Sep 4, 2025
These two have been rudely bothering me lately...
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Greece
seen from Netherlands
seen from Argentina
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seen from Tunisia
seen from Brazil
seen from Germany
seen from China
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seen from Türkiye
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
These two have been rudely bothering me lately...
Javier Peña req (and Steve as bestie). Y/n is their partner and is feeling extremely burnt out; running on empty, coffee, cigarettes and not much else. She’s barely sleeping or eating and constantly has a tight chest and racing heart. They both know something is up with her but she just shrugs it off until one day, Javi is out on a raid and she reaches her breaking point. Steve manages to get her home but can’t reach Javi until he gets back to the embassy etc. Also, please could you throw in a little Carrillo cause😍
Burned Out (Javier Peña x F!Reader)
A/N: I’ve missed Narcos and my DEA boys, so thank you for this prompt, whoever sent this in. I really appreciate it. I’ve been in a bit of a slump recently with writing for this blog, so it’s great to have something to focus on and pour myself in to - hope you enjoy it!
Warnings: Swearing, smoking, alcohol, reference to depressive / self destructive behaviour, description of a panic attack, mild smut, canon-typical violence, death, reference to drugs / overdosing.
Masterlist
You knew exactly when it started. When you began to feel yourself beginning to sink downwards into the quicksand that was your life.
It was a bad day… well, a worse day, if you were being honest, given that life in general in Bogota was hard and full of bad days that left you feeling numb inside. Whereas you were normally able to banish the darkness by spending time with the friends you had collected since your arrival to the city, not even Javi’s gentle kisses or Steve’s dirty jokes or Connie’s homemade deserts could do the trick.
The day had been bad for many reasons.
One, you’d lost a contact with direct links to Escobar, that you’d spent weeks working on.
Two, you had lost them in a drive-by shooting that had killed not only them but countless civilians too.
Three, some of your asshole colleagues decided to spill coffee all over your files meaning you were forced to work late to re-type them up for a briefing the following morning. Even though you had got it done, you knew you had likely missed some details, the ink far too smudge to even begin to try and understand what had previously been written.
However, that day had only been the start of it. The start of the downwards spiral you found yourself tumbling into.
Sure, the others had noticed there was a change about you. Yet, it wasn’t as if they knew what was causing it or how to fix it.
Javi especially knew what you were like - you were like him after all. Spilling your guts wasn’t your natural reaction to handling things. You kept your emotions bottled up inside of you, cramming more and more in, forcing that lid to remain firmly screwed in place even as the pressure began to build.
And if the lid did threaten to pop off? Well then, you lost yourself in him. In the love that existed between you, and the intimate knowledge you shared of one another. After all, Javi had said it himself, “who needed therapy when you had sex and good whiskey?”
A night of passionate fucking was all it took to take the edge off… to let a little pressure escape, delaying your inevitable eruption… But that was just it; you would erupt. It was inevitable. There was no way on earth you could sustain the relentless routine of long hours spent at work, with coffee doing its best to act as a replacement for your bed.
Hell, you could feel the toll it was taking on you both mentally and physically, from the way your hands shook slightly, to the way your chest felt too tight to breathe sometimes. Then there was the fact your clothes were starting to get baggy, whereas they’d once clung to your frame like they’d been tailored for you.
“Here,” Javi had smiled one afternoon. You could smell the sandwich in his hand before he even set it down on the desk in front of you, accompanied by a packet of chips and a can of your favourite soda. “Grabbed that for you on our way back. Figured you’d forget lunch - again.”
A weak smile tugged at the corner of your lips at the kind gesture. “Thanks, Javi.”
“Anytime, hermosa.” He said it so calmly and easily that you felt your heart skip a beat as you realised how lucky you were to have someone who cared about you so deeply. It was why you made sure to tear a corner off of the sandwich and pop it in your mouth.
The relieved nod Javi granted you told you it was the reaction he’d been waiting for, as he took a step back to let you finish eating and working in peace.
You knew he’d be back to check you’d finished it in a matter of minutes. So, you were quick to chuck the rest of his lunch in the waste paper bin behind you, burying it further under a pile of discarded documents you’d already finished looking through.
It was fine. You’d eat later. Maybe you’d even try and cook dinner for you and Javi… an apology for being so distant lately…
Somehow, despite lacking the gift of prophecy, you knew deep down that that was unlikely to happen. Just as you knew it was unlikely Javi would even make it home tonight. For the last week straight, both he and Steve had been called out on some last minute, late night errands by Carillo - not that you minded all that much.
Not having Javi’s arms to fall into meant you felt less guilty about working late yourself. About only making it back to your empty apartment long enough for a quick shower and a power nap each night.
It was ironic to think of Carillo, though, given that your brief conversations with the Colonel in question had been the closest you’d come to finally releasing some of the hurt and the pain inside of you.
