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hausofmamadas · 2 years

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| Every alley in Mexico has its own ghost |

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Pairing: Ramón Arellano Félix x David Barrón

Written especially for @kesskirata - Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022

Word count: 3K

I’d never met anyone like him. Which made sense. The planet would likely combust if it had to contend with the rabid, spitfire energy of more than one Ramón Arellano Félix.

David Barrón has spent the last few months “not noticing” Ramón Arellano Félix, but even the will and self-denial of a deeply repressed convicted felon/cartel assassin isn't enough to withstand the fatal charms of the youngest Arellano.

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I leaned over the warehouse railing, trying hard not to pay attention to what was missing from the main floor below. The empty spot in the middle where that tall kid with the crazy hair should be gesturing wildly with an ice pop in one hand, shooting Nestor with his BB gun in the other, laughing every time he winced, fighting with Mín over where the trucks should go once they arrived. That tall kid with the crazy hair was miles away and I was trying hard not to notice.

Mín’s office door slammed and I turned around just in time to see Pancho chuck something in my direction. His throw was short and whatever it was - looked like a balaclava of some kind - ended up plopping half a foot from my shoes. When I picked it up, I was smacked by the smell of latex and formaldehyde. Inspecting it more closely, I realized it was a Halloween mask. A kitschy calavera skull to be exact, black and white with tacky accents of orange and purple lining the eyeholes. Something you’d find at Party City or some scrappy stand on the pier at Pacific Beach. Ridiculous but something else to think about.

“Barrón? Are you coming?”

I held up the mask with two fingers like a pair of dirty socks and looked at Pancho, dubious.

“Que cabrón? Qué pedo?”

I didn’t have to say anything. I wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation. Pancho knew this.

“Pinsh— tu eres el cabrón mas shingada obstinado que he conocido pues. Lo sabes?”

I knew it, but still said nothing. Let silence reverse-engineer the conversation. People like Pancho who were uncomfortable with silence were particularly susceptible to the dangers of filling it with chatter. Sometimes the chatter was useless. But if you held out long enough to convince them that supplying answers might end the noiseless agony, the chatter contained a lot of those too. They’d break, give you something for nothing at all. Friends for years, and still, Pancho fell for it every time.

“Par de independientes,” he relented, raking his hand over his face and sighing, “from your neck of the woods are pushing product, pero no han pagado la pisa. Dina got the bright idea to collect without enough backup. Món and Mín aren’t back from Ensenada yet. Entonces, somos su espaldos.”

My neck of the woods? That couldn’t be right. No one would be that stupid with Ziggy as the Logan Heights llevero. Even if I hadn’t been with the AFO, all work and no play makes Ziggy a cranky boy, sensible ‘ole Ziggy Morenas would never risk all-out war with the Arellanos by sending some back-alley greenhorns down here. Carnales would have his cojones before he could give the order.

“You sure they’re Logan Heights?”

“Pues, no se, it’s what Mín said.”

As discerning as Mín could be, he was blind regarding anything me-related. He must’ve heard the names of one of the other San Diego clickas and mistook it for Barrio LH. Probably only heard the “Heights” in Sherman Heights and thought the worst. All shoot first, questions later. I needed to call Ziggy.

When I didn’t move, Pancho threw up his hands. “Qué pedo pues ya? Qué quieres que te diga?”

“Wanna know the best way to get pinched?”

He scowled at my cross-examination.

“Theatrics. So,” I jiggled the mask, “the fuck are these for?”

“Pues si, pero estos pendejos decided to take advantage of the gabashos in town for Dia de los Muertos. The place we’re going is smack in the middle of the parade route.”

I stood corrected.

“Any more questions?”

All work and no play made Pancho a cranky boy. I always did attract the prickliest of kindred spirits. He and Ziggy should meet one of these days.

I nodded my head, “Listo pues.” But instead of following, I brushed past him patting his shoulder, and headed for Mín’s office. He looked a comical mix of outraged and bewildered but if this call prevented an all-out war, the grumpy fuck would thank me later.

For someone so uptight and particular, it always surprised me how much of a mess Mín’s office was. The file cabinets that lined the wall were covered in half empty Banker’s boxes, loose files, paper clips, and pens. I had to move stacks of papers just to get to the phone. I dialed Ziggy’s home number, hoping I’d get him and not his girl León, or his grandma. This wasn’t something you could have a little old lady jot on a steno pad to pass on later.

“Diga.” Ziggy’s voice was flat bored.

