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wailing wall (Alejandro Gillick x f!reader)

A sequel to dark arrangements.

Summary: The day you touched hell.

Word count: 5.833.

Warnings: Violence, torture, death, mentions of suicidal thoughts (and practices), discussions about drug trafficking, DARK!THEMED, bad words, descriptions of torture 'rituals', physical illnesses. Angst. Like, really angst. With a considerable "happy" ending.

A/N: From the series of things that were sitting in my Google Docs.

I literally used Google Translator for the Spanish parts. Sorry for any mispelling or mistakes (I'm learning).

****

Important links you might be interested:

National Registry of Missing Persons

International Committee of the Red Cross

Diego Luna's interview with Variety about 'State of Silence'

****

You messed up.

You should’ve known better, in fact, and that led you to mess up.

That nickname made sense: it caught attention, it made people turn to you with a certain sense of trepidation. This also ended up becoming a basis for reputation, which, at that time, was of no use at all.

Icarus.

“But she’s a girl, right?”

Never a woman, just a girl. Because being a girl to them made it easier, or more enjoyable, and reduced you to a position of vulnerability. Just a girl? Is this what you have that is so valuable?

And then your uncle would show that sinister gleam in his eyes, place his rough hand on your shoulder or your back, in a falsely delicate touch, which you resisted just moving away from, and prepared himself to give the most intelligent answer he had managed to come up with in all those years, one that you heard almost like a mantra.

“It's because she doesn't have an ounce of fear of flying too close to the Sun.”

And you flew very close that time, going against your own convictions and, damn it, your own sense of protection that made you survive all those years.

You knew why Alejandro was the first person you thought of when you found yourself most conscious. It was the pain, almost excruciating and cruel, that took you to more distant or sometimes more recent memories; you would give anything for one last stern look from him before he himself ended your agony.

But he wasn't there. Nobody was. It was just you, a basement that bordered on isolation, the irremediable smell of blood and a pain that was slowly being healed in your ribs and chest. As soon as it happened, you could barely breathe, and you were writhing on the floor with your hands on your chest, grunting in pain as you felt the cold concrete against your face. Your head also hurt a lot.

In a rare occasion of affection, Alejandro had given you a book. It was something he particularly liked, perhaps, you couldn't be sure, but it was good in the early days, right when you got into that mess, when you just stared at any beam of light in that place with the hope that you would die soon.

At first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white and slender angels who would save me; but then, all at once, there came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help.

The Pit and the Pendulum. Edgar Allan Poe.

You didn't make a lot of jokes with each other, but the next time you saw him, you chuckled and said "I didn't know you were the type to read that", even though you weren't calling him 'not very intellectual', just someone who didn't connect with that kind of thing. You were wrong, of course; the content of that story, as well as the others that made up that tiny collection, reflected how Alejandro's life and world were limited to death, shadows and hopelessness, just like his own.

That day, he moved his lips in what seemed like a return smile, and you closed your eyes in relief at still having your mind in reality to remember that.

That wasn't how it was supposed to be, however. It didn't make sense, it didn't… encouraged any agreement. He promised you. Well, you made him promise you. That it would be quick, without reservations, and that he wouldn't look back, because killing you had no use for him, and you didn't deserve more than a second look if you were so useless. He didn't verbalize it. He didn't say "sure, whatever you want" or just an "I promise"; Alejandro almost never said any safe words to you anyway, so you figured he would just do it.

You wondered if your mother felt the same way you did; if she was taken to that basement, or one that was far away from the house so you couldn't see her anymore. You even wondered if being away from you was a type of torture for her, if they used it against her as a valid promise that they would kill you if she tried something, only to then put you in the same place and slowly subject you to the torture of a slow death.

You had been thinking about her these last few days, more than usual. It was a sign that your end was near, with dreams filled with memories of her, or with subliminal messages that you didn't understand, or the consequences of fever, hunger or neglect.

You started to miss her more. When you accepted that it was what it was, you went to sleep every day thinking about the moment you would meet her again.

Suddenly believing in the afterlife wasn't so bad.

****

“How do you feel today?”