You didn't know what it was about him, but somehow, the Colonel had an ability to draw you out. To make you open up and share things you would never otherwise dream of.
Maybe it was his candour? You’d noticed that about him since you'd started working together; he had a blunt demeanour, saying what he thought regardless of the affect it could have on another person.
Now, it wasn't done with malice, per say, but rather as the result of a man who had the weight of an entire army on his shoulders and an impossible task. He just didn't have the time to bullshit anyone - especially when you both lived in a city full of people all too willing to lie and cheat.
It also came from a weird sense of respect, of seeing people as equals, deserving of the truth just as he expected the same in return. No matter how painful it may be.
Needless to say, it was one of the reasons you'd grown to respect the man - and dare you even say, like.
Still, when he decided to loiter on the other side of your desk, late one night, you felt yourself stiffen, as if suddenly all too aware of every little gesture your body made and what it gave away.
The Colonel missed nothing.
“You look like shit.”
Wow. Don’t beat around the bush.
“Jeez, your wife married a charmer, Colonel,” you scoffed, dragging on your cigarette, sparing him a fleeting glance. “Speaking of, doesn’t she want you back home? Or do you prefer my company that much that you’d rather stand at my desk at 11 o’clock at night?”
“She’s out of the city, visiting her parents,” he rebuffed, clearly not taking the bait as he dropped into the empty seat opposite. In fact, he decided to reach across and steal one of the cigarettes from the packet on your desk, lighting it for himself in a gesture that made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere for now.
“Good for her.”
“Yes, it is. I think time away from this place is good for everyone.”
You could feel the accusation lacing his words, as well as the heat from his continuous stare. “Then why didn’t you go with her? Not enough vacation days?”
He scoffed, a bitter smirk twisting his lips upwards. “You’re funny; I can see why Peña likes you so much. Like calls to like, as they say, even if you try and hide it behind that smile of yours.”
You bit back a laugh. “What can I say? I lucked out in that department and got my Mom’s smile. My sister was not so fortunate. She always had my dad’s features - meaning she looked more often than not like she was sucking on a lemon.”
“This is the sister that died from an overdose, correct?”
“Yes.”
“The anniversary is this week, is it not?”
He asked it so calmly and casually that anyone would have thought he’d asked you what the weather was like outside, or what your favourite record to listen to was.
At least his concern now made sense. It was the kind of detail he would remember, and you were honestly more surprised by the fact it had taken until now for him to bring it up.
He’d probably been itching to ask you about it all day, aware of the date even if your two partners were not. Well, they might have been, but neither had said anything which was your preference if you were being honest. Hence your rapidly cooling demeanour towards your colleague.
“I’m fine, if that’s what you're trying to fish about for, Colonel,” you sighed, staring back down at your desk again in an attempt to dismiss him. “You don't have to worry about me. I’m good. Thanks. So can I get back to work in peace? Or did you have some other question for me?”
Carillo sighed, simply choosing to smoke his cigarette, letting the tension linger along with the steadily growing haze around you both.
He didn't need to say the words aloud; his actions did all the talking for him as he reached over and helped himself to a file off of you desk.
He didn't buy this ‘calm, cool, and collected’ act you were pedalling. Not for a second - something his stare alone gave away, even if he refused to say it. Instead, he chose to read, and work, and smoke along side you so that you would not be alone.
He had his eyes on you... watching and waiting for the moment that your carefully constructed walls came crashing down... the only question was would they crush you in the process?
It was about a month later that the inevitable happened; that you finally hit rock bottom.
It had just been a causal remark that did it, of all things. A casual remark that sent you tipping over the edge.
You had just returned from lunch and hadn’t even sat back down at your desk yet when you noticed that someone was missing.
“Yo, Steve?” you queried, quickly glancing up at the empty seat next to you. “Where did Javi go?”
Now, you couldn't be a hundred percent certain what Steve said next but you knew he’d said something about Carillo, a lead, and a raid ...
“What?”
“I said, Javier went with him,” Steve repeated, staring at you with growing concern. You realised he must have already repeated himself. “What? Why? What is it?”
“Javi went too? He… he’s there? On that raid?”
“Yes, y/n, that’s what I just said - hey! Where you going?”
You didn’t even realise your feet had started moving, not until you heard Steve’s confusion as he yelled after you.
But you didn't stop.
You couldn’t stop, not until you were outside - not until you were far enough from that place that you could actually stop and fucking breathe.
When did it become so hard to breathe?
When had the room become so small?
Why did your mind suddenly feel the need to go to the darkest place possible?
It was just a raid... one of hundreds Javi had gone on since arriving here in the country, just as you had also gone on your fair share. So why was your head suddenly picturing him... lying there... injured, or worse... dead.