“Zig, it’s me.”

His voice brightened from flat bored to mild disinterest. “Ay, there he is. I heard ‘round the way you were in town a few weeks ago. Hurt you didn’t call.” He oozed disaffected sarcasm but Ziggy always told the truth.

“So you do miss me,” I teased. “Nah, got strapped for time. Had to cut early and get back.”

“Yeah, Tijuana. How’s it going? Gotta be better than mediating for a bunch of wiseass baby cholos.”

“Few months and already sick of being key holder?”

“I was never much for people.”

I laughed, “Shoot, true. But you got sense. Mando knew that. Speaking of sense, you didn’t send some newbie triflers to sling down here without clearing it with the Arellanos, did you?”

He coughed out, “Uh, pardon?” No one can fake that kind of cluelessness.

“Didn’t think so.”

“What the fuck. Who’s saying it was us?”

“Don’t know. Any new beef with the paisas up there, other clickas?”

“I mean. Does the sun rise and set everyday?”

“C’mon fool, I’m serious.”

Zig chuckled, “Not more or less than usual. Shermtown just dropped three of our guys last week. Some kind of family vendetta against one of my gunners. Fue una poca mierda.”

Shermtown. Sherman Heights. I’d called it. Probably.

“Hmm. Alright. Gotta bounce. Gracias, primo.”

“Woah, woah, hold up. You don’t think you should explain this to me? I don’t want any fucking surprises up here.”

“It’s not like that. Someone fucked up, but shit’s going down here. I’ll hit you with what you need to know when I know.”

“Whatever, chiflado.”

“Cool it, cranky. It’s me. I got you.” The sound of Ziggy laughing shrank as I pulled the receiver away and hung up.

Pancho was in the doorway when I turned around, leaning, arms crossed, leg shaking. He wanted to hit me. I could tell.

“Que estás haciendo, cabrón?”

I narrowed my eyes, boring my gaze into his forehead. “Independientes from ‘my neck of the woods?’ Not Barrio LH.”

He kicked off the doorframe like he’d been nodding off and just woke up. “So?”

“So, either Mín fucked up, or someone’s smearing my neighborhood to sell, tax-free, in yours.”

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We flew down the warehouse’s metal-grated steps so fast and I thought of those homeless tap dancers in Old Town downtown San Diego, peddling little routines for some pocket change and leftover French fries. We piled into the SUV parked outside. I shouted as casually as I could above the engine turnover, “Has hablado con Ramón?”

Pancho rolled his eyes as he checked the mag on his .45, “Supposedly, he’s meeting us there. They were already on their way when I got the call and pinshe menso’s trying to book it. Who knows if he’ll make it in time.”

I wished he wouldn’t. I wasn’t excited. I stared ahead and grabbed hold of the door handle as we pinballed side-to-side with every gaping pothole. Back home, people - well, usually gringos - liked to say the streets of Mexico were paved with blood. That always cracked me up, thinking about all these vigilant little tourists, popping down to Tijuana for a voyeuristic thrill, tip-toeing around the city, whispering words of warning to each other; the Underground Railroad for spring breakers. That is, if they weren’t hammered on the beach at one in the afternoon. Little did they know, the streets of Mexico weren’t fucking paved.

Pancho rolled down the window and stuck his hand out, yelling over the gusts of wind, “That’s why Món told me to bring you. In case he doesn’t make it in time.”

“If he hadn’t? Youd’ve gone without me?” I strained not to sound offended.

“Que shinga no, guey." A devious smile lit up Pancho’s face. "I just thought you’d wanna know you’re in good with him."

I shook my head, and pulled the mask on. It did just the trick even if it made my face sweat from the heat that flooded my cheeks. The smell of latex was stifling and I thanked my lucky stars it wasn’t summer.

The AFO warehouse wasn’t far from Mercado Hidalgo, Tijuana’s oldest, largest open air market and host to the city’s annual Dia de los Muertos celebration. Not five minutes into the drive, we met with the dense crowds of the parade. There wasn’t one blank face among them. Pancho was right, the masks were a good call. Everyone was decked out in the familiar campy, macabre Catrina costumes - a churning sea of black and white under a mist of windswept desert dust and a full, flat, honey-colored moon. It looked just like my memories. I thought of what Cheli’s grandma said how ‘every alley in Mexico has its own ghost.’ Or, maybe I’d read it in a book somewhere.

Pancho directed the driver, “Left here at Calle Zaragoza. Right on Boloyan.”

