothing, but that sight, yeah, that’s a little strange. Johnny on the couch you opened Santa’s presents on. He’s right there in the middle, over the line where the two cushions meet, sinking in like he’s growing out of it, coming up like a loose spring, which leaves you no room as much as it leaves you plenty.
“First time you been in here,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“You like it?”
He looks at you over the end of the bottle, lips poised for another drink.
“Right. Yeah. Doesn’t matter.” You sit on the arm of the chair behind you, the big lounger that you eat, sleep, and live out of. “You don’t seem like yourself, Johnny.”
He makes you wait a little, rubbing his free palm over his face, scrubbing away at the look that won’t shift, but he does eventually tell you. Figures he can’t be sitting there saying nothing, when he’s already given you enough to know there’s something that needs saying. He says, “Benny got into some trouble.”
And of course, you say, “What sort of trouble?”
“The bad kind.” He shakes his head, making a noise like he’s got a word stuck and won’t let it out, settling on, “yeah, s’bad,” instead.
“Well, is he alright? What happened?”
“Got into it with some guys.”
You scoff. “Ain’t that normal for him?”
“Got his foot cut off, nearly. Almost all the way. The ankle.”
“Jesus Christ.” Now you’re looking like a real asshole, laughing at a man getting his foot chopped off. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Johnny says, looking at the rug, “yeah. Bad.”
“Why’d someone do a fucking thing like that?”
He drinks again and wipes his lips on the back of his hand afterwards. “For wearing his colors someplace that don’t like it.”
You sit on that for a minute, because that makes sense, sure, in the world of men eating men, but from that to something going right through Benny’s ankle, is a Hell of a leap to make. Elevation takes a few steps, you know, two to tango—but from the look on his face, you figure this ain’t the sort of thing Johnny’s gonna be gossiping about. No retelling of the punches that led to the slices, that’s for sure.
“D’you know who did it?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Did you tell the cops?”
He laughs. Well, sort of laughs, more like exhales with a smile weaselling up behind it. “No, we didn’t tell the cops. We handled it. S’all done with.”
He says it with finality. With a big, fat, DO NOT ENTER sign pressed over his forehead. Done with. Handled. Don’t ask me no more things about it.
Yeah. The warm beer’s feeling even warmer now, with how cold your palms are going.
You’ve seen how clubs like the Vandals deal with arguments that aren’t really arguments, and you’ve seen how men act, when they catch a tougher man, out-toughing them. Handled never means what it would mean to regular folk, so you ask,
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Johnny, what did you do?”
He looks at you long enough to decide if you’re a person worth lying to or not, you reckon, and he settles on the right half of the debate. “Burned it down,” he says.
Now it’s your turn to breathe like you’re laughing, but only, it’s in blind disbelief when it’s coming from you. “Burned what down?”
“The bar they was hanging out in. Their place. Their Spotlight.”
“Are you fucking crazy?”
“Benny could’ve lost his leg, could’ve been off the bike for good.”
“And you could’ve been in fucking jail, Johnny, what the fuck?”
His head shakes a little, and he sits back into your couch with the beer on the crotch of his jeans. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s done. Nothing happened and nothing will happen.”
You’re chewing on your lip, cause as much as you wanna tell him how stupid he is, how downright crazy and fucking irresponsible he is, you gotta play your next cards real neat. Cause this is the point, right? This is where the ship passes dock and you can either throw yourself overboard, or tuck in and hope the storm ain’t a bad one.
“And the guys that did it?” you churn out. “Handled them too?”
“Does it matter?”
“My God.” You put your head in your hand, massaging out the vein that’s no doubt bursting free of the skin. Handled it. They handled it. Jesus, you knew they were sort of bad, sort of righteous, and you figured they dabbled with shit the same way all big groups of dudes dabble with shit—you mean, even the kooks your Mom surrounded herself with had secrets that you could’ve never imagined, if you hadn’t been right there to hear it from them.
“You should’ve seen him, Lips,” Johnny says. “Was in a real bad way. Just for being one of us, y’know, he didn’t do nothing.”
You take another drink, having forgotten it was even an option, and honestly, you can’t even look at him for a little while. You put your eyes on the label like you’re reading it, or whatever. He thought he was gonna lose him, clearly, thought his Benny was one tendon away from disappearing on him, and look what happened. How quick he went from Johnny Davis to Johnny Strabler.
“So, what?” you say eventually. “You never wearing your patches again?”
“Nah, just when we’re on our own, y’know. Just for a little while.”
You snort. “Great plan. Gang violence eradicated from America.”
“Hey.” He says it so sharp that you look up at him. “No. Don’t say shit like that.”
“You gonna deny it?” you bite back. “I don’t see many chess clubs burning places down, Johnny.”
He doesn’t think you get it, doesn’t think your view of things is the fair view of things—you can tell by the way he’s frowning at you. “We look after each other,” he says, “wasn’t gonna let them do that to one of ours and get away with it.”
You shake your head, growing real tired of it real quick. It’s done, you suppose, like he said, everything’s all square—until some other guy pisses on their territory, that is.
“I don’t like it,” you say, which is putting it way lighter than he deserves, but you can’t think of nothing else to say. He’s set on it, the shit’s over with, and you weren’t even around when it happened. You didn’t come into it at all, really.
“So you’re gonna leave again,” he says.
“What?”
“That’s why you went away, right? After the show?”
“I told you, I was visiting friends.”
“Without saying nothing?”
You shrug. He didn’t ask if you’d be around when he dropped you off that night, and you were still icing him out for being so indifferent with you—which, you might’ve asked him about now, if things didn’t go the way they have, cause if he was regretting you seeing him scrapping with a bunch of fools in the grass, then he sure got over that quick. Sitting there, drinking your beer, talking about burning bars down and ‘handling’ guys for hurting what’s ours.
“If you don’t…if you don’t want this—“
“I never said I didn’t want nothing,” you cut him off, real snappy with it. “I’m just thinking, is all. Jeez.”
He nods, looking a little bit hurt, like a pup that caught Mom’s canine tooth, but you kinda think he deserves it. Just this once. “I had to do something,” he says. “Make a point.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“S’better that they’re scared of us.”
“Johnny,” you wince a little, “I really can’t be dealing with you saying things like that. It’s not—it’s not you.”
He hums one of his hums, and it’s not agreeing or disagreeing at all, it’s something completely flat. Undecided. Something he does just to save him from saying anything else.
“Benny’s gonna be alright?” you ask, cause you’re trying to shake all the drops of the conversation off of you, tick all the boxes and shut it up for good. “He can walk still?”
“Yeah,” Johnny nods, then clears his throat, “Doc says it’ll take a bit, but, yeah. S’gone be alright.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Benny will walk again, meaning Benny will ride again, meaning Johnny really shouldn’t go doing something stupid again. At least not on that scale, you hope. You wish it wasn’t hooked up that way, but well, wishing never got you nothing so far. If Benny is what makes him tick, then God, keep it ticking.
“You wanna go get some food?” you suggest, watching him finish the last of his beer. Cause he did say he’d been worrying, you remember, when he first got here, and maybe he really had been swinging by every day just to check on you. “Feel like I should at least make up for my, y’know, disappearing on you.”
And he really should make up for—
“Nah, I gotta head off.”
“Oh?”
“Gotta go get the girls. Said I’d take them shopping.” He stands, leaving the bottle on the floor by his feet, and wipes his palms down his stomach as he stretches. “Stopped by just to—yeah. I’m glad you’re back.”
You nod, standing too, in that awkward, expected of you way, that people do when guests are making an exit.
“Glad you’re sticking around,” he says, “even with all the…”
“Yeah.”
With all the violence and bullshit that should have you running for the fucking hills. But the way you see it, you spent all your childhood in those hills, and a long while after that too, and you really don’t feel like making your way back there anytime soon. First time in a long while that you’ve had somewhere flat to plant your feet.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him. Meaning now, and in the bigger sense, too, which he gets. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he puts his arm up to touch your waist, cause you’re far enough that he can’t reach anything else. “Come by after you drop them home?”
His eyebrow quirks a little. “Yeah? It’ll be late.”
“I’ll be up.”
“Alright, sure. I’ll come.”
And you’re glad of that, cause as he leaves, he’s still sort of looking like a stranger to you—even more so than he did when he got in here—and you got a mighty need to find out where that man of yours went. Where he’s staying, somewhere under those new clothes of his. You’d wait up all night, for him to come back around, if it meant finding him again.
It is a great sin that I did not reblog this sooner. I already screamt in the dms about it and doing a reblog without full screamting feels incorrect but I was just rereading this and kicking my feet bc man I did not expect the end to take such a turn and get so real, so damn fast and now I’m lying here just like when can I get pt 7 pls okaythxbyeweeee
As mentioned in the OG event post, bc tumblr caps a post at 50 hyperlinks and tagging a blog creates an additional hyperlink, we’ll be crediting writers by including their tumblr handle without @-ing them for now. So there’ll only a link to the fic. HOWMever at the end of the event, there will be another masterlist of every writer who participated throughout the month so their blogs and other fanworks can be found :)
Day 1
Flying In (Chapter 3) | Mayans MC/Narcos Crossover ft OC Lara Losa | 1 - Book of Genesis (by drabbles-mc)
One Good Thing | The Last of Us - Tess/Joel | 24 - Book of Revelations (by our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Wise People | Narcos - Horacio Carrillo/OC Kiara Nash | 12 - Book of Balancing In Between (by proceduralpassion)
Day 2
Desperate | Sons of Anarchy - Jax Teller & OC Claire Morrow | 13 - Book of In Urgent Need of Assistance (drabbles-mc)
Whispers of the Nile | FBI - OA Zidan/Tiffany Wallace | 7 - Book of Time Travel (proceduralpassion)
Score! | Ted Lasso - Ted Lasso & Trent Crimm | 15 - Book of How tf Did We Get Here (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 3
Missed It | TG Maverick - Bradley "Rooster Bradshaw/Reader | 26 - Book of Abduction (drabbles-mc)
It's Me and You, Forever | Narcos - Steve/Connie Murphy | 2 - Book of Fuck-ups (proceduralpassion)
I'll Think of You | Narcos Mexico - Walt Breslin & Pablo Acosta | 25 - Book of Reciprocity (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 4
Untouchable | Sons of Anarchy - Herman Kozik/OC Tawnie Trager | 23 - Book of Just Chaos (drabbles-mc)
Go To Sleep, And Dream of Pain | Little Shop of Horrors - Seymour Krelborn & Audrey II | 21 - Book of Nerves of Steel (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 5
Here On Out | Bikeriders - Benny/Kathy Cross | 8 - Book of These Damn Restraints (drabbles-mc)
Strangers To Friends, Friends Into Lovers, And Strangers Again | Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley | 30 - Book of There's No Place Like... (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 6
Hell-Bent | Ted Lasso - Rebecca Welton & Leslie Higgins | 21 - Book of Nepo-Baby Levels of Incompetence (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 7
Float | Narcos: Mexico - Amado Carrillo Fuentes/Marisol | 2 - Book of Fuck-Ups (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 8
The Jackal | The Day of the Jackal - Charles "The Jackal"/Nuria | 11 - Book of Pit Stops (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 9
Casual (AO3 only) | Narcos - Amado Carrillo Fuentes/Pacho Herrera | 3 - Day of Stuff That Goes in the Junk Drawer (anonymous)
Day 10
...
Day 11
Just Like Old Times | Top Gun Maverick - Jake "Hangman" Seresin/F!Reader | 17 - Book of Inception (drabbles-mc)
Vulnerable | Lempicka - Tamara de Lempicka/Rafaela | 27 - Book of Caretaking (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 12
In A Sky Full of Stars | Before Your Eyes - Benjamin Brynn/Chloe | 7 - Book of Time Travel (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Perspective | Mayans MC - Bishop Losa/F!Reader | 12 - Book of Balancing In Between (drabbles-mc)
Day 13
Until the Day You Don't Come Back | Narcos: Mexico - Andrea Nuñez & David Barrón | 14 - Book of Decisions, Decisions, Decisions (hausofmamadas)
Pairing: Andrea Nuñez & David Barrón (+ some implied Dinarrón)
Prompt: "All we have are our choices" and Crossroads - for @narcosfandomdiscord Narcovember - #14 Book of Decisions Decisions Decisions
Word count: ≈ 4.2K
Note: shoutout to the homie @rerorero-my-cherry whose discord tonteria, talking about skipping off to Mexico to escape fascism somehow sparked the idea for this fic and I can't even explain how or why😂
TWs: Canon-consistent violence, descriptions of violent acts, smoking
There was no possible universe in which he was brought here by conscience. So naturally, she was dying to know the real reason they were meeting now under this bridge...
Andrea gets a mysterious call from a potential new informant one day with information on notoriously corrupt politician and money launderer, Carlos Hank Gonzalez. She agrees to a late-night meeting on the US side of the border, so she can get all the tea, and boy is that tea scalding. (This ended up entirely too long but here you go world.)
⁂
Andrea checks her watch. Almost midnight. The road is quiet, cars passing by every fifteen minutes. The thinnest nail clipping of the moon is out and her informant is over a half an hour late. The lone street light flickering on the overpass above feels like a doomsday clock urging her to cut her losses and go home.
Really, loitering at this fork in the road under a highway bridge isn’t the most sensible idea, not when people were being gunned down in the streets in broad daylight and the cartels were using the bodies of their victims to send telegrams to each other. At least she had enough sense to insist the meeting take place on the US side of the border where her death would at least be investigated should things end badly. Just a few miles from Tecate, she’d found an unmonitored stretch of border the gringos hadn’t fenced off yet a few months ago and had been using it to touch base with informants.
It’s for this reason Salgado is always telling her she’s a clever girl with no sense. And also that if she’s senseless enough not to listen to him, as La Voz’s editor and her boss, he makes no bones about using it to his advantage. And he had - a series of groundbreaking stories about the hipódromo, Carlos Hank Gonzalez, and the AFO were enough to prove her senselessness enough of an asset, no matter how much of a danger it posed. Until the day you don’t come back, he’d note ominously.
But if not her, then who? The job was easier to do if you knew you were already dead. She did. She also didn’t think about it too much. Plus, this lead was too big to pass up. The call with the tip-off had come directly to her desk, an anonymous insider allegedly high enough in the AFO to know all about Gonzalez’s dealings not just with the Arellano family but with Amado Carrillo Fuentes in Juarez; news she wasn’t yet privy to but that made enough sense to catch her attention. And that’s how she ends up on these back-country, dirt roads in the middle of the night.