You still hadn't been able to decipher whether Dr. Salazar was just another person who submitted or conformed. He would see you every two days, even if you were no longer sure how much time you spent there, and you were always welcomed in a very bright, sterilized and inviting place. It wasn't a hospital, nor a doctor's office – these places didn't have two armed men at the door, or the irremediable smell of the sickly air freshener that the employees used throughout the house.

He always approached you with great patience, his attentive eyes that made you cling to a sigh of care, even if it was fake. When he was announced, and when you were taken away, you could always count on a caress on your forehead, where he would wipe your skin with a damp cloth and then, perhaps breaking a small rule, give you discreet sips of water, always looking back to make sure no one was watching.

He always seemed very tired and worried.

“... Tengo tres hijas, todas jóvenes. Uno de ellos incluso se parece a ti,” I have three daughters, all young. One of them even looks like you.

Because Dr. Salazar couldn't bear the silence of your pain, so he filled the room with little laments about his life outside the walls of that place. You never responded, mostly because you didn't know if you could still speak or if you were afraid of what was going to come out of your mouth, but he kept talking, and you watched his serene face as he did so.

Three daughters. A horse farm. A medical degree in Cuba. Swiss lemonades. A desire to get to know Spain.

Sometimes, when you were particularly emotional, you felt like saying that you thought about the beach, about those desires to be under the Jamaican sun without any worries, but you both knew there was no point in that, so you just remained quiet, watching him assess your bones, skin and eyes.

“Sin sangre.” No blood.

It was your response ever since you heard him mention the diagnosis to someone you didn't know. Menstruation was one of the first things that went away during torture, along with everything else that came little by little. You concluded that he was monitoring this, so when he asked you these questions, you only answered this: no blood.

Dr. Salazar nodded positively, wrote something down in a notebook, then began the regular inspection. You were dirty; they had denied you a bath for a while. In addition to the smell, your nails were also dark, a mixture of things you didn't want to know about, and he always inspected them as if there was something interesting in it, or if he was just waiting for the day they would disappear. You expected it too, you wanted to say. You expected so much worse.

He would give you some new medication and then that person you didn't know would come in, listen to instructions from him, and after that, over the next few days, someone would appear where you were and do something different to you: they would change your gauze, they would adjust the bed so that you didn't feel so much pain, they would choose another place to cut or kick or punch you.

It was senseless torture because they didn't ask questions, because nobody needed to know anything about you; it was recreational. A punishment, perhaps, that your uncle enjoyed having power over.

That day, after the usual check ins, Dr. Salazar hesitated before calling the person. He looked through the notebook, then placed it on a table and came to you, pulling your unresponsive body close in a hug, with the announced justification that he was just checking your physical stability.

“Ellos vienen. ¿Dónde estamos?” They come. Where are we?

It was whispered in your ear, his arms wrapping around your spine and pressing you against him as he pretended to be putting you on your feet. You blinked a few times, your hands falling to your sides without the strength to make you react physically, and your brain took a few seconds to process what that meant.

You thought it was a final test, something they wanted to be sure of so they could decide whether to kill you or not.

With effort, you raised your left hand and squeezed the sleeve of his coat, turning your head just a little so he could hear you whisper the answer against his soft hair.

“Caracas. Muro de las Lamentaciones.” Caracas. Wailing Wall.

****

He made a comment about your nails with an amused smile on his face, pointing to your hands with the tip of his fork before using it to spear a piece of meat on his own plate.

You couldn't move your arms. Since that invitation, you had been forced to sit there, at that full table, staring at a beautiful piece of filet mignon with mashed potatoes and carrots (your favorite dish) without being able to taste it, feeling, among other things, your belly twisting with hunger. He had authorized a shower after a session: one of your shoulders had been dislocated, and the other was bruised, so you were cleaned up by the person you didn't know, then dressed in a clean change of clothes, and set out for a private dinner with your uncle.

He spoke, and you heard one thing or another while blinking heavily, overcome by intense physical fatigue that he just didn't care about. You didn't even look at him: you knew that if you did, you would throw up what you didn't have in your stomach to vomit.

When he falsely noticed the lack of contact with the plate of food, he asked if you weren't hungry, and then said you had to try the steak, which they did excellently, that the mashed potatoes was the same recipe as your mother.