Finally, we pulled into an alley behind a slummy, rundown apartment building. I started sizing up the exterior. Only one door in the front and one out back but the building was fitted with fire escapes. Handy for us. Handy for the other guys too. I hopped out and walked around back to the open trunk where Pancho was passing everyone their gear.

“Are we going in cold?”

Pancho looked puzzled.

“Anyone do recon? Do we know what we’re wal—” My voice was drowned out by the beefy engine-revving of a Chevy Suburban. It pistol-whipped around the corner into the alley and skid to a halt, bumper nearly grazing my knees. Pancho had shot back so far and so fast he was almost halfway in the trunk. I took aim at the tinted windshield on the driver’s side and took a deep breath in. Three. Two. Exhale, on—

“Que pedo, cabrones! Nice to see you fresitas are awake!”

Just as I was about to get a shot off, that tall kid with the crazy hair rolled down the window and poked his head out, laughing that Evel Knievel laugh of his. Before I knew it, my mouth cocked up in a half smile. Loco. He had that effect on people.

Pancho was livid. “Shingamadre pendejo, nice of you to join us. Are you tryin’ to wake up the whole fucking neighborhood?”

Món hopped out of the SUV and strode over with all the swagger of a frat boy walking into a strip club. “Aaah, no mames. I didn’t want to miss out on all the action. Besides,” he waved in the direction of the parade crowd out on the main street, “no one’s sleeping with all this pinshe noise.” He looked down and locked eyes with me. Then tapped on my mask, “Hey these are cool. Where’s mine?”

Pancho rolled his eyes, “You’re lucky I brought extras.” He dug around in the trunk for another one.

It took a moment for the whiplash rush of adrenaline to ease up, but when it did, I registered what Món was wearing. He showed up to boost a stash house and get his sister out if this jam wearing expensive suede loafers, leather pants, and the loudest, red and yellow silk button-up I had ever seen. It wasn’t just impractical. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Dropped off your brother?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“Didn’t have time to change?”

Món scanned himself from his shirt to his shoes and grinned. “Too much?”

I held up my thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. They’d be able to pick me out of a lineup, si cualquiera tuviera los huevos.”

He had a point. I always forgot that this wasn’t the US. Eyewitnesses weren’t worth shit in this backwards-ass town. Suddenly, he pointed his finger in my face. I wondered what he might do if I just leaned forward and bit it.

“But you don’t blend in as well as you think."

Even with my face covered, I was sure he could see how high my eyebrows shot up. "What're you tal–"

"I clocked those pinshe lobo eyes even with that thing on. I'd know those eyes anywhere.”

“Shoot, I almost killed you, fool.”

“Ahuevo, lobo. And I couldn’t think of a sweeter way to go.” He shoved my shoulder and winked, almost giddy. My heart fired off like a Gatling gun. I couldn’t help but think about how right Pancho had been about these masks. I made a mental note to set up some kind of alter or shrine to pay it proper thanks later.

He was in one of those moods. Not the ones that Dina and Mín were always so vexed about, sus humores. I overhead them talking about those once. Apparently, he'd gotten in trouble for stringing up a bunch of tuna from the farmer’s market on a clothesline and lighting them up with an AK at a public park. Ruined some poor kid’s birthday party. I could never relate to the lack of impulse control but I understood the impulse. From what I could tell though, Món had other moods. Worse ones. Moods like the Sun. Moods like today. Today, he was in love with the world. When Món was in love with the world, it was viral. No choice, you just had to love it too. I’d never met anyone like him. Which made sense. The planet would likely combust if it had to contend with the rabid, spitfire energy of more than one Ramón Arellano Félix.

Finished with his trunk excavation, Pancho turned around, “Oye, quit flirting with the help.” I nearly choked on my own tongue. Món just grinned like a loon. “And put this on. You already stick out like a sore thumb.” Pancho shoved the spare at Món, right at the spot between his collarbones where his little gold chain got all kinked, stuck to the sweat on his skin. I started worrying about my heart, pounding too fast. I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice anything.

Món yanked the it over his head, then coughed and pulled a sour face. “Que verga, why does this smell like chemicals?”

I smirked and the mask slid, brushing under my eyes. “Right.”

“Not half as bad as your aftershave, cabrón,” Pancho teased.

Món flipped him the bird, but I could tell by the shine in his eyes he was still grinning. I wished his aftershave smelled that bad. Would’ve helped matters. This once-innocent camaraderie, once-platonic banter, was warping into something messier, something I didn’t know how to handle. I looked over at Pancho, who went back to passing out gear.