Of course, she knows it could be a trap too - she’s senseless, not stupid. She knows full well this little rendezvous could be no more than someone making good on a bounty for the head of any journalist from La Voz. She couldn’t even bring herself to revel in the I told you so, when the street edict came down from the AFO after Salgado enacted the policy of removing writers’ names from the bylines, even if she did tell him it was a short-term solution to a long term problem. It was even shorter than they bargained for because within a week of implementing the policy, the AFO had branded anyone who came in and out of that office fair game. Normally she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to retroactively gloat, but this time it didn’t seem fair. Salgado did his best to protect them and it earned the whole staff a scarlet letter. But who’s fault was that really? So she left well enough alone, like she never had an opinion on the matter to begin with.
So yeah, the prospect of this being a trap had occurred to her. More than once. And the longer she sits here, leaning against the hood of her station wagon, checking her watch, the more the possibility keeps rearing its ugly head. Right on cue, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel has her going for the handgun in her waistband and spinning around to greet the void of what she hoped would be empty space under the bridge.
“Hello? Who’s there?” She does her best to breathe, keep calm, as she anchors the gun in both hands, aiming for the shadows.“Dejate ver. Muestrate si no quieres tomarte una bala en el culo.”
A pair of raised hands are the first things to emerge followed by a modestly dressed man with a clean-cut crop of dark hair, dark eyes, and a sharply drawn mustache that gives him the look of a French nobleman caught in the wrong timeline. Her stomach drops several floors and liquifies into a puddle on the ground as it sinks in, just who he is. She’d give anything not to but there’s no eradicating the sense of recognition.
So this is it then. The end of the line.
She’d pictured it just like this. In fact the scene is so familiar, she feels the distinct impulse to laugh at just how much of a cliche she’s about to be. Because as much as she can acknowledge the possibility - meeting a grisly, undignified end, painted somewhere on the streets of a city she’s fought for and loved, just another macabre telegram - she’s also struck by the kind of shame that accompanies shattered hubris. That, somewhere along the way, she mistakenly bought into a brand of exceptionalism she always hoped to avoid, one might call it downright American. Rationally, she’s known the odds, even accepted them. And yet somehow it was still something that only happened to other people.
What a fool. She’d kick herself if she wasn’t about to die. Or maybe … How fast could this guy move? How quick could his hands be? Maybe she’d turn her gun on herself, get a shot off before he could get his out. Take things on her own terms. Not that she can even see a gun. But she doesn’t need to, to know it’s there, tucked in his waistband right at the base of his back.
After all, he is the AFO’s top sicario, David Barrón Corona. One of the most lethal men in Tijuana. Maybe all of Mexico. She’s only ever seen him at a distance, through a telephoto lens or in grainy photographs developed thereafter, but she could recite a list of his exploits from memory like a kid in some perverse spelling bee: the shootout at Christine’s, the airport massacre, the assassination of Ocampo, the shootout at the Belmont cafe. The man’s resume is a mile long and filled with nothing but death.
In her experience, meeting monsters like this tended to be unsettling for how boring and anticlimactic they always seemed to be. He appears no different. Just a man walking on two legs, with two eyes to see, and those eyes aren’t even crazed or rage-filled or brimming with hate. Whenever she came face to face with someone like him, it tended to incite within her a twinge of irritation that they couldn’t do everyone the courtesy of coming with some kind of warning label.
One of her hands drops and she walks toward him, gun drawn as she cocks the hammer and fires a warning shot into the ground next to him with an ease that surprises even her. He barely flinches. It’s obviously not his first rodeo. Which, yes, is to be expected but the stillness of him is still downright chilling.
His posture is relaxed, hands up in an effort to suspend hostilities. She’s decidedly unmoved in her hostility.
“Y’know,” he attempts to reassure her, “if I wanted to kill you, ya estarías en el piso, desangrándote en la tierra,” but it looms more like a threat.
It catches her off guard though, how much softer, gentler his voice is than she expected. It’s almost enough to disarm her entirely until she remembers all the coroner’s reports and crime scene photos she’d come across in her research. His handiwork. Well-executed executions, meted out with such quiet indifference he could’ve been telling them a bedtime story. This is who she’s dealing with.
“O sí? Pues soy yo ya quien tiene la pistola. So start talking, cabrón antes que te dé por el culo,” she flicks her wrist, pointing the gun barrel at the gravel disturbed by the first shot, “with another one of those.”
He chuckles, “Usually when people, civvies especially, say that,” making sure to keep his hands up, careful not to make any sudden movements, “no les creo. Pero a ti? A ti te creo.”
“Arre. So, if you’re really not here to kill me, fuiste tu con quien hablé por el telefono?”
He gives a stiff nod.
Andrea cocks her head to one side, examining him in the flickering street lamp light. He’d be handsome were it not for the vacuum in his eyes, no warmth, no life, yet here he was, breathing and blinking and talking all the same. There was no possible universe in which he was brought here by conscience. With what she knew, he was likely immune to that particular plague. So naturally, she was dying to know the real reason they were meeting now under this bridge, at this dirt crossroads, near the dirt town of Tecate.
“Do I, uh, have to keep these,” he looks right, then left, at each of his arms, “up the whole time?”
She considers the risk for a moment, ultimately deciding to let him but refuses to drop her gun. His hands come swinging down by his sides apparently unbothered by the fact that he remains caught in her crosshairs. Yeah, clearly not his first rodeo. Not even his second. Or third.
He meets her eyes but says nothing and the silence starts to feel like a third party in the conversation that just won’t shut up. Andrea taps her foot impatiently but he doesn’t seem to get the memo that this is the part where he’s supposed to do the talking.
“Alright.” She exhales crossly, rolling her eyes. “What did you want to talk about? On the phone you said something about Hank and Juarez?”
“That’s right.” Barrón takes a few steps closer, hands now clasped together at his waist, no more troubled by the gun than when he was further away. “He’s been working with Amado since he took over. Cleaning his money.”
“I don’t understand. Wasn’t he already doing that for the Arellanos?”
He nods.
“Wait, but that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he align himself with warring plazas?”
Looking down, Barrón shrugs, “That’s above my pay grade,” kicking a rock across the dirt, dust trailing behind it like a tiny, terrestrial shooting star. “I’m not that high on the food chain.”
She regards him skeptically, brows crinkling.
His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, “I can only guess,” seeming to take the cue this time. “He’s probably too high-profile for either plaza to fuck with, so big homie can afford to do business with both. But I doubt Sr. Kingpin Accountant accounted for the heat it’d bring back on him with all the, uh– y’know, scrutiny.”
Grinding her teeth, Andrea snorts. Scrutiny was both a succinct and delightfully vanilla way of saying, ‘global attention thanks to all the bodies of the streets.’ But the implications of Hank laundering money for Juarez were big. He might be playing the plazas off each other, biding his time until a victor emerges, one he’ll be all too happy to chuck right under the bus the minute the political machine decides it needs to offer up its next sacrificial lamb to the gringos. Standing there, trying to put all these new pieces together, Andrea suddenly remembers the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her flannel and wishes she’d thought to smoke one before they’d started talking. She can’t afford the distraction of lighting one up now, what with having to keep the gun in place.
“Alright, so he’s doing business with both plazas. How the hell do you know this? You said it yourself, you’re not that high up on the food chain.”
He seems to bristle at this, throwing her a sideways glance through half-lidded eyes, face overtaken by a dangerous, far-away look that spooks her even more than the gun at his back. “Why would you need to know that to write your little story.”
Interesting. Something personal, perhaps. She’d get it out of him one way or another. But later.
“Well,” she grips the gun even tighter, knuckles going white and she hopes that by keeping her voice level, he can’t sense how scared she is, “it’s not going in an article per se. But for reasons that I hope would be obvious? I can’t identify you as a source. You’ll have to remain anonymous.”
“You don’t gotta do that on my account.”
Practically gagging on disbelief, she manages to sputter out, “For you? What are you kidding?” before regaining her composure. “I mean– well frankly, you’re a criminal, a killer at that, putting a rival cartel in the headlines, so it’s more an issue of self-interest. Now, I know doing something like this does nothing but put you at risk but my readers won’t know that. So, telling me how exactly you found out about all this would lend you more credibility as a source. O sea significa que podemos confiar más en lo que me has dicho.”
This seems to wound him privately somehow like he’s taken it worse than the bullet she’d fired. But whatever it stirs in him is gone before she gets a chance to interrogate it further.
No less relentless, it is enough for her to ease up on her delivery. “So do you have proof? Something concrete that I can take back to my editor?”
His hand goes in his pocket and he begins digging around for something. Andrea’s whole body stiffens and she takes a step back, arm straightening to retrain the gun on him more decisively. If he notices, he doesn’t show it as he continues fishing around in his pocket until he finally brings out a few folded documents along with a bag of rolling papers. He takes a pre-rolled cigarette out of the bag, popping it between his lips while reaching out to pass her the documents. A few hesitant steps forward, she lowers the gun slowly snatching the papers from his hands quickly before scurrying back again. Her head bobs up and down between watching him and trying to read what’s on the page in front of her.
“What are these,” she flips through a few pages, “business licenses?”
“Among other things.”
She skims the first document and for the first time she feels like this whole thing might not be a trap. Fixing him with the coldest, most I-will-kill-you stare she can manage, “I’m taking a big risk, doing this. No me hagas arrepentirme o te arrepentiras, lo prometo,” she flicks the safety on and puts the gun in her waistband, in front so he knows she still has easy access.
Bowing his head, Barrón agrees, "Noted," cracking a small smile, something akin to respect or maybe admiration and it’s the first time his face displays any emotion. It puts her a little more at ease.
Both hands now free, Andrea combs through the documents, a few loose, the rest stapled together, some with carbon copy backings, and skims for the highlights - important phrases, dates, places, signatures - until she finds a signature at the bottom of a business license for an aeronautic manufacturing company.
“A shell company,” Barrón confirms her suspicions before they’re even fully formed. “Makes specialty parts for small planes. Like Cessnas.”
She flips to the next page, documents showing ownership stakes in the casino at the hipódromo along with two of the Arellanos’ discotheques. Flipping through the rest, it’s more of the same, SEC and CNBV registrations for shell corporations, licenses for legitimate businesses, and share certificates, none of them bearing Carlos Hank’s name but nonetheless tying him to both Tijuana and Juarez by a signature almost as important: Carolina Vera. His lawyer. She was all over these documents.
Speechless, Andrea’s head rises slowly to look at Barrón. When she said proof, she wasn’t expecting it to be this monumental. The cynic in her kicks up, wondering if it isn’t just a more elaborate trap designed to lull her in a state of submission before the jaws snap shut for good.
“It gets better," he says, examining his zip-o lighter before flicking the top back and forth a few times with his thumb.
Which reminds her, in desperate need of a cigarette, Andrea folds the papers up and sticks them in the back pocket of her jeans and then feverishly digs around the pocket of her shirt for her pack. Once retrieved, she flicks her lighter several times, sparks flying at the end of the cigarette in her mouth, until finally a little bloom of flame appears out of the corner of her eye to light it for her. He's a smooth motherfucker, she'll give him that, although strangely, there was nothing smug about it. He brings it back, cradling the flame with his other hand to light his own. After a first drag, Andrea dips her head back, a cyclone of smoke pouring from her lips while she exhales in relief.
“How,” snapping forward again, she takes another drag before asking, voice thick, each word encased in smoke, “does this get any better?”
“I have another source.”
“What? Who?”
“Cristina Palacios Hodoyan.”
“No me digas." The shock has her nearly wheezing the words and her eyes are wide, almost feral with curiosity. “You know where she is?”
He smirks. “Who do you think hid her?”
“What? So– but wait, so you didn’t—y’know. Her sons?”
Suddenly he can’t meet her eyes and she can’t wipe the image of the bridge from her mind - the row of lifeless bodies strung up, punishment para los soplones, whose biggest crime was usually no more than bearing witness to things she never agreed to see in the first place. That Alex and Alfredo were more involved in the extracurricular activities didn’t change the fact that they were just boys.
Perhaps trying to get a read on Andrea or maybe just hoping to fill the silence, Barrón offers, “Everyone assumed- and for good reason. But that time wasn’t me. I was in San Diego, trying t–”
“Save it.” With one look, she skewers him, eyes narrowed, mouth tight, not here for his bullshit. “Vete alaverga con esa ‘that time.’ How many other times was it you, huh?”
Meeting her eyes again like he recognizes his mistake, he responds matter-of-factly, “Plenty,” head held high, no attempt at contrition, false or otherwise.
Still, she’s expecting him to plead his case, so she waits for the explanation, the mental gymnastics, the cognitive dissonance, the rationalization for every single horrific act of violence wrapped up in that plenty. After standing there, watching each other in silence for who knows how long, she realizes there won’t be any of that. And up sprouts the tiniest kernel of respect that she already hates for being there. But she can’t help it. David Barrón could be called a lot of things but a hypocrite wasn’t one of them. She rolls her eyes because christ, who needs heroes when the bar is this high.
She mumbles to herself, “There’s a fire sale and everything must go,” but before he can voice the look of pure confusion on his face, she’s onto the next question, something tugging at the back of her mind since he first stepped out of the shadows of the overpass. “So, what’s in this for you? Why are you telling me all of this?”
Gaze shifting off to the light polluted horizon, he goes quiet. Eventually he just says, “That’s a big question.”
If this was a television interview, the broadcast would’ve been cut for all the dead air between them but she just waits, hoping he might give her just a little more, something to put this whole bizarre night into perspective.
“It’s just—” he shakes his head, “the way I come up—” putting his smoke to his lips and taking a pull so long, she wonders if maybe the question hasn’t short-circuited him a bit.
“Gettin’ into all this,” he waves his hand around at nothing in particular, a party streamer of smoke left behind its path, “wasn’t really a choice for me. Not like how it is here. Now in this new– whatever. Era. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. We were supposed to legitimize. Climb outta this ditch, not dig it deeper.
“This? What do you mean?”
“The game,” he huffs in a moment of frustration, the only emotion he’s let escape so far. “Used to be no civvies, no bystanders, no regular folk. If you was in the game, you get popped on the street, well okay, you knew what you signed up for. But all this other– truth is, man, I’m just tired. Tired of the game, the life, tired of doing all this shit just to be someone’s second choice.”