You looked at him when you saw him lean over to you and cut a piece of meat for you. He was smiling like never before, sadistic, taken by God knew what and visibly out of his mind, and when he held out that piece of food to you, a feeling of survival passed through you. He opened his mouth, suggested that you do the same.

Good girl, he said. Isn't it delicious?

And it was. It was divine. It was soft, well-seasoned, mild, and the only thing you ate that night.

****

He had plans, he told you over dinner. That your gringo friends were starting to bother him, so he would have to disappear for a while; just for a while, just until he found a way to get rid of them. When you returned to your 'room' that night, weak in your legs and almost carried by one of his guards, photos of Matt, Steve and Alejandro had been laid out on the mattress. You stared at it for a while, kneeling at the foot of the bed, and knowing that he would be watching you through the camera on the ceiling, you picked up Alejandro's photo and imagined the look on his face as you ripped off a piece of paper with your teeth, chewing it with ferocity, fighting your stiff shoulders for the sake of a show.

That's what you threw up later that night, alongside that single piece of meat.

****

It was a bang: a big bang, as if something had been knocked over by a bomb. You woke up scared, the sudden movement of sitting on the mattress making you feel pain all over your body, and in an impulse to get out of bed, you ended up falling to the floor.

You could feel the ground shake beneath your palms, hear from afar what sounded like shouts of orders, and soon after, some shots started. It was all very far away, distant, almost imperceptible, and you decided you were hallucinating. You stayed there, lying on your stomach, curled up inside yourself, listening to the noises with your eyes closed as if you could materialize them if you wanted.

The door opened abruptly. Heavy footsteps came towards you and you waited to be pulled up, or a kick, or a punch.

Someone knelt down next to you, and you opened your eyes. It was black tactical pants, military boots of the same color and the tip of a rifle. It… It looked like…

You felt a lump in your throat, but you didn't find yourself able to say anything. He didn't need you to say it. Then you deduced that yes, it was there, at that moment, that your life would end, and that he just came back to fulfill his promise. Just a small favour, something to make you die as you wanted to.

“I want to take you somewhere.”

And as if you were a feather, he calmly lifted you, wrapped a hand around your waist and, without complaining, dragged you with as many steps as you could take out of that room. You looked around: there was blood, bodies, a characteristic dust. The noises were no longer there, but the screams and voices continued. His grip helped you stay upright, like Dr. Salazar's, and suddenly you wanted to ask where he was, if it was time for your appointment, or time for him to talk about something new in his life.

But it wasn't. No, it wasn't. You felt the vest pressing against your right side, the smell of gunpowder, the rigidity of a solid body; Dr. Salazar smelled like a fresh bath – he was soft, cozy.

You lifted your face and stared at Alejandro's profile. He was staring ahead, passing hallways and passages, filled with flashes of light or complete darkness, and you frowned in confusion.

He stopped walking. Calmly, he turned his face towards you and with those penetrating green eyes, he accessed the full extent of your lost expression. You stared at each other for a while, until you realized that you were in the front room, at the foot of the stairs of the house, and that just a few steps away from you was the vastness of the yard, the gate and the road. Outside, you could see Matt and Steve passing from one side to the other, giving orders, holding guns as big as Alejandro's.

Someone grunted at your feet.

Someone impaled him in the shoulder. It was a generous iron bar, and it was the way it was secured that prevented the blood from expelling from the body. He shouldn't be here, right? And not like that?

You moved away from Alejandro's body and hoped that he hadn't noticed your spontaneous action of pulling the pistol from his thigh, and if he had, that he wouldn't stop you. You didn't see anything else; you didn't see if he had left your side, if he was watching.

Your uncle was hyperventilating – he didn't have much time. When he noticed you, he raised his face as best he could, moving his legs in despair, mumbling a lot of nonsense things, mentioning your mother, giggling in shock, going on and on and on-

“Sabes que solo hice lo mejor para ti y me apuñalaste por la espalda. Cariño, puedo perdonarte. Podemos-” You know I only did what was best for you and you stabbed me in the back. Baby, I can forgive you. We can-

It was a shot.

Just one, on the forehead.

His head got heavy and he fell back, his empty eyes looking up at the ceiling.