The number of bodies you’d stared at, lying in the streets in a macabre tableau that had become all too familiar by now - all part of this fucking job. A job you signed up for, hoping to vanquish the bastards who had taken so much from you and those you loved… yet, every day, it seemed you had failed as more and more innocent people suffered… and to think, that Javi - the man you loved more than anything - who you had neglected terribly to the point you couldn't actually remember the last time you’d woken up next to each other - could be amongst them…
It brought you to your knees.
“Whoah, y/n. Easy. What’s wrong?”
Steve’s voice sounded distant, as if you have been submerged beneath water. Yet, you could tell he was beside you, dropping down onto the kerb before hauling you close. The warmth of his touch was enough to tether you to him, to reality, as everything around you seemed to spin in dizzying circles.
You could feel it as his hands rose, cupping your cheeks, turning your head and trying to get you to look at him.
When you finally did, he could see immediately that your eyes were glassy, like you weren’t really seeing or hearing him.
He knew that look.
“Y/N,” Steve murmured in a soothing voice. “Y/N, look at me. Look at me.”
He paused, waiting until your eyes trained themselves on his face, some of the cloudiness starting to dissipate.
“Good, that’s good. Now breathe. Just breathe,” he instructed, taking a few deep breaths himself to show you how.
It took you a moment or two, but you eventually became fully aware of your surroundings and what your friend was telling you to do.
Following his lead, you took a few shuddering breaths, then a few more. You kept breathing until you could feel the racing of your heart slow and the fear that had felt crippling just moments before begin to ease.
You were exhausted.
Wiping at your face, you tried to banish the tears that had left a salty trail burning down your cheek.
Steve doesn't say anything for a long minute, instead choosing to pull you into his side and light up a cigarette, which he was quick to offer you.
“T... thank you.”
You sat like that for a while... just watching people and cars passing by, smoking like two people on a perfectly ordinary break.
No one bothered to stop and ask you two questions. Hell, no one even shot a glance in your direction, everyone too busy with their own business to stop and give a shit about yours.
So you sat.
And smoked.
And said nothing... not until the cigarette was nothing more than a stub.
Steve was quick to take it from you, before it could burn your fingers. Tossing it aside, it had clearly served its purpose.
He stood and offered you a hand.
His face left no room for debate as he stated calmly, “Come on, I’m taking you home. Now.”
“Come on. A couple more steps, Y/N,” Steve urged, guiding you up the stairs to your apartment.
His hand was warm, firm even, as it pressed against your lower back.
He’d been like this since the moment you’d left the embassy, steering you and hovering over you like he expected you to simply topple over at the slightest breeze.
It was touching, yet irritating all at once - a sentiment you were too busy trying to put one foot in front of the other to even attempt to unpack. You were also just too goddamn tired.
“Here we are.” Steve’s words startled you. “Home sweet home.”
You didn’t remember giving him the keys, but you must have as he opened the door a second later and herded you inside.
There was emotion in your throat - threatening to spill from you. You were holding on by a thread and he knew it. Just as Carillo knew it, and possibly Connie too -
Wait, Connie?
You blinked as you realised that at some point the woman had also entered your home, most likely having been summoned by Steve on the drive home.
You wanted to feel guilty at the thought of her being dragged into your mess, but you were honestly too tired to feel anything other than grateful as she hurried over to you, offering you a cup of what you assumed was tea, as well as two pills.
To help take the edge off, she explained, urging you to take them. Doctor’s orders.
It was impossible to miss the way that they were both staring at each other - sharing anxious glances as you swallowed the tablets and dutifully sipped the tea.
They were worried about you. Hell, you were worried about you, and Javi, and Steve, and everyone else you loved and cared about - that was what had got you in this mess in the first place.
Damn it.
You heard them say as much as you marched yourself to your bedroom, claiming you were going to try and get some rest whilst you waited for news.
If they bought it, you couldn’t tell, but neither protested as you left them.
They simply let you go, allowing you the space and privacy to crawl into your bedroom, bury yourself in the unmade sheets, and lie down for a while. The medication had clearly started to work as you felt heavy... tired...
Lying there, you could hear their voices... faint murmurs drifting down the hall.
You caught only snippets as they tried and failed to keep their voices down, just as your parents had once done when you were just a kid. Still, despite their efforts, you caught enough to know that there was still no word from Javi, or about the raid he went on.
“-called Javi- no reply.”
“Carillo - try again -”
“-worried about her - stressed.”
Eventually, the words began to fade away, replaced instead by your body's sudden need to sleep. It was pointless to fight the drugs now in your system, or the comfort of being wrapped in the bed sheets that still smelled of Javi... not even you were strong enough to fight it as you felt yourself drifting off into sweet oblivion.
"Sweetheart?"
You must have still been dreaming - that was the thought that crossed your mind as you swore you heard Javi's voice.
"Javi?" you moaned, fighting against the grogginess that greeted you as you tried to open your eyes.