It was the most he’d spoken the entire time and she didn’t want to interrupt for fear he’d clam up again and go back to nods and one-word answers, but she’d have to start asking some follow-up questions if he didn’t start putting some names to these pronouns.
“I tried to save him, y’know, for her.” He keeps going, face fixed with a thousand yard stare so vacant and icy, he might’ve had the surface of the moon in his eyes. “But I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to. She knows I tried but maybe she knows that too.”
“Hm.” Crossing her arms, one hip cocked out to the side, Andrea examines the end of her cigarette before holding it off to the side and tapping it with her finger. “So the rumors were true. You and Enedina.”
“I thought it’d be different.” Barrón turns back to her, flashing a nihilistic smirk that reveals how broken he is. “But the things she’s asked me to do,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know. The game ain’t in me no more. And this last one, well—”
“This last one?”
“Your editor. He was greenlit.”
It takes a moment to register. When it finally does, Andrea feels like someone’s pressed pause on reality only to start playing it again in slow motion.
“Y— you mean, my—? uh, Salgado? Ramon?
“Pues, sí.”
“You’re certain?”
“Mhm. My next mark.”
“Hijoueputa,” she mutters. “No es posible.”
Stamping his cigarette out in the dirt with the heel of his wingtip, he nods. “Best believe it.”
“Well— so what? Are you still gonna go after him?” Andrea’s getting more panicked by the second, her fingers finding the grip of her gun.
Chuckling, Barrón puts a hand up in gentle protest, “Nah, chill.”
For some inexplicable reason, she listens to him.“Fine. So, what’re you gonna do then?”
”Something I’ve never done in my whole life.”
“What’s that?”
“Miss.”
Andrea appears to take some comfort in this as her shoulders drop, a breath escaping that she didn’t even know she was holding. Remembering her cigarette, she takes a last drag while noting dryly, “You know, you can never go back.”
A blank look from him is the only response she gets.
“If you do that— y’know, miss. The minute I talk to Cristina, the minute I write this, they’ll probably figure out it’s you. You can never go back.”
Barrón just shakes his head, resigned. “No, ma’am.”
“No? What, no? If they find out you’re my source, they’ll kill you.”
“Of course. I know how they’ll do it too.” He says it with a twinge of pride that reminds Andrea exactly who she’s talking to. “It’ll be someone I know. I’ll see it coming. They’ll want me to see it coming. Cause they know I know.”
Despite this reminder of who he is, what he’s done, she can’t quash that kernel of respect that’s been planted. Even if he wanted to atone, he had enough respect not to insult her by trying to. Nor did he feel sorry for himself that he probably didn’t deserve to. It was a display of accountability she rarely saw from someone as morally bankrupt as he’d had to be. Until now anyway. And this makes her feel, in spite of herself, almost sorry for him. “You’re not scared?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Well, of course,” she shrugs, twisting the filter of her cigarette until the cherry and remaining tobacco fall out before tossing it behind her. “But I w–“
“But you wouldn’t deserve it. And it’s true, I got it coming. Made my own bed as they say. But I can still be scared. Even if I know, at the end of the day, all we have are our choices.”
Andrea smirks, crossing her arms, looking down at the ground to push some dust around with the toe of her boot, unsure what to say next. When she looks back up, he’s already walking away, hands in his pockets, leisurely like he’s got nowhere to be, back to the shadowy spot under the bridge he came from. She wondered if his car was parked there or somewhere else. Or maybe he’s just some visiting ghost of Christmas past and she’ll wake up from this dream.
”Hey,” she calls out.
Just before he reaches the edge of the void, he spins around on his heels, hands still in his pockets, eyebrows raised, and waits.
“For what it’s worth– well, you do have it coming. But … I hope you find your way to some peace somehow.”
The unexpected happens then. He smiles. But this time it travels up his face all the way to his eyes, lighting them up. It might be as rare as a passing comet. So there are signs of life, after all.
Why do writers apologize for long fics? why aRE YOU SORRY FOR FEEDING US POOR, SORRY SOULS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK WE COULD EVER DREAM OF READING?? DO MICHELIN STAR CHEFS APOLOGIZE FOR COOKING THE MOST DIVINE FOOD EVER MADE??? DO THEY APOLOGIZE FOR NOURISHING OUR BODY AND SOULS????
My feelings exactly! PLEASE do not apologize for giving me exactly what I want - MORE of your amazingly creative talent, more of your thoughtful, cocky, gorgeous characters, more mystery, more humor and maybe even more angst. 😉
More words=Better stories
For me, at least, in fan fiction.
I’m an old j-school student. Trust me when I say, I’d be honest if it was too wordy!
As mentioned in the OG event post, bc tumblr caps a post at 50 hyperlinks and tagging a blog creates an additional hyperlink, we’ll be crediting writers by including their tumblr handle without @-ing them for now. So there’ll only a link to the fic. HOWMever at the end of the event, there will be another masterlist of every writer who participated throughout the month so their blogs and other fanworks can be found :)
Day 1
Flying In (Chapter 3) | Mayans MC/Narcos Crossover ft OC Lara Losa | 1 - Book of Genesis (by drabbles-mc)
One Good Thing | The Last of Us - Tess/Joel | 24 - Book of Revelations (by our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Wise People | Narcos - Carrillo/OC Kiara Nash | 12 - Book of Balancing In Between (by proceduralpassion)
Day 2
Desperate | Sons of Anarchy - Jax Teller & OC Claire Morrow | 13 - Book of In Urgent Need of Assistance (drabbles-mc)
Whispers of the Nile | FBI - OA Zidan/Tiffany Wallace | 7 - Book of Time Travel (proceduralpassion)
Score! | Ted Lasso - Ted Lasso & Trent Crimm | 15 - Book of How tf Did We Get Here (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Day 3
Missed It | TG Maverick - Bradley Bradshaw/Reader | 26 - Book of Abduction (drabbles-mc)
It's Me and You, Forever | Narcos - Steve/Connie Murphy | 2 - Book of Fuck-ups (proceduralpassion)
I'll Think of You | Narcos Mexico - Walt Breslin & Pablo Acosta | 25 - Book of Reciprocity (our-future-is-up-to-us-2)
Fic number 3! And it's actually a Narcos fic @narcosfandomdiscord
Have fun with our favourite guy, aka "some guy", aka "my guy", aka "Walt Breslin" >:D
Prompt #25, Book Of Reciprocity: "Fine, I'll do it myself."
Word Count: 1.3K
Relationships: Mimi/Pablo Acosta, Walt Breslin & Pablo Acosta
Warnings: Mentioned character death, mentioned drug use (as per canon)
~ Read the fic under the cut ~
Fuck it .
It’s a thought that Walt Breslin thinks on a daily basis.
With Operation Leyenda well and truly over, Walt and his crew had to switch tactics, not without people like Ed Heath towering over them.
Better yet, fucking asshole Calderoni lurks, with his helpful information at one point, and heavy insults at others.
This team of theirs, a real ragtag bunch, can only do so much.
Breslin inquires, one day, if his team has the strength to go on. He gives them all permission to leave: Some have better jobs than this to pursue, others are husbands, and fathers of little boys and girls.
He gives them an exit route, a free pass outta town.
Determination rouses inside him when none of them refuse.
They’ll work, side by side, till the break of dawn, till the end of the day– If it means avenging Kiki Camarena, if it means bringing justice to his name!
That’s all that matters.
He’ll defy anyone that stands in his way. Well, as much as he can do so.
And there comes a point where he’s the one making negotiations, compromises with a side that should be wrong. In all truth, the people he’s speaking to… They’re saner than he expected, especially for their profession.
Before he leaves to meet them, he tells his team, “This one, I’m doing by myself.”
He says it again, in a different way, when they don’t get the message.
“Guys, look, I get it. I’m the leader here. But, damn that! I can only take you so far… You’re angry about it, yes, but let me go. I’ve got the information, the equipment, the leads– Now you’re angry at me. Got it. Fine, I’ll do it myself! You guys stick around, do what you can with what you know, and occupy the ground over here.”
Because this mission is a suicide mission, basically.
The rest of the special agents can know he’s out there, Walt Breslin’s on the case, he’s doing something , some solo mission.
As he drives to Ojinaga, a heaviness settles in his gut. He is both free and chained, maddened and rational.
His heart flutters when he spots a girl, tall, blonde and beautiful, standing around a house. She points upwards, and that’s when Walt is taken off-guard.
Pablo Acosta, drug lord, cartel king, working on a roof.
Fuck it , He thinks, once again, Whatever it takes to get him on-side.
***
Pablo asks him to bring up a toolbox, and Walt Breslin can only oblige.
They start talking about life, about change and simple things.
There comes a point where Acosta pauses and cracks the toolbox open. He shuffles about, as though planning which tool to grab, when, in fact, there are no tools whatsoever. Just beer, bottles and bottles of it.
It’s the American’s sign that he can relax, fortunately enough.
“Do you drink?” He asks, a bottle outstretched in one hand.
“Fuck, yeah, I do,” Walt replies, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, “As much as I can handle.”
They clink bottles in acknowledgement and take long, slow sips. They relish the refreshing taste in the dry heat, the bitterness that sinks into their throats.
“Hey, look, I can get you immunity, protection,” The DEA agent offers, “Whatever you need. As long as you cross that border with me, and tell me everything you know about Felix. Felix Gallardo. ” He clarifies, “I’m lookin’ to take him down.”
“Why’s that? Who’s Felix to you?”
Walt takes a swig of his beer and sighs, his eyes fixed on Acosta’s, “He killed a federal agent. Camarena, his name was. He was diligent, so I’ve heard, and he didn’t deserve what he got. So… This is to avenge him, I guess.”
“So you’ve heard?” The other smiles, tilting his hat, “So you guess? Did you ever know him, Camarena, the agent that died?”
As a DEA agent, he feels like he should’ve, but they weren’t in the same place, the same sector. Kiki was working for longer hours, harder than he ever could’ve… But he didn’t know the man. Not personally. He never got the time, had the connections, to find out who he really was, if he had a family, what he liked in the world…
Pablo Acosta seems to appreciate the simple things. And if Pablo Acosta had met Kiki Camarena, maybe, pushing all the drugs and crime aside, they would have got along splendidly.
All Walt can do is shake his head, rather sadly.
“You didn’t even know him…” Acosta tuts, as though to place blame on Walt. “And I get it, comrades, partners… You trust people who work the same way as you. I can’t do that anymore. All I can trust is Mimi,” He gestures to the girl with fondness, “Or, maybe you.”
“You should trust me,” The DEA agent huffs, crossing his arms, “I’m trying to help you, here… As long as you help me back.”
“I don’t know where I fit in anymore,” He segues, “There’s… A different feeling here, with the drug now, cocaine, the Colombians, fucking politicians… Everything is crazy. So, I might just settle down.”
“Settle down across the border.” He pleads, “Help me out here.”
Acosta stands up, drinks some beer, wanders around the roof aimlessly. Even while Breslin is angry, a part of him worries about the guy crashing and falling.
He exhales and turns back to face the American, glad to occupy the higher ground. “I can’t help you out without knowing who you are. Don’t start… Listing bullshit things. What are you really doing here? That agent is long gone.”
Fuck. Walt thinks, cracking his knuckles just to hear the sound.
The thought is not fuck it , as it should normally be, but instead, total despair. A rock bottom. A weird type of guilt and defeat and admission that he absolutely hates!
And to share it with a former drug lord? Dear god, did things really have to come to this?
I could lie. He muses, staring at the surface below him, pondering, I could lie and cheat and steal to get him to trust me. It’s not beyond the cartels, and it’s not beyond me, is it?
‘Don’t start listing bullshit things.’
Acosta seems like the type of guy to have a lie detector built into his body.
So, Walt looks at him, squints, thanks to the sunlight, and goes for broke.
“Three years ago, I was at home,” He begins, gripping the neck of his beer bottle, “And I was working a shift, everything’s cruisy. That’s when I get a call, for a one-eighteen, a gang-related shooting. But if it was located in the town over, why should I be called?!”
Acosta just shrugs: A simple signal. He doesn’t know the story, so Breslin must tell it.
“If I was called, I had to go… And I knew from that point forward that something was wrong. My brother was involved. Not just that,” A wobble emerges in his voice, “ My brother had died. Three shots to the chest, with an eight-ball of cocaine by his side.”
Walt wipes a hand at his face. He’s vulnerable, he’s scared, and he’s not about to start crying in front of Pablo Acosta.
He finishes his tale with his voice at a mere whisper, “So… Yeah. That’s why I’m here. ”
When the drug lord sits down and lets out a slow exhale, he knows. The story, the truth, the emotions… They’ve all hit in just the right places.
And Walt Breslin can be proud of that. Proud for telling the truth, proud for negotiating in a way that doesn’t involve trickery…
Because Pablo Acosta reveals, just minutes before the DEA agent climbs down to the ground, that his brother was a junkie too.
OMG YESSSSSS OUR VERY OWN MEERKAT MAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!! you're in excellent company as a walt stannie and a valuable addition to the meerkat man fic contributors, so i would hereby like to thank you and honor you for your service. ummmmm where to begin bc i loved this little slice of life of a fic so much.
I guess a good place to start would be to @, This team of theirs, a real ragtag bunch, can only do so much with the following gif which i am contractually obligated to include
bc we love the very dope but very doomed smash-n-grab crew
Then there’s, He is both free and chained, maddened and rational, which is so accurate to Walt and his general essence as a person, he might as well get it tattooed on his body in tiny print yknow the warning label on a prescription that lists all the side effects? yeah, like that. Like you'd be hard-pressed to find a more succinct yet faithful description of this man. Also, love the bit about Walt reflecting on not knowing Kiki bc it is crazy to think about how hard he was gunning for justice on behalf of a dude he'd never met. I’m pretty sure it's the first time we as the audience are told explicitly that Walt, despite narrating all Kiki's S1 journey, despite heading up Leyenda, had never even met the guy. Like i remember being pretty surprised to find this out when I first watched.
So you not only nailed Walt, you positively bullseyed Acosta with this, Acosta seems like the type of guy to have a lie detector built into his body, bc i HWOWWLLED laffing at how bang on it is skjsks like he can sniff out bullshit from Miguel, a complete snake, as gifted in deceit as anyone ever was. So yeah, Acosta’s basically a human magic eight ball 🎱
Connie stops chopping the vegetables on the cutting board as she processes her husband's words. Steve walks over to her, softly grabbing the knife from her.