Your arm hurt like hell, more than any pain you could have felt since you got there, and it fell to your side as if the gun weighed a ton. Suddenly it wasn't just something that poked your waist when you wore it on your belt; suddenly, you watched as the blood finally began to flow into his eyes, ears and head.

Your head felt heavy, dizzy. Any micro strength you gained at that moment began to fade and you swung to the side with the weapon, your eyelids almost preventing you from seeing the exit. There were shadows, then. You knew that your unconscious efforts to stay alive were no longer necessary, that the evil had passed, and that you could go. You could.

The sunlight hit you hard, it burned you, and your legs almost couldn't take it, but you needed to get out.

You saw your mother. She was wearing that beautiful, chic dress, the one she was wearing the day she disappeared, with her face made up, her hair up. You always knew she fit the aesthetic of that house, so elegant and soft, full of secrets but graceful. She was calling you, wasn't she? Was that why she was smiling at you like that?

You've already had the tip of a gun pointed at your head, but this time was different. You would only need to press the trigger, just push your finger, and then everything would be over for good, and you would finally have an inch of peace.

Your eyes closed, but you didn't hear the bang of a bullet going through your head; the ice from the gun was still there, touching your head, and nothing came out. It was a click, a small 'tick' that yielded nothing; frustrating, pathetic, ridiculous. You felt a hand grab the gun, then lower it, then take it away from you.

He said something, didn't he? Take her? Help her?

Whatever it was, you soon felt a pair of arms wrap around your back, then your legs, and you were lifted into the air, this time without brutality, as if you were finally seen as fine china and not a sack of potatoes. You couldn't hold on to Steve, but he carried you without much trouble. With your head hanging back, you saw what you were leaving in that place, and what would become of it; you smelled the gasoline, saw the door open wide and blood begin to drip onto the floor beneath your uncle; saw the pile of bodies spread across the yard.

Alejandro was standing there, Matt finishing pouring the liquid around the room where your uncle's body was. He watched you disappear, almost in slow motion, and the last thing you saw was the small flame of the lighter in his hand.

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.

****

He noticed you before he actually saw you. It was like a feeling, like a sensitive shiver when you were around, because you were trouble, and he knew how to sense one coming. Usually he would sort it out before he could feel it again.

It was clear he never did that to you.

You always wore a lot of dresses when you were still doing what you did, maybe to create a little sense of naturalness, which was stupid, but he also didn't tell you anything because it wasn't a bad look. Yeah, well, you had done that: you had given him something to appreciate in the midst of so much chaos.

Matt never hid where you were, but he knew better than to try and look for you; they both knew that Alejandro already broke too many 'ethical protocols' for you.

Seeing you that afternoon, Alejandro began to count details of your body as he did before, and as he did in the hospital, when he paid you a single visit while you were still unconscious, because you were stubborn and certainly wouldn't go more than two days without opening your eyes. There, you had two deep, dark eyes, your dry lips, your face dry from malnutrition; the horizontal cuts were made on your forearm, but he could see that they had done things to your chest, and if he could bet, he would recognize the shock burns on your nipples. The worst part was a cut along your navel that had become infected, and later he would discover that you ended up acquiring poor bone formation in one of your thighs due to an excruciating recovery from a broken leg.

He could see the scar from your leg surgery peeking through the hem of your dress. It was a clean job, but it was still a scar, and it still seemed to clash with a lot of who you appeared to be. You went from one side to the other with a certain grace, even if with steps partially limited by your leg, and no one seemed to notice that you had marks, and everyone smiled back at you, and none of it seemed anything similar to how he found you years before.

Alejandro had been in Puerto Rico for two weeks. For two weeks, he accompanied you throughout your routine, and soon found you living in a discreet bungalow in a remote area of the city, almost always in the company of a man who he discovered was called Fernando.

That night, after a day of being a very silent sidekick to your day, Alejandro saw you go to bed early: you took three different pills, treated your skin with some cream, and sat up in bed as if you were thinking or, perhaps, praying. You stayed there for a while, staring into space, until you turned your face towards the window and saw him.