Despite the fact it was clearly now dark out, you could easily make out the face in front of you, illuminated from behind by the bedside lamp. The sight was almost angelic - as if some divine being had deigned to answer your prayers and return the love of your life back in to your arms.
“It's ok, I'm here, sweetheart,” Javi purred again, brushing your hair back behind your ear and pulling you close. “I’m right here, ok? In one piece - promise. The raid went off without a hitch. Even snagged ourselves a new asset for you to take a crack at.”
Your eyes shimmered with tears as you quickly burrowed into his chest. You didn't really hear what he was saying, too busy focusing on the fact that he was here to say it at all - here - alive - in your arms.
The reality hit you as you began to let it pour out of you: how relieved you were, how much you loved him. You also grumbled something about fucking telling you when he next decided to run off on a raid without so much as 'goodbye' - else you’d shoot him yourself.
“I’m sorry, carino. I am.”
And you believed him.
"I love you, Javi. So much."
"I love you too," he purred, "and I'm so sorry, I knew you were struggling, but when Steve told me-"
He didn't get to finish whatever the hell he'd been about to say. You didn't let him.
Instead, your lips surged hungrily towards his and as only Javi could, he kissed you back, soft and slow... as if desperate to reassure you through actions alone.
You felt him chuckle into your mouth as you grew impatient, grinding your hips against him in a silent plea for him to fill you. To join you. To bury himself, and the day you'd both had, in a moment of bliss.
It was a special kind of neediness, reserved for just him, and one that was only sated once he had fully joined with you, as one being. Safe. Whole.
Yes, in an ideal world he would have waited until after talking to you to lose himself in such a way. After all, Steve and Connie had filled him in on the troubling turn of events that his absence today had triggered - and he'd be lying if he said the idea didn't scare him shitless, that you had broken down so completely...
He could only thank God that Steve had been there for you - especially when he couldn't be himself.
But he was here now... and you had time to start trying to make sense of this mess. Together. Carillo had assured him of that, informing him in no uncertain terms that you both had the next few days off from work. He didn't want to see either one of you back in the office until you'd begun to sort through the mountain of shit you were buried under.
So, yes. If you wanted to lose yourself for tonight, to use him to forget the world outside for a perfect moment, then he was only too happy to oblige.
He’d wait until the morning to have a proper conversation.
He’d go down and whip you up some breakfast before trying to get you to open up to him about everything that had happened today… about the worries and concerns you’d been keeping locked away inside of you.
Then, after you’d fallen in to pieces in his arms, he could try and start to put you back together again. As a team.
you've wactched narcos? i love you even more. and you are so right! javier is hot
I have! It’s so GOOD! Javier owns my puthy. (Sorry, Detective Loki). Carillo is hot as well! I remember watching it and going like “I am respectively looking.”
I mean, LOOK AT THEM!
[fic] Copa and Kalimotxo
Wow OK, SURPRISE! For once it's not a Narcos: Mexico fic about Felix Gallardo, hehe. This time it's a Narcos fic, focusing on my fave character Colonel Horacio Carillo. Inspired by my random headcanon that appeared out of nowhere.
Copa and Kalimotxo
A Narcos Fanfiction.
Rating: M+
Characters: Horacio Carillo x fem!OC
Warnings: Mentions of intimacy / sexual activities but not quite smut territory, one-night-stand turning into a fling, a little fluff, PWP.
Summary: Horacio enjoys being stationed in Madrid, a city that seems to have a little something for everyone. Deep down, though, he still misses his hometown. So a newfound bar - which the locals called the unofficial Colombian club - became his regular secret escape. That's where he met her.
Disclaimer: Not making any money out of this, not glorifying certain RL characters, just borrowing the TV show characters for some sordid fun.
Note: In this story, Horacio has separated with Juliana but they share custody of their children.
Fic under the cut.
Madrid.
Madrid was always beautiful this time of night. That hour of dusk where people just started appearing out of nowhere - fresh out of siesta or working late.
Horacio left the Colombian Consulate about half an hour ago – a little earlier than usual. Stepping briskly along the city streets, he avoided the wave of people heading to the direction of the metro stations.
Instead, he turned towards a side street in the direction of one well-known bar.
The first time he discovered this place wasn’t that long ago.
He’d heard about it from some of his colleagues – an unofficial Colombian club bar. Curious, he made a point to visit, and as soon as he indulged his salsa hunger, it became his regular joint.
He could hear the music from the distance – familiar salsa beats reminding him of home. As the bar entered his vision, the music got louder, inviting him to dance. Noticing the outdoor tables quickly filling up, he picked up his pace towards the door.
As soon as he opened the door it almost felt like he was back in Medellin again.
Inside, the live band just started a new song, he could feel the heat of the room embracing him, making his feet itch to move along with the rhythm.
The floor was almost already full with couples dancing salsa, women in bright-coloured dresses and men wearing shirts with their top collars unbuttoned. The steps, the sway and the occasional grind he knew all so well.