"W-what?" She stutters.
He grasps her hand into his.
"I feel like every day I'm coming home and giving you more reason to run from this place. Me, Javi, and everyone else, our backs are up against the wall right now, but we're so close. I know things are.. a lot right now. But just… don't run out on me."
Connie had been facing the kitchen counter initially, but she turned directly to Steve, folding herself into his arms.
"Steve," She starts, holding his face in her hands, "Olivia and I aren't going anywhere. Where you go, we go."
His eyes are closed as he nods his head so many times as if he's making sure to reassure himself. She stills his motion and brings him closer to her.
OHHHHH I LOVVVVEEEEEEE?????? THIS?????? indeed she (as in the fic and our fav baddie DEA spouse, Connie) is smol but mighty!!!! it's so interesting bc i remember being annoyed they sent her packing in S2 only to bring her back after A Certain Someone dies just to then send her right back again, like you're so right. she had way more mettle than that and the squandered potential is maddening to think about, therefore making this a prime candidate for a righteous indignation, this-calls-for-a-fix-it
also, we love to see Steve in possession of the self awareness that he might be participating in things or acting in such a manner that might drive his wife away and also in possession of enough maturity to then say that out loud to her, therefore providing her her the opportunity to reassure him that she is, indeed, a ride or die, like it's just, we fuckin love to see it
Written for @narcosfandomdiscord 's Book of Abduction: "Somebody has to be paying attention."
Warnings: 18+, language, established relationship, fluff
Word Count: 1.5k
A/N: despite the name of the prompt, no one is getting abducted in this fic 😂 idk what it is about Bradley Bradshaw but whenever i want to write a fluffy fic with that man i put him in the kitchen alongside his partner. don't ask me why my brain always goes there because i just Don't Know lmao
When the two of you had gotten everything set out on the counter to make dinner, you had been asking yourself why you didn’t cook together more often. Most day-to-day things you tackled together, things like grocery shopping and laundry. Even so, whenever one of you was cooking, it was always just one of you. You could try to chalk it up to work schedules or one of you not bothering to ask the other for help because it was just part of the routine now, but there was no actual reason for it.
Things had been going fine for the first fifteen minutes while you were prepping everything. You couldn’t help but to rag on him a little bit about his knife skills, remarking that it was pretty impressive that he managed to do all of that without chopping the tip of his fingers off like you’d thought he would.
He’d laughed and shaken his head at you, but it didn’t pry his focus away from what he was doing. If anything, now he was even more determined to stay dialed in and not mess up in front of you—he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of getting exactly what you were waiting for. His competitive streak followed him home form the base, but he was fortunate in that most times you found it to be a little endearing or at least amusing.
The two of you playing chef was going fine until you’d started to sauté everything together in the pan on the stove. For the first two minutes you were perfectly focused on that while Bradley busied himself getting the bowls and silverware. The two of you were moving around each other without any issues, each in your own lane, until you felt him stop and linger behind you.
Turning your head, you saw him looking over your shoulder, watching as you deftly moved the noodles and vegetables around in the pan. You laughed, raising your eyebrows at him. “Can I help you with something, Bradshaw?”
His eyes drifted from the pan on the stove to your face, and once he was looking at you, a smirk immediately pulled at the end of his mouth. “No, but looks like I could help you with something.”
You rolled your eyes, but still smiled. “And what’s that?”
He nodded towards the pan. “You missed one.”
The laugh you let out was equal parts humor and sarcasm. “I missed one?”
“Yeah,” he replied as plain as ever.
You made a brief gesture towards the pan that was sizzling nicely on the stove. “Where? I would love if you could point it out.”
“If you can’t see it,” he shook his head admonishingly as he placed his hand on your hip, “then I don’t think I can help you.”
You turned the rest of your body to follow your head and Bradley made sure his hand didn’t stray from your hip as you did so. Once you were facing him, your back to the stove, you held out the chopsticks that were in your hand. Pushing them towards him, you lifted your eyebrows in a way to wordlessly communicate that he was more than welcome to take care of it himself.
He held his hands up, palms facing you. “No, no. You said that I could help with the prep and then you’d handle this part. Your words. I wouldn’t wanna take that away from you.”
The false sincerity that he said it with got you to break your silence with another laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure that’s what it is. Chivalry, or whatever your approximation of that is.”
“I’m very chivalrous.”
You cocked an eyebrow. “Is that your final answer?”
He mirrored your expression. “What else would it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you dragged the word out for all it was worth before pointing at him aggressively with your chopsticks. “Maybe you don’t want to admit that you still haven’t learned how to cook using chopsticks.”
He waved you off as though you’d said something ridiculous, but he didn’t reach for them to prove you wrong. That’s how you knew you had him, because if there was one thing that Bradley Bradshaw was always going to do, it was take advantage of an opportunity to be right in any debate that the two of you got into a home.
“Go ahead,” you held your hand out, palm-up with the chopsticks resting across it like a peace offering. “Prove me wrong.”
Bradley looked at your hand, and then at you. He saw the smirk that was on your face, and even though he was shaking his head at you, the warm smile that was crossing his face was giving you a different message entirely. While Bradley might’ve been the one out of the two of you known for being stubborn, especially outside the four walls of your shared apartment, you knew how to give him a run for his money on that. More often than not you were happy to go with the flow, but when you decided that you were going to pick a point and stand on it, Bradley hardly ever stood a chance. Lucky for him you usually only used those powers in small, silly debates like the one you were currently in.
“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” he finally said, grin splitting a little wider.
You barked out a laugh, head dropping back as you did so. “Really?” Instead of giving you a verbal response, he just kept the smile on his face as he shrugged at you, like he was daring you to try something else. As tempting as it was to take the bait, you shook your head at him. “You know, I tried to be so nice and invite you to cook with me. And this is what I get!”
“Invite me?” he parroted back incredulously, trying not to laugh. “Invite me to cook with you, my own girlfriend? In our own kitchen? In our own apartment?” Taking his hand off of your hip, he pressed it against his own chest with the type of dramatics he saved just for you. “How did I get so lucky?”
You were both breaking down into fits of laughter as you said, “Keep asking your—”
The rest of your sentence was drowned out by the sound of the smoke detector in your apartment going off. Both of you looked around, and while it wasn’t bad at all, the alarm in your apartment had always been on the sensitive side—luckily your neighbors had yet to complain.
“Shit!”
“Fuck!”
You both cursed at the same time, still laughing as you each made yourselves busy trying to get the alarm to shut off again. You turned off the stove, moving the stir-fry pan to the cool burner at the back of the stove. Bradley swiped the dish towel off the counter and went over to stand underneath the smoke detector. Unfolding the towel all the way, he flapped it in an attempt to get the smoke to dissipate enough for the incessant beeping to stop. It only took about thirty seconds for it to stop, but it felt like so much longer when the noise wouldn’t abate.
Once it did, Bradley tossed the towel so that it was draped over one shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
You laughed as you checked to see if any real damage had been done to what the two of you had been planning to eat for dinner. A few noodles on the bottom of the pan caught the worst of it, but it wasn’t unsalvageable.
“This is why I cook alone,” you said as you tentatively turned the stove back on, using your chopsticks to pick out the few pieces that were just a little too crispy to keep and tossing them in the trash with expert precision.
He chuckled as he walked up behind you, his chest pressing against your back as he loomed over your shoulder again. “What’s that supposed to mean? Like this happens to you all the time.”
You shook your head at him. “Well somebody has to be paying attention, and clearly we can’t—”
“If I remember correctly,” he interjected, and you could feel the tickle of his breath against your skin as he spoke, “this all got started because I was paying attention.”
You hummed in amusement. “That’s how you remember it, huh?”
He nodded before pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Yep.” Another kiss. “You’re welcome.”
You could feel the way he was leaning in for another kiss, and before he could you reached behind you with the hand that wasn’t holding your chopsticks and playfully pressed your palm to his forehead, lightly pushing him back away from you.
“No more distracting me—we’ll set off the smoke alarm again.”
He laughed as he took a step back, leaving a small gap between you. “Worth it.”
Top Gun Maverick Taglist: @garbinge @justreblogginfics @proceduralpassion (If you'd like to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)
despite having never seen tg maverick, ohhhhhi juuuuuuust positively loved this, this had me giggling with glee and kicking my feet a la ☟☟
bc in all my life, i would never have come up with this premise for this prompt, it's so inspired, so inventive, i'm kissing you, i'm slapping you - one left, one right - on both cheeks, i'm bowing at your feet, i'm grabbing you by the hair and swinging you around, i'm handing you a nobel peace prize.
also the way it came back full circle by the end - “No more distracting me—we’ll set off the smoke alarm again.” He laughed as he took a step back, leaving a small gap between you. “Worth it.” - just makes this such a perfect little snacklet fic for me at 2am on this monday morn sksk like your ability to be succinct and yet complete at the same time will never cease to amaze me
oh and ps. the titles like "book of abduction," "book of how tf did we get here," were just loose themes to group the prompts. In order to avoid confusing ppl, I had to group by something other than "day 1, day 2, etc" bc it's a nonchronological challenge. But at the same time, I needed to format the post so it was clear there were 30 separate sets of 3 prompts. So I did the book idea as a silly formatting device and some are such a reach as to be almost nonsensical to anyone but me so it's totally fine this had nothing to do with abduction sksk
Prompt #15, Book Of How TF Did We Get Here: Ambition
Word Count: 1.3K
Relationships: Trent Crimm & Ted Lasso
Warnings: None
~ Read the fic under the cut ~
Trent doesn’t know where he gets it from.
Well, not just one ‘it’, but all of it.
He watches Ted sit down for the press, bags heavy underneath his eyes, and watches him fumble with the crowd.
Let battle commence.
Amidst sparkling water and goalies resembling Mickey Mouse, the British journalist can determine that the American’s career is going to shit.
He may have thrived well in the States, but here, it’s clearly a different ballgame, both figuratively and literally.
Trent cracks a smile when the coach gestures his way. After all, he deserves some brutal honesty, rather than a mishmash of questions followed by a ramble on his non-existent football background.
“ Trent Crimm, The Independent. ” Because it never hurts to make himself known, “So, you’re an American , whose athletic success has only come at the amateur level…”
He weaves the words together, careful and precise, because he’ll hit Ted where he needs to be hit. He’ll make sure that nothing is wasted, that there’s the blow-by-blow effect of it all, scrunching up in Lasso’s sorry face.
Instead, after all that, he remains unfazed.
“You got a question in there, Trent?”
Of course, The journalist thinks, clutching his glasses tightly, Better be well prepared for it.
“Yeahhh,” He speaks without a care in the world, and yet, with this calculated fierceness that seems to send a shiver up Ted’s spine, “ Is this a fucking joke? ”
***
There comes a time to observe the pitch, and instead of Ted Lasso the person, rather, Ted Lasso at work.
After all, it seems appropriate that a coach stands on the sidelines, coincidentally, where he also lurks.
“Hello, Coach Ted Lasso from America.”
“Hello, Trent Crimm from The Independent! ”
The exchange flies by like they’ve been friends for years, and the journalist unfortunately feels it.
This is what Rebecca must’ve warned him about, relentless niceties and a general air of… Well, kindness. This sort of thing may as well be foreign to Richmond’s population. Crimm certainly knows that he can withhold a smile.
“You’re organising a play, Ted.”
The man hurriedly nods, looking between the journalist and his players.
That kind of nod… He muses, almost daring to say it out loud, just to rile the other up, “Is it really your play?”
At first, the manager shrugs, before shaking his head and gesturing to someone in the distance, “Naw, I wish it was, Trent. Instead this was cooked up by Nate the Great! One and only.”
Well, I’ll be, He thinks, writing the name down on his notepad and taking a step closer to Lasso.
“Letting everyone else do the work around here, hm?”
“ No, ” Ted playfully wags a finger, “I’m just– Adjusting, you see! Besides, everyone in AFC Richmond is a part of the team, from me, to the players, to Rebecca, and Nate. We’ve all gotta bond.”
Coach Beard, next to the other coach, nods, arms crossed as he focuses on the game ahead.
“Did ya see that?!” The manager beams, “There’s your headline! ‘Nate The Great Makes A Great Play, Man Nods Head’!”
Trent sucks in a breath, How can he be so sure of himself? It’s as though this play could fail miserably, and he’d still be… Happy.
Instead, the journalist adds some notes to his collection, laser-focused until Ted speaks again.
“Lookin’ forward to that profiling today.” He says with an outstretched hand.
He can’t do anything else. It’s disrespectful to ignore such a polite gesture, let alone swat away Ted Lasso’s hand.
He takes Ted’s sweaty hand in his own, stifling back a laugh as their eyes awkwardly meet.
“Looking forward to profiling you.”
Well, how genuinely can he express that? Trent Crimm from The Independent , expressing feelings? Absurd.
He supposes things are just the slightest bit more genuine, because he’s doing something he loves, surrounded by the energy of a person full of love.
But, there’s still more to uncover, so he won’t be broken so soon.
***
By the end of that night, he’s leaning back in his chair, relishing the words as though they were a meal, reflecting on an opinion piece well done.
His eyes scan over the last words and how truthful they were, how much they shed to light… He would coin it ‘The Ted Lasso Effect’, for he remains swayed by such a simple conversation.
And though I believe that Ted Lasso will fail here, and Richmond will suffer the embarrassment of relegation, I won’t gloat when it happens. Because I can’t help but root for him.
It’s savagery, restraint, and kindness all in one.
Trent can only wonder where the next matches will take the team, and whether there will be the embarrassment of relegation to begin with. Maybe Ted Lasso will pull the team through, let them soar to incredible heights. Maybe they will plummet to the ground, face first, and he’ll understand what it is like to suffer, over and over again.
Only time can tell where Richmond will go, all in the hands of some crazy (good) American.
***
Trent Crimm is not just a journalist for football, but an avid football fan, too.
The two go hand in hand, because, when he’s not reporting the games, he’ll watch them. From the comfort of home is, of course, the most preferable, but something tells him to buy tickets for the next game. To brace the cold weather and attend in person, like something will miraculously emerge from the pitch.
With a sigh, he slumps into his seat and crosses his legs, his eyes predominantly tracking Ted Lasso, especially at the half-time mark.
Jamie scores a goal and he’s benched?! What madness! The journalist thinks, craning his neck to see the manager in rapid-fire conversation with Rebecca, If I had any vulgarity in me, I’d be following the words of the crowd…
They all call him a ‘wanker’, and Trent does not dispute the idea. Instead, he watches the community fight against him one moment, and become endeared the next.