The two of you stared at each other for a long time. After years, it was the first time you saw him and that he saw you face to face, and all you did was offer that tired expression, without the hint of provocation or natural cleverness that usually crossed your face. You had no fear, no joy, no resentment: you were just there, recognizing that he was there too, and that empty look was perhaps the only time that made him lie in bed thinking about you with a small churn in his stomach.

You had become him.

****

Fernando was the one who answered the door, so you weren't surprised when he came walking into the kitchen with a sour face talking about a guy looking for you. You had been bracing yourself for this for a long time, and as you told Fernando to tell him to come in, you thought you were pretty confident that you could act normally.

And in a way, seeing Alejandro sitting at your kitchen table was… different.

He hadn't said much since he got there. He accepted the coffee you made and was sipping it, but you didn't know if he liked it, if it was to his taste at all, and Fernando kept glancing between you and him while he took a while to leave, as if he wanted to hear what the two of you would be talking about.

Eventually, you convinced him to go to work at once, that you would be fine, and that he shouldn't forget the oranges you needed for lunch. Alejandro watched the way Fernando patted your waist twice, gave him a severe look and then left through the side door; he just raised his eyebrows expressionlessly, scoffing lightly behind his back while sipping on the coffee.

You leaned your back against the sink, crossing your arms defensively against your chest. It was just the two of you now.

“... Have you changed your mind?”

Because it was the only first thought you could manage to spill out, even if in a low, pathetic voice, and to which he just placed the cup on your table before leaning back on his seat, still unimpressed.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

He considered your face for a moment, then swiped his eyes around the room, accessing your belongings and his surroundings before tilting his head to the side. You hated yourself for still knowing what that meant.

“Some things happened,” He excused.

“Yeah, I know. Things like that take three years to end.”

You didn't understand why you saw his mouth twitching, holding that smile he always hid, but you weren't attached to it. Heavens, you knew you couldn't. Of all the insistence for Matt to give you some idea of where he was, of all the places you looked for him, you had the right (or the obligation) to feel offended by the fact that you still felt your heart warmed by that kind of thing he did.

Alejandro stared at you for a beat too long, those green eyes taking everything in, and suddenly you felt the need to cover yourself more, to hide. He took that in stride.

“Who’s he?”

“A friend.”

“Like me?”

“No,” You squirmed a little. “You’re not my friend.”

“... Certainly.”

If you felt half as witty as you did before, you'd be sending him out of your house, or at least using his mouth for anything other than treating you like an idiot, but God knew you didn't carry half of your personality from those years, and that the most you could do was to bring that offended feeling towards the fact that he was there.

You wanted to say that you missed him, that you had been missing him since you woke up in that hospital and he wasn't there; you wanted to speculate why he played with you like that, handing you a gun with a single bullet, and letting you believe that you could end it, just to watch you fail; you wanted to say that you didn't feel better, that Fernando was a good comfort, that he had no right to be there to make you realize that he was the one you felt true appreciation for.

But you couldn't say anything because since he arrived, he only asked you two questions, and none of them were about how you were.

You turned your face to the door Fernando had come from when you heard him get up from the chair, and your eyes closed when he got close, very close, placing one of his cold hands to your neck and resting it there while he lowered his head just a little, merely brushing his lips on your forehead.

“Take me for a walk.”

****

That's what you told him the first time you met, when Matt introduced you as one of the trusted contacts he had. The two of you were outside the inn they were staying at, and you nursed a cigarette when you asked him to. Since that time, a lot of things had been weighing on your heads, but you lived on a different wavelength, so that wasn't what the two of you talked about that night.

Well, he asked why you were doing that, and at the time your uncle was merely an issue you were working on, not necessarily the epicenter of the problem in general. The two of you talked about Mexico, went over some information about the topic at the time (you talked, actually, since he didn't say much), and it was the closest you came to that feeling of delicious flirtation, the attraction starting to bubble inside you.

You had an independent spirit before; when the two of you walked, you were always a step or two in front of him, swaying your hips, having a more harmonious flow. Now, you had to unconsciously put your arm around his for support when there was a small incline in your path, because your leg was never going to do what it did before, and you didn't want to feel the shame you felt when he watched you do it.

The two of you didn't walk much (you could go further, but you had spent the whole previous day circling around the city, so you were pretty tired) and sat on a more discreet bench near a path where you routinely walked.