The kind of music Pablo Escobar would dance to with his wife.
Right now, Horacio didn’t want to think about that.
Squeezing past the crowd, he ordered his usual at the bar and leaned against the table. When his drink arrived, it took him only a second to down the glass, letting the liquid warmth permeate his core.
As he put his glass down, he felt a light tap on his arm.
"Horacio.”
He turned around and there she was.
“Aupa, Bonita.”/Hi, Beautiful.
-------------
Her name was Amaia Palacio Barrenetxea, the daughter of a Colombian father and Basque mother. She spoke fluent Spanish, Euskara, French and English. She had the most charming accent, carried herself with grace, her outfit often dominated with red and black. Her wavy shoulder-length brown hair always neatly tucked to the side, bringing out her stunning green eyes. The sharp Basque features paired with her Latin flair were perfection in and out of the dance floor.
Horacio hadn’t met anyone so captivating in a long time.
Stationed four years before him, she always presented herself impeccably, ordered and organized, but never without her striking smile.
They met at work only a few months ago and barely knew each other. Horacio was just getting familiar with this new country – the foreign accent, the European waves, the formality of it all. He was in the main office, she was in the communications department, although she told him that it was like a glamourized administration job.
But the familiarity of her Colombian roots and the mystery of her Basque charm made it all look effortless for him.
Their first dance was already a strong indication – passionate, entrancing like a drunken haze.
He hadn’t danced with anyone like Amaia for a while.
The beat shifted, and her hips were swaying next to his as she unwrapped herself out of a spin. Horacio stepped to the side, letting her finish her turn, and embraced her back into his close-hold before the rhythm count ended.
He dipped her low, gazing intently into her eyes.
“Horacio,” his name escaped her lips in a breathless daze. She rose, one arm reaching up around his shoulders.
Their faces only millimetres apart.
He couldn’t remember when their rhythmic movements became a cover for their lust for each other, or when their touches lingered longer, creeping into intimate territory.
Horacio always loved salsa, not just because of the release he could only get from dancing, but the fact that it was like a birthmark of his culture, his country.
The familiar in the unfamiliar.
Dancing with Amaia soothed that longing, the way the warmth of her skin caressed his.
These days he wasn’t sure anymore whether he couldn’t wait to attend the salsa club after work to dance – or to see her again.
Amaia’s eyes found his.
Now, he just wanted to kiss her.
-------------
Horacio thought Madrid wouldn’t be as intense, now that he was continents away from the one man who got him obsessed with his line of work.
But he knew the shadows of Pablo Escobar followed him all the way to Europe.
The first few months was a strange mix of emptiness, automatic moves and memories of a not so distant past in Medellin.
He needed an escape.
Something to fill in that void between the rush of his job and phone calls to his family back home.
Home.
Home felt so far away.
Would Spain be his new home? Where the people speak the same language but with accents reminding him of distance so far apart. A lifetime of familiar language with the same phrases, but the differences in meanings a constant reminder of the foreign world he was now in.
So when he found the salsa bar, he had to quench the agonizing, unexplainable thirst. He danced like he hadn’t remembered dancing before.
One dance partner after another – a melting pot of culture spanning from Europe to the Americas. He’d danced with girls from Spain, Portugal, Colombia, Puerto Rico, Argentina, even one Brazilian girl who taught him a little bit of samba.
But then Amaia came along.
And soon enough, she was all he could think of most days. Whenever he caught glimpses of her at work, and their eyes met, they would smile at each other. The kind of smile only they understood.
You will be in my arms tonight.
Fate had always played funny games with him.
He was pulled back into the moment, Amaia in his arms, their bodies wrapped in the loud music.
She wanted him, and he wanted her – that much was obvious.
He hadn’t felt this way for a long time now.
It was unnerving to find himself pining over Amaia now – after only a few months of dancing.
“Mi salsera vasco” / My Basque salsera – he had said that.
“Sigo siendo mitad colombiana, recuerdas?”/ I’m still half Colombian, remember?
She wouldn’t let him forget. Her steps always perfection, her sways perfectly rhythmic, her shines always hypnotizing – his perfect salsera.
The way she sprang into his copa close-hold, one of their favourite routines – he had never felt that with any other salsa partner.
--------------
A weekly habit turned into more, and one Wednesday night after a particularly rough day at the consulate, he knew he needed that dance with her. And she knew all about it, because who else would handle the administration part of it if not her.
Taking his hand into an inside turn, she let him lead her into the chorus.
Her shoulder-length hair was slightly pulled behind her bandanna tonight, one of his favourite looks. She had a burgundy dress on falling just under her knees, her black dancing shoes completing the look.
Somehow, she looked even more stunning tonight.
They concluded their second dance, heading up to the bar – Amaia practically almost dragging him along.
He didn’t want to let go of her hand.
They stood there for a second, then ordered a drink each. He noticed she had a different drink than usual.