As time ticks on, he’s prepared to walk out of the stadium, seeing the tie at 2-2, and finding very little hope in Richmond to win. After all, ties do exist here, as Ted had to find out on his first day.
A tie is better than a loss, and if anything, the manager should be pleased with that result.
Trent shakes his head but somehow remains in his seat, since Cockburn’s sent the ball flying down the pitch, and captain Roy Kent is off to the races–
This is the adrenaline, the exhilaration of football at its finest.
To his surprise and sheer happiness, Sam Obisanya receives the ball, kicks well, and buries it.
He doesn’t hesitate to stand up and cheer with the crowd, clapping with the rest of them. It’s an honest and open celebration, something that warms his heart.
Trent Crimm even manages a smile, a smile when Ted jumps around the field, hugging Coach Beard and Nate the Great for good measure, only to walk onto the pitch and high-five his teammates.
The whole thing strikes a chord with the British journalist, the high of the victory never dissipating for a second. However, as the crowd settles down, he does the same, sitting back in his seat.
Pulling out his notepad, he writes:
Ted Lasso manages a stunning first win for AFC Richmond. Benching Jamie was a gut-wrenching decision, but one that has paid off. The victory does not come lightly, and should be celebrated as much as possible while it lasts.
If this match has proven anything, it proves that teams can rise to greatness, propelled by a crazy (good) American coach and manager, who strives with optimism and ambition.
It’s the type of ambition that leaves a thorough mark on its audiences, and one that I hope never changes.
And with that, Trent Crimm from The Independent has scored in his own way, heading home with a lighter head and heart than he has in a long time.
i have never read any fic for Ted Lasso before so it was such a pleasant surprise to see this pop up for the challenge!!! this is why we made it multifandom and i'm so glad we did 💃💃💃💃i also love how you've gotten into Trent's head bc he really is all of us in the audience-- or well, i won't speak for everybody, but as a terminal curmudgeon since the day i was birthéd, i am most definitely Trent Crimm. in fact, i refused to watch Ted Lasso for the longest time bc i was just like, "blegh i don't wanna watch some stupid cheerful sportsball show, tf is this fluffy shit" and completely writing off the possibility of any depth to the show. until my mom essentially forced me to watch it at christmas one year and boy, did i have to eat my pride whole that day skdfjsk
also, the moment, "Naw" showed up on the page (screen?) i was like now, that's so Ted. You captured his voice so perfectly but the cherry on top of the sunday was the "one and only" at the end of that bit of dialogue. just brilliant rendering of our dear Ted “Naw, I wish it was, Trent. Instead this was cooked up by Nate the Great! One and only.”
And honorable mention for, It’s savagery, restraint, and kindness all in one bc shit is FIREEEE
With the sunset comes coolness after a blazing day. And still, Tiffany finds herself invigorated. Filled with so much passion that her happiness bursts at the seams of her. It's been so long and she can't remember the last time she's felt this heavy stream of inspiration flowing through her.
It might've been when she first joined the FBI. She had all these aspirations of hunting down the worst of the worst when it came to criminals. Giving victims' families peace and making the world a safer place. It was a service she felt like she was doing, but it was also something that gave her purpose. Filled her with meaning. Buzzed her with an energy that meant that life was worth living to its fullest. It was a burden until it wasn't.
And she doesn't let herself be stapled down by society's way of shoehorning people into one path and one path only. Life had different colors, different seasons.
Egypt brought a new season for her.
***
"I think we should stop seeing each other."
He's prepared for the shocked expression that paints Gemma's face. He still winces internally because he hates that he's now planted tears in her eyes.
"Y- you want to break up with me?" She stutters.
"It's not you-" he curses himself before he even registers how quickly her gaze turns from sadness to ire.
"It's not me? The old and tired 'it's not you, it's me' cop out? Really, OA?!"
"That did not come out right. I'm sorry," he says.
Gemma backs away from the hand he uses to reach out for her, "Then, what is this really?? I deserve, at least, an explanation."
He takes a deep breath and in that moment, her eyes veer from him and looks at what's behind him.
"Why do you have so much luggage out? You're going somewhere?"
"Can we sit? Please?"
Begrudgingly, she follows his lead and they're eye to eye, sitting across from each other in the penthouse they live in together.
"I'm going back to Egypt to spend some time with family. A lot has happened this year and I'm starting to feel… dillusioned. With life. With my job." The "with you" remains unsaid but they both hear it clearly in the echoes that linger between them. "I haven't been sleeping. I'm unfocused at work. I.. I don't feel like myself."
Gemma's eyes water again because she can't deny that she hasn't noticed.
"I had dinner over at my mom's last night and she just… knew. I try to be upbeat and leave all that stuff out of my mind when I'm there, especially when it's the only time I get to see my nieces and nephews, but she confronted me after everyone else left and… Well, I haven't cried that long and hard for a really long time."
His shoulders still feel worn down with the weight of his problems, but they feel lighter from yesterday. His umi had held him in her arms like he wasn't 6'5" and twice her size. When they finally parted from their embrace, OA felt like he could breathe again without the achiness.
"Mom's hugs have super powers," Zahra, one of his sisters, used to say when they were young.
OA continues, "We had a long talk about everything I've been feeling. How unhappy I feel, no matter how hard I try. She made a suggestion. Says I should consider taking some time off from work and visit my relatives in Egypt. To take a minute to enjoy life beyond the swiftness of NYC. I reminded her that I haven't been since-" He finds himself at a loss, just like last night, trying to remember his last time in the country where his ancestry lies. "It was definitely before I joined the FBI, possibly even before I did my stint with the DEA, so we're nearing the ten year mark for sure."
They both look at his luggage by the door. Gemma with frustration and OA with resoluteness.
"It sounded right in the moment. Doing anything else actually feels wrong in a way, I can't explain it. I don't know if I'm supposed to be searching for something or simply putting a pause on my life here. I've made up my mind, though. I put in for a temporary leave this morning so that I could have time to fill out the paperwork for an extended sabbatical. My flight's in three hours."
Everything's moving too fast for her and she seeks out for the stability he's always provided for her. She moves to sit on the coffee table and grasps his shoulder.
"OK, but that doesn't mean we have to break up. It's not like you're gonna be gone forever."
Her voice weakens towards the end of her statement and she wonders if it sounds as unsure as she heard it in her head.
"I don't know how long I'm gonna be gone. I don't even know if I'm gonna want to come back to the same life as before. My mind feels like it's floating and nothing feels certain anymore, Gem. And that’s not fair to you to have to wait by the sidelines until I figure all of that out."
She's crying in earnest now and OA can feel his own tears begging for release. He kisses her forehead as she curls into him, clutching onto his shirt.
"I'm so sorry."
***
"I humbly request forgiveness for underestimating how entertaining American card games can be."
Mikail Salahuddin has to slightly stand and raise his voice in order for Tiff to hear his goofy banter. There's too much joyful glee and good-natured ruckus on the restaurant's outdoor patio for moderately-leveled conversation to be heard.
"We humbly accept!" Clarke Dulles, who's sitting next to Tiffany, shouts back at him.
Dinner has long been over, but the drinks continued and somewhere, along the way, a deck of Uno cards hits the table. As the only two familiar with the game, Clarke and Tiffany take initiative in teaching the rest of the group how to play and chaos ensued from there.
"This game is lethal all on its own, I'd never think to incorporate alcohol into the mix," Tiffany says to Clarke as the first round ramps up.
"Yeah… I'd be worried about breaking up long-time friendships tonight if everyone here weren't practically strangers," Clarke jokes.
Maybe strangers wasn't the most accurate depiction, but everyone here was acquaintances at most.
A full-out cards tournament has found itself underway and as the rounds continue, the final round is between Clarke and Firdus, the youngest and meekest of the group, but apparently not someone to be messed with when it comes to color/number strategy and swift hand movements. She beat Tiff out in the last round, who's still salty about that damn "Draw 4+ card" that fucked up her chances of winning it all.
Firdus is fast but Clarke has experience on her side and she throws down the "Uno! Uno Out" combo in the fraction of a second.
Tiff and Clarke give each other two-handed high fives that forms into a hug with Clarke slightly lifting Tiff off the ground. They're both tall women yet their embrace is by no means clumsy.
The rest of their table also celebrates Clarke's win, complete with good-humored digs about her having the advantage. Somewhere amongst the mayhem, Tiffany hears her name being called. She looks away from her group, searching for the source. Almost immediately, she finds herself looking at a face she hasn't seen in well over a year.
"OA?"
He walks closer to her as Tiffany veers further from the group.
"What are you doing here?" She asks, astonished at being face to face with someone she'd never thought she'd see again.
OA's face mirrors the same. He chuckles, "I could ask you same thing. I thought you moved back to Georgia."
"Well, I did, kinda. I went back to school, and well…"
Another round of Uno had started at her table and loud cheers once again sprang from their eclectic party.
"You want to-?"
"Should we-?"
They intercept each other's questions and stop. Their laughter intermingles.
OA speaks again, "I have a table over in the corner."
***
Tiffany made eye contact with Clarke and mouthed a "be back later" before following OA to a cozier corner on the outdoor patio. They sit face to face at the small rounded dining table.
"This is a such a surprise," Tiff remarks. "I never thought I'd run into you, here of all places. Which I guess is kinda weird since you're Egyptian, but still."
OA chuckles, "No, it's fine. I didn't really expect to turn up here anytime soon either. I'm super curious about you ended up here, though."
"Yeah, like I said, I went back to school. I'm in a grad program studying archeology."
"Archeology.." He muses. "Wow."
This time, it's Tiffany who snickers. "A surprise, I know. I went through a phase of being obsessed with tombs and artifacts, as a kid. This is me fulfilling a childhood dream of mine, I guess. I go to UGA, but a spot opened up for a study abroad program last minute, and I applied."
She throws her hands up as if to "and here I am."
"Wow." OA says again, still stunned. "I mean, you look happy."
He also wants to add "beautiful" to the end of his assessment. She's always been attractive, but he watched how the toll of Trevor's death and the aftermath that followed stole some of her light. She had stopped cracking jokes in between their work assignments on those mundane desk days. She came in to work with bags under her eyes that even coffee couldn't lift. She always had an excuse to dip out of her social gatherings after work. The glow of who she was had lessened, and even though he was distraught when she announced that she was leaving the FBI and moving out of NYC, he had hoped that she would find it again. The spark of radiance that made people gravitate to her.
As OA pored over her, he knew that she found it again. That passion and aura that rubbed off on anyone in her closeness. She also seemed more at peace. Relaxed.
Her face dazzled with felicity. Her skin had a lustrous sheen that accentuated the soft features of her. Her slinky blouse and flowy pants gave off comfy and casual vibes and the incoming sunset behind her served as the perfect backdrop for the perfect picture of contentment.
"I am happy," she muses. Then her head tilts, almost like she's assessing him. If she can tell that he is by all means not content, she doesn't say anything. She merely asks, "So what brings you to Egypt? Visiting family?"
OA nods. "Yes, actually." He doesn't want to confide in his own problems, especially when she seems at such bliss, but she's always been disarming. "I needed to take some time away from work. Get away from all the noise and just… think."
Her eyes are sympathetic, like she has a glimpse into his suffering. He supposes she has considering her reasons for her own departure. Still, she doesn't push.
"How long are you here for?" She inquires.
OA shrugs, "Not really sure, yet. I landed yesterday. Not the best timing, though, because today's my aunt and uncle's anniversary. I'm staying with them, but I felt bad about encroaching so I've just been exploring the city all evening. Stumbled upon this place and had dinner inside."
Tiff looks back to her table. Clarke has her back turned while on the phone, while the rest are finishing yet another Uno game.
"Well, if you don't mind a bunch of rambunctious archeology and anthropology students, you're more than welcome to come join our table. I think we were about to order basbousa for dessert."
OA's eyes widen. "Wowww. You're in Egypt, for who knows how long, and you're laying claim to my favorite dessert."
Tiffany bursts out into laughter. "If it makes you feel any better, I will say that I have yet to eat any as good as that Egyptian restaurant you took me to in Queens."
"That's because they probably mass produce and freeze theirs at a busy restaurant like this. That place in Queens was a mom and pops. Sister Hamdi probably made it fresh every single day."
"Mmm, so what you're saying is I need to find someone who can make it on the spot." Tiffany jokes.
OA throws his hands up, "Come by my aunt's one day and I'm sure she'll be whipping it up in the kitchen by the time I open the front door."
They both laugh together and OA looks on at Tiffany with wonder.
What were the chances he would ever see her again after she left the city? And yet, here she is again. He knew that she had her own thing going on here. She was probably focused on her study abroad program and finding joy in a new field. Still, he didn't want this to be the last time they saw each other again. Just when he's about to suggest, seriously, that she come over for dinner one evening, one of her friends pops up.
Tiffany looks back and notices Clarke standing over her. She looks like she's just seen a ghost, her heart beating fast and her steps slightly off tilt.
Tiff immediately stands up to steady her. "Clarke, what is it?"
so i have never seen FBI (glad to see Dick Wolf going strong with all these procedural shows tho even if none of them will unseat Homicide: Life on the Street in my heart) and you did such a great job of establishing the character dynamics and intros that i knew exactly what was going on, like humongous bravo bc this is very friendly to the "she doesn't even go here" readers like me
like you had me hooked right from this mic drop moment at the beginning: It was a burden until it wasn't. And she doesn't let herself be stapled down by society's way of shoehorning people into one path and one path only. Life had different colors, different seasons. Egypt brought a new season for her.
also not sure if Gemma's on the show or not but i'm liek gorl sksj he fleeing the country, you don't want to try and work it out with this man. let him go be hung up on someone else. there's other fish in the sea sksskss so shoutout to gemma, hail gemme, i hope she went out and found herself a new man/woman/person
feel free to tag us for subsequent chapters for this fic, so we can keep up bc I am exceeeeeeeeedingly intrigued as to how this becomes supernatural/mythological and given what i know of your other work
worldbuilding is one of your strengths soooooo best believe i want in on the ground floor!! oh also, we support any and all cheating just generally bc it's fanfic and who gives a fuck so by all means, skirt that line to your heart's content KEKW
For @narcosfandomdiscord Book of In Urgent Need of Assistance: "One day I'll wake up and it won't hurt so much." and Desperate
Warnings: 18+, language, angst, smoking/weed, mentions of injury/violence, Jax Slander
Word Count: 3k
A/N: Claire Morrow IS my Roman Empire. i think about her constantly. i have yet to come up with a longfic plot for her, so for now i just keep putting her in angsty little one-shots and calling it a day
By the time they had gotten back to her apartment, Claire hadn't been expecting Jax to wait around for her. It would be far from the first time that he stormed out of her place before they got the chance to talk about everything that was going on. Sometimes she wondered if it was a purposeful move on his part—a way to avoid having to tell her things that he didn’t want her knowing, or hearing about things that he wanted no part of. Other times she simply didn't believe that her brother was that smart.