Really, all of this was his fault.

At Donovan prison, Pancho earned the nickname, “Rey del chisme,” an elegant title denoting his supreme status as a professional shit-stirrer amongst the other inmates. He could single-handedly incite a cell-block riot after an industrious afternoon spent just gaining and betraying confidences. He did it for sport. He did it because he was bored. And really, what better way to break up an afternoon than watching two vatos beat the tar out of each other because one stole the other’s toothbrush, or fucked their sister, or killed this or that homie. The tedium of prison really brought out the strange in people. But Pancho was effective because he never needed to distort the truth to rock the boat. All it took was a well-timed observation to some already angry güey that such-and-such rival güey seemed to have more pull with the block’s key holder. So, of course that monster, El rey del chisme, was the first to clock the "Món thing,” whatever it was, before I was even aware. I still wasn't. And once he did, he couldn’t let it go.

‘All I'm saying ... existe una vibra entre los dos.’

I was incensed. I could've strangled him and regretted it for the rest of my life. It was the kind of indignation only ignited by the recognition of some hidden truth. Hidden from you, by you. Real, despite your best efforts.

‘Don’t feel bad, carnal. Mira, it makes sense. Growing up, everyone always said Món and Dina look the most alike out of all the siblings.’

Of course, he just had to throw that back in my face too. Perhaps there was some sense to it, though. Maybe this newfound … affection was nothing but an extension of that first crush on Dina. Dina, who wouldn’t give me the time of day, who wouldn't wink at me and talk about my lobo eyes like she spent hours studying them, who didn't have moods like the Sun, who wasn't in love with the world. The more I considered it the more it made sense. Yeah, yeah. That must've been it. Had to be it.

I was sweating. I had to get this mask off. Take a breather. As I slid it off, the blissful feeling of non-stagnant, cool air on my face almost leveled me. I looked over at that tall kid with the crazy hair. Framed by the paper lantern lights in the sky, and bathed in the sinister orange glow of the street lamps, he looked obscene. Beautifully so. He caught me staring. Like some kind of contest, I refused to look away. We locked eyes like our lives depended on it. He shot me the most carefree, daredevil smile then pulled the mask over his face. And I stopped worrying about my heart so much. Some things needed to be understood just for what they were.

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ashlingnarcos · 2 years

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✏️ SIGNUPS OPEN for Narcos Fanfic Exchange 2022! ✏️

✏️ Make a Narcos gift, receive a Narcos gift. OG, MX, and crossovers, all are welcome! 500 word minimum. It’s like a Secret Santa, basically! Feel free to message me, shoot me an ask, DM me in Discord, or email me at [email protected] if you have any questions :)

✏️ Everything closes/is due/is revealed at 9:59pm EST. Saturday, August 13—Signups & tagset nominations end Saturday, September 3—Assignments due Saturday, September 10—Gifts revealed Saturday, September 17—Authors revealed

✏️You can:

Read the rules here on Dreamwidth.

Exchange collection profile here on AO3.

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Join the fandom chat here on Discord.

#Narcos Fanfic Exchange 2022 #Narcos fanfiction #narcos fanfic #narcos mexico imagine #narcos imagine #narcos mexico fanfiction #narcos mexico fanfic #narcos fandom event #Ramón Arellano Félix #Horacio Carrillo #Javier Peña #Pacho Herrera #Miguel Angel Felix Gallardo #Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo

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drabbles-mc · 2 years

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Safehouse

Steve Murphy x F!Reader

Gift for the Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022

Warnings: mentions of blood/injuries, angst with a hopeful ending

Word Count: 4.7k

A/N: We love putting Steve Murphy in situations. It’s good for him.

Narcos Taglist: @garbinge @thesandbeneathmytoes @bruxasolta @winchestershiresauce @sizzlingcloudmentality @alm0501 @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @buckybarneshairpullingkink @boomclapxox @nessamc @southotheborder @supersanelyromantic @padbrookcottage @mysun-n-stars @raincoffeeandfandoms @bport76 @marrianena @ashlingnarcos @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

It was late when the phone on the other end of his apartment started ringing. If his apartment had been a little closer to the noise of the street, he probably would’ve slept right through it. The first couple of rings didn’t really rouse him, but as the sound persisted, his brain forced his body to stir.

