“i fucking love you” “hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober” with Javi??? I know he would smh 😩✌️
HE REALLY WOULD!!!
warning: mention of alcohol
“I fucking love you.” “Hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober.”
The phone is ringing.
Jesus Christ, why is it ringing? What time is it?
You groan to yourself, slapping a hand over your face as if that’ll block out the noise as you roll over in bed. Maybe if you ignore it long enough it’ll go away.
Then again, what if it’s the DEA?
That thought alone is enough to drag you against your will out of bed and towards the kitchen counter of your apartment. Your feet are cold and numb, a part of you still not quite awake as your eyes flutter around the dark apartment. No one in here—door’s still closed, gun’s in the drawer. Knives in the kitchen. You’ll be fine.
Occupational habit.
Picking up, you mutter out your last name and what meets your ear is silence, quiet breathing.
“Hello?” You grab the receiver tighter, frowning heavily at whoever the fuck just prank-called you in the middle of the night. “Hello?”
Your name comes out, hoarse and slurred through the earpiece and your eyebrows furrow together when you recognize it, but just barely.
“Javier? Where’s Steve? Are you okay?” A thousand scenarios race through your mind. You had last left them at the office. You wanted to get home early the day before your birthday just so you could go to work well-rested and even leave the office early for celebratory drinks, but… worry seizes your expression and you grab the phone, retreating to your dining table beside the counter and switching on a lamp, adjusting the cord so it doesn’t tug. “Jav?”
“It’s so fucking cold here,” he mumbles, still slurring. “Shit. Why aren’t you here?”
“I told you?” Confusion laced in your words, you sit down in the orange light the apartment is now washed in. Planting an elbow on the table, you rest your face against your hand and closed your eyes. “I wanted to get home early and sleep. Why are you calling me?”
A beat: “Oh, yeah.”
“Javi, are you drunk? What’s wrong?”
“I just wanted to call happy birthday, carīno,” he whispers. “It hit past midnight two minutes ago.” Your eyes widen and your eyes dart to the clock hanging by the door. He’s right. Your heart wilts in your chest.
Past midnight and he thought of you? A surge of warmth spreads through your entire body as you pull the receiver away from your ear and press it against your chest, closing your eyes and biting your lip to prevent any teasing remarks on your part.
Drunk Javier Peña. What a sight. One worth getting out of bed to hear.
“Javi, tell me where you are, and I’ll come pick you up.”
“I’m at home.” Another pause where you’re pretty sure he takes another swig. “I miss you.”
“Javi, we work together,” you chide lightly. “We see each other every day.” Lifting your face from your palm, you drop your hand and start tracing the wood patterns in the surface of the table as you sigh. “Plus, we see each other outside of work.” Clearing your throat, you add: “Unofficially.”
“I just… it’s your birthday.”
“I know.”
“I wish you knew how fucking special you are.”
“Javi, don’t say something you’ll regret now.” Oh, they’re treading on dangerous waters, and your heart jumps to your throat as you hear the distinctive clink of glass. “Go to sleep, idiot.”
“Look, I fucking love you.” The words, strung together, a little bit stumbled over, but warm and husky in the Colombian night, shoot right through you. Your eyes widen and you slap a hand over your mouth as he repeats it again before adding, “Don’t think I ever told you, but I do. I do, you know?”
And in some ways, it’s just absolutely fucking hilarious. “Hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober, Peña,” you murmur softly. “But for the record, I love you, too.”
“Te quiero.”
“If you remember this when you wake up, tell me again.”
“I will.”
“Alright. Goodnight, Javi.” And, for the hell of it, because you’re pretty sure he won’t remember in the morning, and hell, it is your birthday, you say it again, too. “I love you.”
“Good.” His voice cracks a bit, in that whispery tone of his, and he clears his throat. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
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