But there he was, sitting at the tiny table that was in her kitchen. He heard her as she entered the room, but he didn’t turn to look at her. It wasn’t until she was sitting on the chair kitty-corner to his that he deemed to look at her at all. It was the first time in a long time that she had seen anything resembling sympathy on his face, more specifically sympathy that was meant for her. Must've been the bruises littered across her cheek that was catching the light.
She pulled one leg up so that her foot was resting on the edge of the seat of her chair. Wrapping her arms around her bent leg, she rested her chin on top of her knee. There were plenty of things that she wanted to say, but past experiences with everyone in her family had taught her that the second she opened her mouth, their tirades would come. So now, she waited.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Jax finally asked, taking his baseball cap off and tossing it onto her table as he did.
Claire didn’t answer right away, feeling like the question was more rhetorical than anything, like Jax was just coming out of the gate with that to tee himself up nicely for the rest of his rant about what exactly he thought she had been thinking. She sat silently, not breaking eye contact with him even as she reached for the joint and lighter that were on her kitchen table.
Jax raised his eyebrows. “Nothing? You got nothin' to say for yourself?”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, sarcasm etched deep into her tone as she placed the joint between her lips. Flicking the lighter, she spoke around it, words muffled but still plenty clear enough for Jax to hear what she was saying. “Didn’t sound like a question you really wanted my answer to.”
“I can't wrap my head around it. So please,” he held his arms out slightly, “explain.”
Claire nodded but she didn’t get around to answering his question right away. She inhaled deeply off the joint in her hand, letting it crawl down the column of her throat and linger there for a few long seconds before allowing it to slip out as smoke between her lips. For a brief moment she contemplated extending it in an offer to Jax, but thought better of it quickly and kept it for herself.
“It's been an absolute shitshow on set,” she told him, making a point not to look him in the eyes as she did.
“Since when do you care what happens at the fucking porn studio?”
She gestured towards the door angrily with her hand that was holding the joint. “Since Luann asked me for some fucking help!”
He scoffed. “So you thought—”
“I thought,” she cut him off, “that I would help out since all anyone in the club ever does is show up to gawk at the girls. I helped her shoot. I helped her edit. Then all this shit with Georgie started popping off and all the girls started freaking the fuck out.”
“We took care of that.” Jax said it like it was a declaration.
Claire laughed in his face before taking another drag. “Yeah, and then Lyla came in with her nose nearly broken. So, you know,” smoke came out in tendrils with each word she said, “Luann started to think that maybe whatever you did, didn't work.”
“So she asked you?”
“No. She didn’t ask anyone, but I knew that she really didn’t want to ask you again.” She saw the way that indignant confusion went across Jax's face. “Come on, Jax. You guys have been treating her like absolute shit throughout this whole thing. And then you act like you're doing her a favor.” She shook her head, tone dropping to a mutter. “Par for the fucking course.”
“What's your fucking problem?”
She shook her head, kicking off with a lie before getting to the truth. “I don’t have a problem. And now, thanks to me, you and Luann and all the fucking girls at Cara Cara have one less to deal with too.” She stood up. “You're welcome.” She turned and headed for the fridge.
Jax watched from the table as she dug around in her refrigerator. When she popped back up into view again, she had a box of takeout in her hand. Swinging the door shut, she grabbed a fork from the drawer. She tucked into her food without even bothering to heat it up. Even if the day had been a better one, she wouldn't have put that minimal amount of time into prepping the food for herself. She paid no mind to the way that her brother was looking at her as she shoveled one forkful of rice after another into her mouth. Now that her adrenaline had runs its course, all those pesky little sensations like hunger and exhaustion and pain were starting to creep back in.
Silence settled between them again as Claire stood and leaned back against her counter while Jax stayed seated at her table. As Jax watched her, he couldn’t quite remember the last time it was just the two of them existing alone together like this. One of them was always traveling with a crowd—usually Jax. And, more often than not, wherever Claire was, Clay or Gemma wasn't far. It was never just them, and as Jax continued to sit and watch her, he didn’t know what to make of any of it.
He fussed with his cap that was still on top of her table. He knew that there were things that he wanted to say to her, but now it all just came through like static on the radio, one thought not discernible from the next.
“Do you realize,” Claire spoke up, some rice still tucked in her cheek as she spoke, “that everyone just is doing shit to try and keep you happy? Or,” she scoffed, “the closest thing to it?”
Jax shook his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Right now, specifically, I'm talking about Luann and the girls. They've been losing it but didn’t want to tell you because they didn’t want you getting upset again. They all feel like they owe you. And you,” she paused, looking at the container of food in front of her, unable to look him in the eye as she said, “you eat that type of shit right up.” She pushed rice around with her fork. “You always have.”
He shook his head, working overtime to not consider the fact that his sister was absolutely correct in everything that she was saying. He didn’t want his world put off-kilter so much. “You're insane.”
Claire scoffed, finally looking at him again. “Yeah, it's in the fucking genes.” She took another bite, granting herself a brief reprieve before asking, “You really going to sit there and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about?”
Jax had no problem lying, to anyone really, but especially to Claire. He'd done it outright and by omission their entire lives. The levels of success varied, but it never stopped him from trying. But now, for some reason, he found himself having a hard time faking genuine denial with her. Maybe it was because for the first time in a long time she was being honest with him too. Real honesty, not the type she usually doled out that was cloaked by layer after layer of sarcasm and well-timed jokes.
He rapped his knuckles lightly against the top of the table as he tried to figure out what he wanted to say. “I don't—"
“Forget about Luann and the girls. What,” she huffed, setting her food on the counter and going back to where she'd been sitting before, “what about me?”
He shook his head in confusion. “What about you?”
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards the door. “I'm the one who went and took care of shit tonight, Jax. I'm the one who rolled up to Georgie's fucking house with a crowbar and—”
“A fucking crowbar? Jesus Christ, Claire—”
She continued on like he hadn't spoken. “And you still haven't asked me if I'm okay.”
He gestured to her face. “I can see the answer to that.”
She shook her head, disgust on her face. “Don't do that.”
“What?”
“You know what.” She let that statement hang in the air. “They do all that shit to try and keep you happy. Mom does, the club does. And, as much as I hate it, so do I.”
Jax laughed before he could stop himself. She almost had him. Until those last three words, he was taking everything that she was throwing at him. But that was just a tad too far for him to believe. For as long as he could remember, she'd been a thorn in his side and she loved every second of it. He'd chalked some of it up to typical younger sibling things, the kind of stuff that Thomas probably would've done too if he'd gotten the chance. But then the rest of it? It felt like jealousy, maybe, or even just a desire to nettle him for pure enjoyment on her end. Sometimes he chalked it up to the crazy she must've inherited from Gemma.
But in that moment, the look in her eyes almost seemed heartfelt. If he'd been anyone else he would've taken her at her word but he knew better. He'd watched her grow up, seen the way that she was always so easily able to get what she wanted from Clay and Gemma. Jax and his happiness were the furthest things from her mind.
“You've never given a shit about that.”
Propping her elbows harshly on the table, she raked her fingers back through her hair. It still wasn't completely dry from the shower and left a traces of residue between her fingers. “I've never been able to figure out how to do it, but that doesn't mean that I've never given a shit.” Looking at him, she felt the familiar burn of tears growing in her eyes. “For a long time I tried so hard to just get you…get you to fucking like me. When we were kids I tried so hard. And then I stopped because it wasn't working and you were so mean. I stopped and I tried not to care anymore and I tried to give up. I just kept telling myself, ‘One day I'll wake up and it won’t hurt so much.’ But it never happened. It still does.” She shook her head, just as much at herself and the emotions welling in her chest as at Jax. “And when Luann asked me for my help at the studio, I thought that maybe that would do it, you know? And maybe if I took care of Georgie and you saw that I can pull my weight, then maybe you'd get around to caring about me.”
“It's not—”
“You know how much it sucks, how…how fucking pathetic it feels, that some days I’m trying as hard as those fucking Crow Eaters to get you to give a shit about me? You know how sad and desperate that makes me feel? You talk all that shit about family with the guys in the club, those people you call brother just because they have the same piece of leather on their backs. But then, when it comes to your real actual family…this is all you have left for me? Those guys might be in your club but you're my brother.”
He could tell by the tremble in her fingertips that those were words she had been sitting on for a long time. They'd burrowed and made a home deep down in her chest and she had been content to leave them in hibernation indefinitely. He felt bad, angry too. It wasn't the first or the last time that she made him feel like an idiot, either.
Claire couldn’t make herself look at him. Real vulnerability was something that was so hard to come by in their family, and now that she felt the sinking pit in her stomach she started to understand why. There was a tiny part of her that wanted to take it all back, but it was too late now—she was probably better for it.
He'd never given much thought to whether or not Claire cared about being liked, by him or by anyone else. She certainly never acted like it was a concern of hers. Plus, in his mind, when it came to family it didn't really matter how much someone liked you, because at the end of the day they loved you and that would always outweigh everything else. That's how their family always ended up back in the same messes—no matter the anger, they would always show up at the eleventh hour. What else mattered?
Claire sniffled quietly as she tried to wipe at her face as casually as possible. “Now look who has nothing to say,” she forced out. Leaning back in her chair, she said, “Next time, just fucking say thank you and ask if I'm okay. It's a, a decent place to start.”
The discomfort that was burning a trail down the back of Jax's neck was telling him that this was one of those times when he should be apologizing, but that type of thing had never been his strong suit. This was one of the few times that he wished he was a little better at it.
“This isn't the kinda shit you should be handling on your own,” he told her, voice gentler than it'd been so far as he nodded towards the bruises on her face.
Claire could see it on his face that he was trying. And if she had been less exhausted, if she'd been in a more forgiving mood, she would've given him credit for that. But the Morrow in her was getting the best of her and she wasn’t about to hand him any kind of participation trophy after everything that had happened.
“You're telling me that if I'd called, you wouldn't have sent me to voicemail?”
He sank back in his chair as though her words had physically pushed him away. “This what you're always thinking about whenever you call me?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. Usually it doesn't…” she trailed off, wanting to find the right words. “The stakes felt higher this time, I guess.”
Quiet washed over them again. Claire switched back and forth between looking at the tabletop, and looking at her brother. She was fairly positive that Jax hadn't ever let her go this long uninterrupted. It felt like the first time she was ever able to lead a conversation with him. She had no idea what good it would do, if any, but it was something at least. Part of her was still just stuck on the fact that he had stayed and waited. It wasn't necessarily any great feat, but for Jax it was something close.
“I'm glad you're alright,” he said with a nod. When Claire nodded back at him in response, a small smirk crossed his face as he said, “I'm glad you beat Georgie's ass, too.”
Claire didn’t want to, but she found herself laughing with him for the moment. It helped shed some of the weight that had been crushing her chest. “It felt kinda good. Lyla's busted nose is nothing compared to what his looks like now.”
Jax chuckled and for a moment they seemed like a pair of teenagers, talking to each other about the things they could never tell their parents. It was the kind of moment they never had when they were actual teenagers. It was refreshing in its own way, even if they were still avoiding the gaping wound of a problem between them.
“Did you tell Luann?”
Claire shook her head. “No. Did you tell Clay or—”
“Hell no,” he stopped her sentence short. “Neither of us would hear the end of it. I'd lay low ‘til those fade.”
She grazed her fingers over the slightly raised skin of her cheek. “Right.”
The exhaustion of the evening was starting to hit Jax, too. It felt useless to ask, but he still did. “Need anything?”
She shook her head. “I'm good.”
“You sure? I can stay.”
She laughed, and the sound was as humorous as it was sad. “Don't. It's fine.”
Jax frowned but he didn’t fight her on it. Reaching to grab his baseball cap of her table, he spoke as he pulled it down onto his head. “Alright. I'm gonna head out, then.”
Claire nodded, watching him as he walked around the table. “Night.”
“Night.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment as he walked by. “Call me tomorrow, let me know how shit goes at the studio.”
“Sounds good.”
Jax paused when he was halfway out the door of her apartment. “Claire?”
She raised her eyebrows, and Jax saw every ounce of tiredness that she was weighing on her. “Yeah?”
“Thanks, and…” he trailed off, knowing how he should end the sentence and still not able to say it.
There would be time for more fights about it another day, so Claire let this one go for the sake of her own sanity. “Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow.”
She wasn't able to fully slump back in her chair until she heard Jax's bike start up and then fade into the distance. Once it was silent in her apartment and on the lot again, she all but melted into the seat of her chair, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and disappear under the covers, but feeling like she couldn’t make the last of the trek to do so.
(divider by @thecutestgrotto 💞)
SOA Taglist (if you'd like to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!): @withmyteeth @garbinge @darqchilddaydreamz @justreblogginfics @i-just-read-stuff
first off, unreal of you to used two prompts like that is a masterclass in how to do a monthlong challenge i see you, i'm taking notes knowing full well i'm not gonna be able to ever match the skill but a girl can dream secondly, the fact that we're not the biggest SOA stans up in here but you had me positively r i v e t e d, glued to my computer screen in just this little scene, like tbh if you'd just written and ran the whole show instead of Sutter I might've been able to make it past S3 lolol bc Claire Morrow is the hero gotham city needed. also for some reason, I kept picturing Kathryn Winnick so apparently that's my unofficial fc😂 and I think it's just bc she can so emphatically and convincingly step on you so it's easy to picture her reading tf out of Jax SKSKSKS
can we also give a special round of applause to the following: Jax had no problem lying, to anyone really, but especially to Claire. He'd done it outright and by omission their entire lives. The levels of success varied, but it never stopped him from trying. bc the way you've managed to synthesize this man's imperfections of which there are many is the proof that you should've been the showrunner here and not Kurt sksk
The coffee shop is deserted as per usual. Horacio is sure he's one of only a handful of people who keep the business running. It's why he makes sure to always leave his change in the tip jar and doesn't berate himself for ordering an extra pastry every now and then. He gets his coffee and is almost startled when he looks over at the corner and spots Kiara.