He grumbled, not saying anything particularly coherent as he stumbled out of his room and made his way towards the phone that was tacked onto the wall. His eyes were still only half open as he lifted it off the receiver, lazily pressing it to his ear.

“Murphy,” he answered, figuring the only reason someone would be calling him at this hour would be work-related.

“Steve?” the relief in your voice was noticeable, but the nerves were hard to miss too.

He blinked hard, trying to wake himself up a little more. He thought he knew the voice, but you’d never called him before, “Y/N?” he took a deep breath as he wiped at his eyes, “That you?”

“Yes,” your hands were shaking as you held the phone.

“What’s going on?” he hadn’t seen you in weeks, he was surprised that you even still had his number.

You had given he and Javi some information, but they could both tell that you weren’t cut out to be a long-term informant—one and done would be enough for you. Still, though, Steve had given you his number in case circumstances changed. He wasn’t expecting you to use it for a late-night call.

“I, um, I need help.”

He was fully awake at that, “What happened?”

“I don’t,” you lip started to tremble, “Please, just,” you tried to take a deep breath to even out the shaking of your voice, “Come get me, please.”

He knew that it couldn’t be good. He also knew that it could be a trap, but he wasn’t going to take the risk. He gave you his number for a reason—his soft spot for informants in tough situations manifesting a little differently than his partner’s.

“Where are you?” he asked, listening intently as you described your location to him. He took a deep breath, “You’re safe?”

“For now,” you couldn’t be sure how long that would last.

“Stay there, alright? And stay…stay outta sight. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” your voice was quiet.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Steve did his best to sound reassuring. He wasn’t sure who he was reassuring more, you or him.

Putting the payphone back down on the receiver, you looked up and down the street before scampering across it towards the abandoned house you’d been staring at for the entirety of your phone call. There wasn’t much left to the building anymore, it certainly wasn’t something that could be lived in or even salvaged without knocking it down and starting fresh, but it would serve as a decent enough spot to wait for Steve to come and get you. Truthfully, you weren’t sure what you were expecting him to do, how you were expecting him to help, but he was the only person that you could think to call.

After you shut the door, you stepped and shed your tiny backpack before you slumped down against the wall until you were sitting on the floor. Whatever the flooring had been to start with, all that was left was the stone underneath. It was cold, soaking through the fabric of your shorts. Pulling your legs up, you wrapped your arms around them and rested your forehead against your knees. Taking a few shuddering breaths, you fought the urge to cry. There would be time for that later, but you weren’t out of the woods yet. You weren’t sure how long it was going to take Steve to get to you, but each minute seemed to stretch on for an eternity.

You fought the urge to pick at the torn skin on your knees, the blood mostly dried now, the grime solidified against your skin. A shower was going to be heavenly and painful at the same time. Assuming you would make it to one. Every time you heard footsteps outside you held your breath, even though you knew that there was no way someone would see you unless they came into the building as well, and why would they do that?

Your nails were digging into your palms, the crescent marks left behind dangerously close to leaking blood as you tried to keep yourself together. You didn’t know how long it had really been, but your mind was telling you that it had been too long, that you should give up on the hopes of Steve actually showing up, but you didn’t want to believe that. He’d seemed genuine back when he first told you that if you needed help, he would do what he could, and despite his exhaustion from being woken in the middle of the night, you could hear the urgency when he said he’d be there. He had to show up. If he didn’t, you weren’t sure what your next move would be, or if you would even have a next move.

You were gnawing at the torn skin of your lip when you heard a car roll to a stop outside, the sound coming in through the busted windows of the house. You held your breath, listening intently to the sound of the ignition cutting out, the door opening and then being slammed shut behind whoever was getting out. You knew who you hoped it was, but you knew better than to get up and take a look. If it was Steve, he’d let you know somehow, and if it wasn’t, it was better to pretend that you weren’t there to begin with. You held your bag tight to your chest in anticipation.

Then there was a light series of knocks against the door. You held your breath, although the gesture did give you hope. Most of the men you were trying to get away from weren’t going to waste their time with a formality like knocking, not anywhere but especially not against the door of a dilapidated house.

Trying to keep your breathing as quiet as possible, you waited for some other type of reassurance, a guarantee that it was really who you hoped it was. The only problem was, was that he was waiting for the same type of reassurance from you, something that told him he wouldn’t be walking into a trap, into a firing squad or worse.

Then you heard it. It was soft, easy to miss and yet you hadn’t the faint sound of your name from the other side of the door, his drawl evident even in his whisper. You let out a sigh of relief so loud you were surprised that he didn’t hear it.