“Que es eso?”/What is that? He asked, looking at her glass filled with something dark.
“Dejame presentarte a kalimotxo.”/Let me present you kalimotxo.
A typical Basque drink of red wine and coke – which some of the bartenders make upon her special request.
“Topa! Es ‘salud’ en Vasco.”/Topa! That’s cheers in Basque. After they took a sip of each of their drink, Amaia urged him to try hers.
Horacio took a small sip, the sharpness of the coke felt abrupt against the heavy smooth red wine. He had to squint.
It was very her. She gave him a mocking glare.
The music abruptly changed tempo into a soft bachata tune, the lyrics lamenting of an unfulfilled desire.
His eyes met hers in between their drink glasses – and a moment passed.
Amaia…
That mocking glare was now a soft, longing look – pulling him close, asking to be lead to something else.
The heat of the surrounding people enveloped them like a moving fog – a blaze of alcohol and music fueled energy.
Her hand brushed against his – and he really wanted to kiss her.
But something made him wait.
She didn’t respond by moving her face closer – but she didn’t pull away either.
--------------
It had been somewhat normal for months – until it wasn’t anymore.
Horacio had to really control himself to stop his hand from slamming the phone down.
Another cancellation – sometimes he couldn’t help thinking that Juliana was doing this out of spite. They have both made a commitment that they would always be present for their children, regardless of their geographical position. Since he’s taken this job, it had always been him who had to fly back to see his kids. Many times he’d spoken to his kids on the phone, hearing how excited they sounded at the prospect of going on holidays to Spain and see Papa’s new workplace. But it never materialized. Juliana would repeat the same excuses, “they’re too young for a trip that far” to “it’s tricky with school times”.
He cursed at the prospect of having to wait for his next leave to make the trip back to Colombia just to see his children. His job didn’t necessarily offer the flexibility of leave of absence.
Horacio hated not being in control of a situation.
It felt as if the walls of the office were closing in on him.
He couldn’t concentrate on work – and he was always one of the few who was the last to leave.
Now he knew it was useless even if he stayed back.
There was only one thing he knew he had to do.
So he tidied up his desk, got up and left.
--------------
She sensed something was up, even though a man like Horacio covered everything well – neat and tight, as tightly as he held her against him during one of the dips. The music continued playing and the alcohol continued pouring, as they let themselves drowned in both.
Horacio continued their duet, holding on to the end of the song, spun her once again as the last parts of the song chorus faded away.
The turns made his breath heavier, as he found himself disoriented, the stresses of his mind spilling out into his movement.
They swayed to the side, and his side step lowered just a touch – he suddenly didn’t want to let her spin too far away.
I need something to hold on to.
The song ended as his rhythm was drowning next to her.
Which he hated. So he asked her to take a break earlier than usual, ordered their drinks and found a nearby table.
Salsa had always been his escape, his peace … where he could sense some familiar comfort no matter how far away he was from Colombia.
“Horacio?” his name escaped her lips again.
He looked up only to find Amaia’s deep green eyes studying him with a hint of worry.
“Estas bien?”/Are you alright?
Blowing his cigarette smoke, he exhaled “No te preocupes”/Don’t worry.
She was sharp and observant, the way these Basque girls were – and the fiery curiosity from her Colombian side didn’t help.
I know something’s up, Horacio. Her thoughts were loud and clear in her gaze.
But she also knew her place. She knew when what was bothering him wasn’t exactly her territory.
So she was a little taken aback when Horacio’s hand reached up to cup her face and kissed her firmly on the lips.
Although she wasn’t surprised.
--------------
Horacio knew where this was going, so did Amaia.
She was like the prize waiting to be unwrapped in the privacy of his own space – far from the public eye, away from the music. This time, he didn’t want them to drown in the loud salsa beats, he wanted her all to himself.
So when they found a quiet place, their kiss grew hot and hungry the way the salsa beat hits. When their breaths calmed down and their kisses became slow and steady, they could still hear the bachata beats playing in their ears.
Amaia pressed against him close, her hands on the base of his shirt collars, her breaths hot against his neck. Horacio looked at her through heavy lidded eyes.
Come home with me Amaia.
It only took him a second get dragged back to those feelings he'd long forgotten, the times before chasing narcos, before any other love stories came in his life.
Stepping out of the club, he looked around to hail a taxi. Lucky for them, one was unoccupied on duty next to the side street. Not wanting to let go, their arms still intertwined with each other as they rushed into the car.
Horacio told the driver his address, and they continued kissing in the back seat.
When they reached his building, she held his hand close, noticing how he was almost rushing to unlock his door.
The door opened with a click, the night Madrid air following them in. At that moment, Amaia turned him to face her, hands firmly on his.
“Horacio.”
“Amaia.”
“Estas seguro?”/Are you sure?
It was considerate, affectionate, and he’d thought she couldn’t possibly fascinate him anymore.