The two haven't had much interaction since his injury that he had treated at her hospital. He's seen her in passing a few times in his visits to a fellow soldier who was injured more severely in that explosion, but that had easily been over a month ago.
She glances up and the smile she gives him is ethereal. She lights up in a way he's not sure he deserves. Still, it gives his heart a flutter and he can't deny that he aches for the sensation.
"Fancy seeing you here," she says.
"I could say the same. This was starting to become my café, after all," he sits across from her, sipping his cortado.
"Oh, wow, mighty possessive of you." She clutches her hand to her chest in mock insult. "This place has the best iced coffees so I'm unapologetic at encroaching upon your territory."
His shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"How's your ribs?"
He makes a show of stretching to show that he's fully healed. "Good as new. The breathing exercises that you recommended did the trick."
Kiara flounces her hair sassily. "Well, what'd you expect from the world's best nurse to be?"
"Nothing but the excellent care you provided. If you're this good as a student, you're going to be an outstanding nurse."
Her smile is infectious and Horacio does nothing to stop himself from matching it with one of his own.
Flattered, she gives a meek "thank you."
The older lady who owns the coffee shop walks over to the front door and turns the "open" sign to "closed." When she looks over at the duo, she sends them a wink and tells them they can stay as long as they want before she retires to the upstairs unit that she's fashioned as her home.
Kiara takes another sip of her drink before asking, "How are things going with your job? No more explosions or stepping on to land mines, I hope?"
Horacio smugly shrugs as if to say, "hazard of the job."
"I'm afraid you met me at a time that might've mischaracterized my average day. Rare action moments aside, the job of a soldier is actually not all that interesting."
"So bore me." Kiara sits back in her seat. "Seriously, tell me about what you do."
He indulges her and the conversation flows naturally. He tells her his family background, how he hails from three generations of soldiers and how his enlistment stemmed from a sense of duty and not passion. "I'm content," he says. He tells her how his career started right after he finished high school and how his main responsibilities were that of a foot soldier. It's been several years since and now he has people under him that he commands but his job is mostly the same.
"I follow orders. I'm given tasks and I carry them out. Sometimes, I delegate, but my main challenge entails of following through on the action plans that have been set before me."
"Is that enough for you, though?"
Horacio pauses.
"Not that there's anything wrong with being the one to deliver action." She placates her statement gently, expressing herself with her hands. "I mean, you're the one serving the deliverables. You're literally at the front lines tangibly doing something to solve problems. Protecting people. Defusing danger. But can you see yourself doing that for the rest of your life? Could you ever see yourself being the person to create the plan? Being the person who acts on intel and makes the decisions?"
He ponders for a minute. Truly considers the challenge she's set before him because it's never occurred to him that this could fall in the realm of being a good soldier.
"I like having my boots on the ground-" he starts.
"Who says you have to give up one to have the other?"
He nods silently, thinking. He's never been questioned before on his aspirations. Challenged on what his definition of duty was and what it could be.
She shrugs her shoulders. "But, hey, what do I know? I'm just yapping. I've been scolded quite enough about sounding 'too idealistic.'"
Horacio shakes his head. "No. It's good to have varying perspectives. A person can't be well-rounded if they're unable to withstand their viewpoints being challenged."
A silence covers them without the unease that normally blankets two people who don't know each other very well.
"What about you?" Horacio asks.
"What about me?"
"Why nurse? Why not doctor? Why not be the person who makes the treatment plans and does the procedures?"
Kiara chuckles.
"What?"
"You're gonna think I'm a hypocrite," she admits.
He doesn't say anything at first. He waits for her insight.
"I mean, I'm kind of like you. I like having my boots on the ground. When a patient comes in, whether it's pneumonia or a stab wound, we're usually the first one that sees the patient. Triages them and assesses the damage. And even after the doctor has done their job, we're still the ones checking on the patients. Monitoring their progress. Catching the things that the doctors don't see because they're not the ones who has their eyes on them constantly."
"I can understand that. And it doesn’t make you a hypocrite, by the way. Truth be told, I think you just sold me on the route of nursing if I were medically inclined."
"Even when that includes giving sponge baths to bedridden old men who pretend like they're still virile enough to flirt with you?"
At that, Horacio grimaces. Kiara's laughter bounces off the walls of the empty café.
"This is nice," she sighs happily, sitting back in her seat.
Horacio raises his eyebrows.
"Making a friend. Getting to know someone," she supplies.
"I agree." He nods, relaxing his chair also.
After a moment, with only the slightest of hesitations, he later says, "I have a dilemma."
When the words first leave his mouth, he wonders if he should've spoken them. However, he can't deny the dose of happiness that hits him at how quickly she tunes in.
"Hit me," she says, her full attention on him.
"Earlier this week, I witnessed a fellow soldier doing something he shouldn't have. Technically, we work in different units so our paths don't cross that often. But we were conducting field work, and as a junior lieutenant, I'm expected to write detailed reports on the happenings during field work and include any and all of my observations. I feel at odds with whether I should let things be given that there were no major repercussions or whether I should say something, given the soldier's actions were irresponsible at best and potentially illegal at worst."
In an extra moment of vulnerability, Horacio adds softly, "I don't like feeling at odds."
Kiara gives him a soft, sympathetic smile and reaches her hand over to cover his.
"I don't like feeling at odds either," she says. "And you're right, you definitely do have a dilemma."
She takes a pause to gather her thoughts and his eyes peer into hers intensely, curious at the inner workings of her mind.
"I can't tell you what I'd do," she starts. "But I can tell you all the things that'd float through my mind as I try to find the answers."
He nods, almost imperceptibly.
"Well, I'd think about the gravity of the action. As a nurse, was this something that could've killed a patient? Is this something likely to happen again if I don't speak up? Is this a person that has integrity and trustworthiness? Someone that might've fucked up in the moment but the type of person to make things right and take responsibility for their actions? And then.. Well, I'd think about my own integrity, too. Am I hurting someone by saying something? Am I hurting someone if I don't say something? At the end of the day, the truth always finds the light of the day. How would the people around me feel if they found out I had been hiding something when I had the chance to use my voice? Shit… I know we haven't known each other for long, but.. I mean, your opinion of me matters to me. I'd think about how you'd feel if I did something that put my character into question."
Horacio's mind crawls out of its daze. Not only had his thoughts been centered on the pearls of her perspective, but it also had momentarily short-circuited as she told him just how much she valued his own character.
It's like there's a thick sludge that keeps his words at the back of his throat, and he has to fight through it to be able to speak again.
"And then, I would know," she finishes. "I'd think about you and then I'd know what the right decision is."
He clears his throat. Drinks the last sips of his now room temperature coffee and clears his throat again.
"I can't imagine you've ever been known to make a bad decision. Your mind works with a pristine sense of clarity."
Kiara shrugs. "I could make a joke and say that you would think that since I just said I value your opinion, but I'm gonna take the compliment like a champ because I say we're both pretty wise people."
Horacio shoots back. "I could make a toast right now to "wise people" but I'm afraid Senorita Rosales would not be too happy if I summoned her back down here to refill our cups."
Their laughs intermingle and cover the café's four walls with dulcet tones of a growing bond.
YAAAAASSASS KIARA MAKES HER RETURN. Ngl every single time I read something with these two, I just can’t stop thinking about how entirely Too Well Adjusted she is for this man😂😂😂
Also, shoutout to this absolute banger of a line: A silence covers them without the unease that normally blankets two people who don't know each other very well. It reminds me of that one part of Pulp Fiction when Mia Wallace goes, “That’s when you know you’ve found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.”
My first fic for Narcovember is here >:D @narcosfandomdiscord
Enjoy <3
Prompt #24, Book Of Revelation: Fanwork where 2(+) characters are stranded in the desert and in a sick twist, must decide which one of them to leave behind in order for the other(s) to be saved.
Word Count: 1.1K
Warnings: None
~ Read the fic under the cut ~
“I’m a kid in a fucked up world… Wherever the hell we are, I don’t know… But I’m the one.”
Ellie’s eyes lock themselves upon Joel and Tess in turn.
The arid landscape has all but turned into desert, bitter, barren, lonely.
They all know the mission at hand, they all know what is at stake, and yet… Something gnaws at the core of each of them.
Joel pants for breath and shakes his head, “Ellie, no. We’re all in a fucked up world. We’ve got to keep goin’ on.”
“In a desert?!” The teen yells, knowing that no one is around for miles, “There’s nothing here for any of us! Some wasteland of a space is all it is!”
The trio have come so far together. And yes, Ellie’s observation only solidifies their reality.
Because something has to give.
***
Tess bites her lip, tasting the blood that spills forth. Beneath her shirt lies a myriad of scars, and she knows, more than any of them, how they kill you.
Since it’s not just the smuggling, the trials of the Boston QZ. It’s not just those curfews with FEDRA hot on her heels. It’s not just the travel, from lush forest to suburbia, to this.
Cordyceps is a deadly infection, and Ellie would well be dead by now if the virus had its way.
The woman clutches a hand to her neck, watching as the pair fight it out, letting her fade into the background. The man she loves is stronger than she’ll ever be, and the girl… She’s got a bite to her, some real balls, she remembers saying.
So long ago, it feels like they were traversing that border together, denying all accusations of being infected.
And yet, here she is, weary, rattled, practically on the brink. She traces out the scars, the long tendrils of Cordyceps that have embedded themselves inside her, and sighs.
If there’s one good thing she can give Joel, it’s this.
He’s already given her plenty, if she says so herself. Underneath the gruff and beaten exterior is a man with a heart beyond her own, a desperation inside him fuelled by love, and care, and desire. The way he’s treated her in the Boston QZ, soothing her every wound and giving her something to cling onto has only done wonders.
And this is how she repays him? In sacrifice?
The woman knows it now.
She couldn’t stand seeing Ellie there, alone and forsaken, hearing her cry out for them as they trek away from her, through the sinking sands, all the while, the sun beats its rays upon her.
She couldn’t stand Joel being in her place, realising that his mission has all come to an end… That he’d do this and abandon his only family!
Tess shudders and wipes back a sudden tear, one that barely emerges from her eyes.
It’s just her luck that it catches both of their attention.
***
“Tess?” Joel murmurs, drawing closer, “Hey, Tessa…” A calloused hand cups her cheek, and the simple action manages to placate her.
But only for a moment. She can only hold back for a moment.
“Joel,” She whispers in reply, her green eyes meeting his, “Stop… Stop fighting. We’re stuck here, we’re stranded… But I have a solution.”
“Yeah? And what’ll that be?” That uncontrollable temper of his finds no reason for restraint, “No. It can’t be you.” His thumb strokes across her cheek, “It can’t .”
“Well,” Tess smiles wryly, shrugging, “I want it to be. Because I don’t want you to die out here, not having completed either one of your missions. And do you expect me to believe for one second that you’ll let her die?” She hisses.
Ellie waves a hand, “I’m right here, y’know?!”
Joel turns to her and nods, “Yeah, we know, Ellie. Let the adults figure this out.”
The pair manage to laugh at that, soft, careful, as though savouring sounds that may never be heard again. In the distance, they hear the girl kicking at the sand repeatedly, gritting her teeth. “ Fucking adults… ” She complains, but there’s not much else she can do about it.
“It will be me,” The woman repeats, “And I won’t have it any other way.”
***
He kisses her gently, closing his eyes. Long, slow, and careful, he tastes her lips for the last time.
She’s so determined to have her way, and for what? What doesn’t he know about? What guilt is she hiding that makes her worthy of struggling here, hell, dying here, all alone?
He threads his hands through her greying hair in an attempt to bury himself in this reality.
He will stay. She will stay. The child will stay.
Together, together, please… His mind pleads with his heart, pleading with Tess, too. We have to stay together. We’ll keep goin’, I’ll keep you safe, I promise…
It turns out that he’s already broken the rule.
She indulges him in the kiss, cherishing it as much as she’ll allow herself too, only to step back and pull down her shirt, revealing the mass that Cordyceps has left her.
Ellie’s eyes widen in an instant. “You’re… You’re Infected.”
Tess clicks her tongue, “Been so for a long time now. Unlike you, kid, I’m not immune.”
“So, that’s it, then. That’s the solution. You’re telling us to run. Leave you behind.”
A sliver of a smile spreads across her face.
There’s not much to be happy about, but if Joel and Ellie can make it this far, then they’ll make it on their own.
She’s a liability, anyway.
“Tess, why didn’t you tell me?!” Joel erupts, “I could’ve helped you, all this time–”
“There’s no cure for the dead!” Tess fights back, letting go of the shirt exposing her skin. She presses a finger to his chest, “You help Ellie get to the end. Turn back in the direction we came, call for help, you do anything for that little girl, you understand?”
He nods imperceptibly, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
Because, at the end of the day, Tess is right.
He’s already lost one little girl. His own little girl.
It’s no good if he loses another, all for the sake of… Love.
The word burns in his throat as he turns away and takes Ellie’s hand.
“Don’t look back, kiddo.” He mumbles, gripping her hand tighter than ever before. “ Don’t look back. ”
Omg this is not a trio I would’ve expected for this prompt but it’s actually so GENIUSS, I am marveling at this ingenuity🤩🤩🤩🤩 also howwwwling at Ellie’s “fucking adults.” It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen the show and I felt like I was right back there reading that
A/N: The crossover lives! As always, shout-out to @garbinge for letting me borrow her oc Lara Losa! I'm so obsessed with these guys it's ridiculous.
Chapter Index
When Lara woke up the next morning, it was with a throbbing headache that had her not wanting to open her eyes despite the fact that the hotel room curtains were still pulled closed and the room was still shrouded in relative darkness. Slowly blinking her eyes open, Lara immediately regretted doing so.
She sat upright, blanket falling down so that it pooled in her lap, still covering her legs on the pull-out couch that she and Chepe had transformed into a bed the night before. Through squinted eyes, she looked around the room to find Chepe still fast asleep in his bed as well, snoring with one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress. She allowed herself a small chuckle at that before getting up and starting to accumulate all of her things.
If she hadn’t still felt so exhausted, or if the throbbing in her head had been a little less intense, she would’ve at least done Chepe the courtesy of collapsing the bed back down into a sofa. As it stood, though, she really just wanted to put on her shoes and head back to her apartment so that she could stand underneath the hot water until it ran out. She knew better than to wake Chepe, so she scribbled a note instead on the back of a napkin before taking off.