“I'm still active, you know, physically,” You said, even though he didn’t ask. “I can't do cartwheels or handstands, however. There went my gymnastics dream.”

The teasing was supposed to clear the mood, and when Alejandro huffed, you felt like it worked, even if slightly.

“You've been taking care of yourself,” He concluded, his arm slightly pressing against yours on the bench. “Has Fernando been helping you?”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, glancing at him with a hint of amusement.

“He’s not a threat.”

“It depends on what threat he could be.”

Things changed, you almost pointed out as he looked at you with a calm but cold expression. You were no longer a pepper full of fire, nor a girl willing to enter into a possible contest of egos (which was definitely not the case) to find out who was the 'man' in your life. Since you stopped there, and even before that, you had been taking care of your own life, believing that you knew how to manage on your own, but nothing was the same as before, and when these ideals almost all fell to the ground, you just thought it would be prudent to count on a more qualified person to help you.

You didn’t know if Alejandro would impose that he would establish a presence in your life; you didn't even know what he was doing there, and that should be the first thing you should worry about.

“You’re tired,” He pointed out next, when all you could manage was a silent answer, and you sighed, brushing your hands on your face.

That was the hardest part, if you could even put some level of difficulty in how things were going. You were doing well materially: you had a nice house, your body recovered well, you were basically retired if you wanted to. That was triple what many people who had been in your shoes got. Sometimes, or almost always, you spent sleepless nights dwelling on your privileges, remembering how everything for you was a matter of opportunity, how you took advantage of a system that you were supposed to help fight or just stay away from, how you pushed your luck every chance you got because you were an asshole.

You wanted to tell him that you had been thinking about finishing what you started that afternoon – that sometimes you stared at a river for a long time, or put your hand on your neck, and imagined that that wasn't where you were supposed to be, that you didn't deserve it. It felt like a gathering of many things you wanted to say but weren't saying; Alejandro should have known, he always knew.

“How is it for you?”

He shook his head softly at that, averting his gaze to the landscape in front of you two.

“Empty.”

“So you don't feel anything?”

“I feel angry.”

And you felt guilty. Dirty. Worthless. All very primal feelings, the kind that made you look at Alejandro with different eyes, or at least genuinely understand why he was who he was, or did what he did. You spent so much time playing a dangerous game that you didn't realize that death for some people was the only possible option.

“... Well, I am tired because I dream a lot, so I can’t exactly rest. I’m reckless in my sleep, I… It's been three years and I still feel like it was yesterday. I bought a bungalow so I wouldn't feel suffocated, but sometimes I can't breathe even though I'm here, in the open air.”

It seemed like an outpouring of frustrations and regrets, but Alejandro didn't seem indifferent, because he was rarely when you got the things he wanted to hear. Although you didn't know if this was something he wanted to know, you just said it, under the excuse of it being a justification for a question he had asked.

“I also dream,” He offered.

“With what?”

“I dream about you.”

Which wasn't at all difficult for him to say, as if it were a routine comment about life in general. You felt a little against the wall. If he dreamed of you, what would it be? Did his mind project the grotesque images that yours did, or was he more comfortable with his awareness of what he was doing all these years? Was it all deaths or all losses? With you, was your figure destroyed on or under a dirty basement floor, on a sofa or a bed in some apartment?

You opened and closed your mouth, then shrugged sheepishly. “... What about me?”

“Nothing, just you. Your face. Your voice. Your smile.”

“It seems random.”

“I might have thought that at first, but that's not what I think now. You and I both know that you are an anomaly in my life.”

It hurted, but it was the truth, so you nodded.

“You should have killed me when you killed my father.”

“It's been 20 years and you're still here.”

You felt a cold breeze hit your face and you shivered; it was a psychological reaction, you knew, you were more sensitive to changes in temperature.

He didn't offer you his jacket, nor did he make any gesture of welcoming you.

In your world, him choosing not to kill you was some kind of proof of sentimentality that transcended the need for a warm hug – maybe it was the most romantic thing anyone had done for you, you couldn’t tell.

What you could tell was that in three long and painful years, this was definitely the first time you truly felt happy.

Alejandro was back to you.

****

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