Running the back of his hand along her cheeks, his voice was barely a whisper, but firmer than anything.
“Si. Pasa.”/Yes. Come in.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the pace picked up. Their kisses became more urgent, their hands hungrily running all over each other. Horacio had the palm of his hand along her side, tracing the curves wrapped in the thin fabric of her dress. Amaia tugged on his shirt, finger busy with his buttons, her lips tracing his chin down to his neck.
This wasn’t enough.
Longing for that feeling of skin against skin, they fumbled in the dark while gradually making their way to his waiting bedroom.
As he peeled her dress off, she stretched his shirt open, letting their bodies tumbled together on his bed.
--------------
That night, something changed.
The memories of her skin against his, in the quiet of his room. No dancing, no salsa, no music, just their embrace, moving to their own rhythm. The feel of her breath against his neck as he held her tight and pleasured her all night the way he hadn’t given one for a while. The way her body writhed in ecstasy underneath him – that kind of satisfaction he felt alongside hers was impossible to be put into words.
Now, there they were just enjoying the short break in between dances, sitting in the corner, under the shadow of canopies away from the loudest part of the club.
There was always that streak of passion following their steps long after the dance finished. The blinding heat of the music that sent them into a daze.
They would meet, they would dance, they would drink, they would make love.
For a minute it felt like the normality that finally found him, under the night Madrid sky.
He downed the kalimotxo Amaia ordered for them, now used to the unique taste.
She tidied up her hair, the side of her face glistening with beads of sweat – which only made her sparkle more in Horacio’s eyes.
Memories of last night seeped in his head, pleasant unlike the warmth of their drinks and the beat of the music wrapping around them tonight.
Their fingers intertwined discreetly under the table.
Amaia shifted closer, and Horacio leaned in to kiss her again.
A beat passed, and an unfamiliar but firm voice broke the focus.
“Ten cuidado con este”./Be careful with this one.
A man, seemingly no older than them brushed past and gave Horacio a smirk, after flipping a quick glance at Amaia. He had a black short sleeve shirt on, carrying a drink, tattoos on his arm, a severe look on his face.
“Te conozco?”/Do I know you? Horacio was still half distracted.
The stranger ignored his question, instead he hissed “Ella tiene una personalidad explosiva.”/She has an explosive personality.”
Horacio realized too late that he was talking about Amaia. She didn’t react, but he spotted the flash of danger in her eyes, not knowing what was going on.
As he was walking past, he could the stranger hear cursing under his breath "ETA puta"/ETA bitch.
What was that all about?
He didn't know what or even whether he should ask anything, but Amaia caught his puzzled look.
Horacio chuckled awkwardly, assuring her that he was sure he got the wrong person.
She put on her best smile and leaned into him, grateful that he didn’t let that remark ruin the moment.
For now.
--------------
Horacio wondered where his focus had been all day.
He had a couple of files he was working on, mostly diplomatic admin documentations, but he found himself in the filing room.
“Be careful with this one. ETA bitch.”
Words from that stranger at the salsa club echoed in the back of his head.
Surely it was a joke. A really bad one.
Linking anyone even remotely Basque with the ETA was enough to start a fight.
He didn't know what came over him.
Standing up from his chair, he was sure he couldn't focus on any more paper work today.
Next thing he knew, random archives surrounded him. There was a box of files somewhere in the system labelled "ETA". Somehow he landed on documents of the 1973 attack in Madrid.
Horacio let himself go through the pages, still unsure of what he was looking for.
Case photos in black and white, random notes, both typed and handwritten.
List of names of person of interest.
Surely that was a bad joke.
Basque sounding names, Spanish names, both men and women.
His fingers traced the list of names, and one caught his attention.
Surely he got the wrong person.
He had to read it twice to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
Right near the bottom of the page listing names of person of interest was her name clearly printed in capital letters.
Amaia Palacio Barrenetxea.
She was involved with the ETA.
His Amaia.
Horacio sat down.
Everything went quiet.
--------------
Amaia knew at some point it was going to surface between them. Her dark past that she’s buried for years, an embarrassing error of judgement she hated to be reminded of.
She was 22, she was young, stupid and rebellious.
Added to that, she was also in love for the first time, with a charming young man from her mother’s hometown in Gipuzkoa, a man called Iñaki Ibarguren. Unfortunately for her, he turned out to be a strong sympathizer and eventually a covert member of the ETA. He was also the right hand man of ETA's bomb specialist responsible for the assassination attack in Madrid back in 1973 that killed Prime Minister Luis Blanco.
And the rest was history.
He disappeared, never to be seen again - but the backlash was brutal. Within a week, she left Basque Country and buried her past. A stint of low-key administration work in different cities later, and her father's connection landed her a job at the Colombian Consulate.
Horacio didn’t say a word. He simply listened.
Still she looked angry.