Her trip back to her apartment had been a quick one, as much as she just wanted to collapse down into her own bed and fall right back to sleep again. A handful of aspirin and a scalding hot shower later, she was off and running once more, making her way back towards the clubhouse.
By the time she got there, morning had already begun its shift into the afternoon. That fact didn’t really hit her until she saw just how many bikes were parked outside the clubhouse—none of the guys with the exception of maybe EZ were really what she’d describe as early birds. That was something that they all had in common. So, if they were already there and reporting for duty, it was later than she’d bargained for.
The only bike she had really been looking for was Bishop’s and the effort to find it wasn’t born out of doubt that it would be there, but more of a hope that it wouldn’t be. She didn’t read all of them, but she saw how many missed texts she’d accumulated from him the night before. It didn’t take a genius for her to figure out what had him so bent out of shape, and if she could put off having that conversation with him for a couple hours she definitely would, but the singular headlight of his bike staring back at her let her know that there was no point in hoping for that.
She kept her sunglasses on even after she entered the clubhouse, not that they were really doing much to save her in the already dark bar space. It didn’t take her very long to locate Angel, who was sitting at one of the small tables scrolling on his phone. A few of the other club members were scattered around, but it was evident that everyone was waiting for something, or for someone. Lara figured that it had to do with her uncles, with Galindo, but no one said that in so many words.
When she plopped down in the chair across from Angel at the table, that’s when she finally took her sunglasses off. She tossed them unceremoniously onto the tabletop as she slouched back in her chair.
“Shit,” Angel said with a laugh as he took in the sight of her.
Lara wanted to feign being annoyed but a laugh came out first. “Real way with words, you know that?”
He shrugged before leaning forward, bracing his forearms along the edge of the table. “Got a lot of things goin’ for me, I know.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed her hair back behind her shoulders. “Yeah, you’re a real—”
“Lara,” Bishop’s voice drowned out whatever the rest of her retort was going to be as he came all but stomping out of Templo. He wasn’t yelling, but the harsh edge to his voice made up for that.
Turning to look at him, she managed a smile that almost could’ve passed for innocent if it weren’t for the mild look of dread in her eyes. “Good morning. Well,” she chuckled, “afternoon. Same thing, right?”
Bishop wasn’t having any of it. “Outside. Now.”
If he had been speaking to anyone besides Lara, he would’ve been yoking them up out of the chair by their collar and dragging them out to the clubhouse porch. But it was Lara, so all he could do was storm right by her with an alarming amount of tension held in his jaw.
She watched him go, wincing slightly as the door swung and slammed shut behind him. It would’ve been easy enough to blame her flinching at the sound on the lingering traces of her hangover, but luckily enough no one asked.
Angel leaned back in his chair. “Have fun with that.”
She was shaking her head at him as she stood up from her seat, making the time to give him the finger before turning to follow where her father had just gone. She didn’t justify his comment with a verbal response, something that had him chuckling to himself as he watched her get up and walk out. The door shut much more quietly when she was the one closing it.
Bishop was sparking up a cigarette as she walked out. If he’d seemed a little less pissed off she would’ve made a joke of asking him for one. But, even with as far as she enjoyed pushing her luck sometimes, she knew that now wasn’t the time for it. She didn’t get enough hours of sleep the night before to be in fighting shape like that.
“Where the fuck were you last night?” he asked, smoke pouring out of his mouth with each word.
“I told you,” she said, half-innocent, half-defensive, “Chepe and I—”
“You didn’t fucking call,” he said, harshly cutting off her explanation. “And you didn’t pick up when I called.”
Her frustration quickly started to bubble up beneath her skin. “Yeah, I know, but—”
“No!” he snapped. “You can’t keep fuckin’ doing this to me.”
She scoffed. “Doing what? What could I possibly be doing to you?”
It was a miracle that Bishop’s body wasn’t visibly trembling with the amount of anger that was brewing within his chest in that moment. It wasn’t even truly anger, really. It was worry. It was hurt. It was the protective drive he’d been getting pushed by ever since he got a frantic phone call from her months before begging him for help because of the blood-soaked mess she'd landed herself in. He knew how quickly things could go so horribly—he’d lived it and so had she. He didn’t understand how she could start acting like none of it had ever happened, like he was so ridiculous for worrying about her.
“You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about,” he said bitterly.
“I’m not a child!”
“But you’re still my kid!”
The way he shouted the words seemed to shock the both of them into silence for a moment. The two of them locked eyes, unable to move from where they were standing, unable to try and continue the argument or even resolve it now. Both too stubborn for their own good, as always.
It was only the sound of another car pulling into the lot in front of the clubhouse that broke their stalemate. They both turned to see the luxury SUV that Gilberto had gotten for their trip rolling to a stop right beside Lara’s car. The two of them being parked next to each other seemed to highlight the best and worst of each vehicle respectively—they both probably would’ve laughed about it if the situation itself had been anything other than what it was.
Chepe and Gilberto both got out of the SUV. Their expressions were vastly different but even so neither of them could hide the fact that they were intensely focused on whatever was or wasn’t unfolding between Bishop and his daughter. Gilberto at least had the good grace to try and hide his interest—there was a pleasant smile on his face as he adjusted his suit jacket and crossed the strip of sandy dirt to the clubhouse. Chepe, however, had his brows knit and mouth flattened into a straight line.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” Bishop muttered under his breath as the two of them approached the clubhouse.
Lara usually would’ve had no trouble coming up with a snarky quip for the moment, but she still felt slightly off-kilter from before. Rather than trying to force herself through the discomfort of formally tabling her conversation with Bishop for another time, she simply jumped ship and turned her attention to her uncles instead.
“Morning, Tío,” she said as she stepped in and gave Gilberto a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Buenos días, mija,” he greeted her with a grin, his hand resting on the outside of her arm for a moment as he stepped back.
Gilberto wasn't actually any less nosey than Bishop or Chepe was, he just had a better understanding of when it would serve him to pry and when it wouldn't. Judging by the tightness in the air, he figured that it wasn't the time.
While Gilberto and Bishop were greeting each other, Lara made it halfway down the porch steps to Chepe, who greeted her as usual with an enthusiastic hug and a kiss to the side of her head. “Lalita,” he said it with a softness that let her know he knew that whatever was going on with her and Bishop, it wasn’t fun.
“Chepe,” she said in return, her exhaustion shining through.
Even after she pulled out of the hug, he left his arm draped across her shoulders so that he could pull her and tuck her into his side. Some of the levity returned to his voice as he said, “Like a thief in the night, you took right off.” They made their way up the few steps onto the porch. “Note left behind and everything.”
Bishop skipped over whatever pleasantries he was going to try and force himself through when he heard what Chepe had said. He butt right into the conversation, not even bothering with a hello before laying right in with, “Yeah, and if taking off is—”
Chepe cut him off, clearly not fazed by the anger simmering in Bishop’s tone. “Obispo.”
“What?” Bishop made the singular word carry so much with it.
Gesturing to Lara with his arm not slung around her shoulders, he said, “Look at her.” He paused and waited for Bishop to do what he said, which surprisingly enough he did. “She’s fine. Showed up in one piece—showed up before us!” he added on, nodding towards Gilberto. “You don’t have to wor—”
“You don’t know shit about any of this, Chepe,” he stated firmly. “So do us all a favor and stay the fuck out of it.”
Chepe’s eyebrows raised just slightly. So few people in the world could get away with speaking to him like that at all, let alone in front of others. If Bishop had any sense of humility at all he’d consider himself lucky to be on that shortlist of people, but it would never happen.
There was the barest hint of a smile on Chepe’s face as he started to reply. “I know enough—”
Their conversation was interrupted by the door to the clubhouse opening. Angel stepped halfway out onto the porch, halfway through addressing Bishop when he realized that he’d just landed himself in far larger of a mess than he had bargained for. He had been ready to stumble upon the scene of Lara and Bishop in the midst of a spat, something that most people around the clubhouse had been witness to on an occasion or two, but he wasn’t ready to see both of her uncles standing out there as well.
The sight of all four of them almost made him want to backpedal into the clubhouse again, maybe even send someone else out there to break up whatever it was that the four of them were in the midst of. That seemed like it could be the type of work a prospect could do.
He forced himself not to hide behind the shelter of the door. “Pres, uh, sorry. I just…guys were wondering if we were still meeting for Templo. But,” he made a lame gesture towards Chepe and Gilberto, “obviously—yeah I’ll just tell them—”
“Fucking go, Angel,” Bishop put him out of his misery with three little words.
“Got it,” Angel said with a tight nod before happily disappearing back into the clubhouse.
When the door shut behind him, Bishop returned his attention back to Lara and Chepe. He was speaking to both of them even though he was only looking at Lara. “We’ll finish this later.”
Eager not only for the current conversation to stop, but also for them to move onto the business that they had shown up to conduct in the first place, Gilberto all but ushered Bishop into the clubhouse. “Let’s get started.”
Chepe let his arm drop back to his side as he and Lara stepped towards the clubhouse door that Gilberto was holding open for them. Bishop led the way, Chepe finding himself nearly sandwiched between his business partner and his niece.
He chuckled quietly, leaning over to Lara to speak to her in a voice that was too loud to pass for a whisper, but still quieter than his usual talking voice. “Would this be a bad time to tell him I changed the reservation for our dinner with Galindo?”
It got a genuine laugh out of Lara, her amusement causing Bishop to glance quickly back over his shoulder at them. She couldn’t get her expression under control in time, and as Bishop looked forward once more, she found her obstinate streak returning.
“I think it’s the perfect time, actually,” she said with another quiet laugh.
She stopped walking with them a few strides before the Templo door. Stepping off to the side, she watched as her father, her uncles, and then the rest of the men in the club disappeared into the room and slid the door shut behind them.
When the club was meeting in Templo, it was one of the only times that the clubhouse seemed quiet. There was always a certain level of din, and even with the guys locked away in Templo, there was still music playing quietly to cut through the silence. Other times there was still the sounds of machinery running in the scrapyard.
Not wanting to just stand there and stare at the door the entire time they were meeting, Lara turned away and made her way towards the bar where EZ was cleaning and stacking glasses, an endless and thankless task if ever there was one.
“Just you and me then, Prospect.” She laughed humorlessly as she plopped down on the stool. “As usual.”
He cracked a small grin. “C’mon, my company isn’t that bad.”
“You saying you’d rather be out here with me than in there with them?” she asked, jerking her thumb back over her shoulder towards the closed door.
He laughed and shook his head. “No, I’m saying you should rather be out here with me than in there with them.”
She rolled her eyes but there was no malice in it. “Shut up and get me a beer, Prospect.”
He was shaking his head but he still did as she asked. “See? Feels like we’re in there already.”
Lara wouldn’t have been able to say with any real certainty how long they all met in Templo for. She stayed put at the bar, her and EZ making small snippets of conversation here and there but nothing overly drawn out. That was such an interesting difference between him and his brother that Lara had noticed during her time spent with each of them. EZ knew how to let a conversation die gracefully, a skill that Angel lacked. Both could be infuriating in their own rites, she was sure, but it was interesting nonetheless.
“How long until you get promoted?” she asked, even though she was looking at the Templo door.
EZ chuckled, setting the last of the glasses on the top of the bar. “Too long.”
“Hm,” Lara said, before finishing off the beer EZ had given her. “Rough.”
The two of them were laughing when the door to Templo slid open and the men started to pour back onto the main floor of the clubhouse. Whatever happened within those walls always showed, for a little while at least, on the faces of the men as they exited and gathered back their phones.
No one seemed too deeply upset this time. A few of them were murmuring amongst themselves but no one was storming off in a huff. That was a good sign. When it came to business with Galindo, Lara had noticed that things had a tendency of getting very tense very quickly. Maybe having Gilberto and Chepe in the room helped to ease that tension a little bit. What she would’ve given to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, if for no other reason than to see what the men thought of her uncles, and more specifically Chepe.
Bishop, Taza, Hank, and their partners from Colombia didn’t come out right away. That wasn’t really surprising in and of itself, but Lara’s nosiness was getting the better of her. At least Angel was out, and making a beeline for her and EZ at the bar.
“So,” Angel said, his hand resting on her shoulder for hardly a second as he took the stool right next to hers, “I guess you’re catering the big boss meeting tomorrow?”
Lara laughed, head dropping back in exasperation. “Fuck me.”
“I think we should all book tables. Pack the fuckin’ house,” Angel joked.
She was still laughing while trying to seem annoyed. “I’ll get you all thrown out. Leave you to be Chepe’s fuckin’ problem.”
“Who’s going to be my problem?” Chepe asked as he materialized between Lara and Angel.
Lara didn’t miss the way that Angel sat up a little straighter with her uncle right next to him. She was kind enough not to comment on it. “The club, if they try to crash in at the restaurant while you guys are there meeting with Galindo.”
“Hah,” Chepe laughed, exaggeratedly so. He clapped a hand down on Angel’s shoulder. “That’d be an easy problem to solve, wouldn’t it?”
Angel swallowed hard, tension in his shoulders like Chepe’s hand was physically burning him. Lara could see that he wanted to have the right thing to say in that moment but he didn’t have the slightest clue what it was.
She jumped in to save him. “They wouldn’t make you do extra work like that on a trip like this, though. So I’m sure they’ll all be on their best fucking behavior.”
Chepe chuckled, pulling his hand off of Angel and giving the man a bit of a reprieve. “You will be too, Lalo.”
She laughed. “I know—you won’t even recognize me.”
Chepe cracked a grin as he started to head after Gilberto, who was making his way towards the clubhouse door. “Can’t wait.”
(Divider by @silkholland 💞)
Flying In Taglist (if you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!): @garbinge @justreblogginfics @ashlingnarcos @hausofmamadas @narcolini
Oh we LOOOOVEEEEE to see a worldbuilding moment up in here, the way you married the Cali cartel with Santo Padre is 🤩🤩
Also can we moment of silence for, If he had been speaking to anyone besides Lara, he would’ve been yoking them up out of the chair by their collar and dragging them out to the clubhouse porch. Bc Bispo yoking ppl out of chairs will never not remind me of that one time he fully bear tackled all 6’4 of Angel to the ground SKSJSJS the man is little but mighty
baratheonpilled
dededos
pixelskylines
jacobvanloon