Why did you look me up? What for?
He thought about saying that he came across the files by chance, but she would know if he was lying to her.
So he let her have it, and all he did was looked into her eyes, hoping she’d catch how guilty he felt.
Dancers knew dancers.
All he wanted to say was that he didn't care about her past, all that mattered was here and now. But the damage had been done, there would always be that knowledge hanging around between them.
She stormed out, he chased after her.
“Perdon, Amaia.”/I’m sorry, Amaia.
In the quiet corridors, he watched her shadows leaving without a sound. It felt like he had just found his normality in this foreign country, and now it was slipping away too soon.
--------------
Horacio didn’t see her around the Consulate for a whole day after that exchange.
Somehow the day became so hectic he hardly had any time to chase up on anything.
Later that night – just when he thought he could take a breather - his desk phone rang unexpectedly.
Deep down, he knew who it was before he even picked up.
"Colonel Carillo."
"Si, Señor Presidente.”/Yes, Mr.President.
Unbeknownst to him, Amaia caught a glimpse of the scene from the corridor. The serious look in his eyes as he gripped that phone receiver close to his ear, chin up and proud.
Somehow, she knew.
You're going back to Colombia.
Whenever his country calls, he would come running.
She couldn’t bring herself to move away.
The conversation didn’t last that long, and as soon as Horacio hung up, something prompted him to turn around.
As soon as he saw her standing there, his heart sank a little.
--------------
The night at the club, their usual routine was tinged with melancholy.
They held each other closer than usual, they spun in smaller circles, their dips more gentle, their copas more intimate. Horacio didn’t want to let her go – almost every beat of the rhythm, he caught her eyes saying the same thing.
Let’s just dance all night.
They wished the night never ended.
“Baila conmigo, Horacio,”/Dance with me, Horacio.
He would, forever. As the club came to a close, they continued their dance all the way to his place. They kissed in front of his door – a lingering kiss anticipating what was both to come and to go.
This time, it was his turn to ask.
“Estas seguro?”/ Are you sure?
Her glossy green eyes searching his, her expression warm – as if sending a warm comfort through her gaze.
“Si. Siempre.”/ Yes. Always.
Amaia hooked up one of her legs, and Horacio responded by lifting her up in his arms – he couldn’t wait.
She kissed him again, more heated, more urgent, as if he was going to disappear in seconds. He followed, savouring the taste of her kalimotxo-stained lips. Running his hand through her dark brown hair, he surrendered to his need as he pushed his door open and pulled her inside.
Their embrace kept tight, they continued kissing, her back against the wall.
The cold bed warmed up in seconds as their bodies touched the sheets.
They made love slow, fast then slow again. Every curve of her body, every breath, scent and taste was forever etched in his memory. Wrapping herself against him, she let out a moan as Horacio his the pleasure spot deep within her– the kind of precision he had whenever leads.
You will never know how much you’ve lit up my year here, mi sueño vasco.
She looked up at him, moving to his rhythm inside her – wanting to memorise every second.
If you only knew, mi sueño colombiano.
As their skin molded with each other, their marks carried into the core of each other’s souls.
Just like their salsa dance, they knew their moments together wouldn’t last.
--------------
Donostia-San Sebastian
Amaia looked out the balcony window, and the cloud was already hanging low, bringing threats of rain.
The day after Horacio left Spain, she took off to Donostia – the consulate granted her a couple of days leave.
She thought it would be a good time to reset.
Opening up her travel bag, she pulled out the signal interceptor, placed it on the landline, then dialled a Colombian number.
A familiar voice answered after the fourth ring. She spoke first before she could hear any answer.
"Soy yo, Amaia."/It’s me, Amaia.
Silence for a second.
"Ah, si. Kaixo, Amaia."/Ah, yes. Hello, Amaia.
She smiled at his attempt at Euskara. The rumours were true, he’s always been a man interested in learning about everything, including languages.
“El esta de vuelta.”/He's back.
“Quien?”/ Who?
Even though deep down, she knew he already knew the answer.
“El Colonel. Horacio Carillo. Salio de Madrid ayer.”/The Colonel. Horacio Carillo. He left Madrid yesterday.
A chuckle from the end of the line.
“Estamos listos para el. Eskerrik asko, Amaia.”/We are ready for him. Thank you, Amaia.
“Si. Agur, Don Pablo.”/Yes. Bye, Don Pablo.
Amaia disconnected the phone.
Outside, rain had started pouring down, drenching the cliffs surrounding San Sebastian.
------------------------
END
NOTES:
This headcanon about Horacio had been brewing for a while. That year when he was stationed to Spain gave me ideas of what he could have been up to. At the same time, I got to indulge my nerdiness far salsa dancing and Basque things. Also, writing this actually made me miss Madrid, I haven't been for years.
I love how within two episodes of his return, Carillo's got almost every major character hitting the bottle with a vengeance