“Yea?” your voice was weak, suddenly you couldn’t get your body to cooperate, couldn’t get your legs to raise you off the floor.

He immediately pushed the door open at the sound of your voice, gun held tight in the hand that wasn’t wrapped around the doorknob. He saw you huddled down next to the door immediately, and despite the urge to drop down next to you to make sure you were alright, he still scanned the room, gun at the ready just in case.

When he was sure enough that it was just the two of you, he holstered his gun and knelt down next to you, immediately looking you over to see if you were hurt. You were bruised and scraped up, but for the most part, you were physically fine. Nothing that happened to you warranted a trip to the hospital. Still, his hands hovered over your legs, like he wanted to make sure you were alright but was too afraid to touch you.

He had a million questions, but it wasn’t the time or the place for them, “Can you walk?”

You nodded, although you weren’t sure if that was true anymore with the way your legs felt so locked up, “Y-yea, I, I can walk.”

He nodded as he got back to his feet, grabbing your bag for you and holding his hands out in an offer to help you up. You slid your hands into his, and you hadn’t noticed how clammy your palms were until now. He grasped your hands firmly, but not enough to hurt, and carefully pulled you to your feet. His arm instantly slid around your back, supporting you in case you started to wobble, and you did, causing you to lean completely onto him.

“I got you,” his voice was soft, reassuring, “I got you. C’mon."

He opened the passenger door for you, helping to gently lower you onto the seat. He set your bag down on the floor and made sure that you were tucked safely inside the vehicle before shutting the door and quickly making his way to his side. He hopped into the passenger seat, putting the key in the ignition as he looked over at you, still trying to see if you were alright, trying to see what you needed.

He was about to put the car in drive when he realized that he didn’t know where he was supposed to be bringing you. You hadn’t told him what happened in the first place, let alone where you needed to go now in the wake of it. Still, he didn’t like the thought of just idling there like sitting ducks. He decided that he would start making his way back to his apartment, and if he had to switch directions at some point he would just do that.

“Can I ask what happened?” he knew that asking to ask was a bit pointless, but it at least gave you an out if you really weren’t in a space to talk about it.

You let out a shuddered breath, “I, um, I just,” you shook your head, “things got a little rough, a little out of hand. They were all so angry,” you paused, thinking back on it, “I just took off before it got any worse.”

He gestured towards your scraped-up knees and elbows, “What happened there?”

You stared out the window, fighting back the tears, “They’re not easy men to work for, Agent Murphy.”

The use of his title and last name caught him off-guard. Your tone was so different than when you’d originally reached out to him on the phone. He wondered what he’d said to make you backpedal like that, he wondered too if drawing attention to it was only going to make it worse. He tore his eyes off the road for a moment to look at you, lips turning down into a frown at the sight of you trembling in his passenger seat.

“Where do you want me to take you?”

You still didn’t have a real answer to that. Part of you had been hoping that he would show up and already have a place in mind, somewhere they took people like you to keep them safe. You couldn’t go home, if they were after you it was the first place that they were going to look. You managed a shrug, “Somewhere safe?”

That caused an ache in his chest that he hadn’t been expecting. He nodded slowly, trying to pick his words carefully, “I can, uh, you can stay at my place tonight if you want? Figure out a better plan in the morning.”

You hesitated, not sure if that would be putting either or both of you in danger, “Is that…is that okay?”

He glanced over at you for a moment, “If it’s okay with you.”

You took a deep breath, allowing yourself to actually feel reassured by the prospect of it, “Okay.”

He nodded, focusing back on the road in front of him, “Okay.”

The rest of the ride passed on silently. You could tell that he wanted to ask more but wasn’t going to. Part of you wished that he would talk anyway, just to give you something to think about besides the ordeal that you’d gone through leading up to this. It could’ve been worse, and you knew that. The things that those men did to people, it could’ve been much, much worse. You weren’t used to getting knocked around, though, usually flying far enough under the radar that they hardly noticed you at all let alone enough to do that.

Even though his attention was on the road, Steve was still watching you out of the corner of his eye. He saw the anxious bouncing of your leg, the way you were picking at the hem of your shirt and your shorts. He felt bad that you were just sitting there stewing in whatever had transpired before you managed to call him. He didn’t want to make you relive it all but it also felt like changing the subject to something menial was a bit disrespectful given the circumstances. Before he could put his foot in his mouth, he reached and turned the radio on, cutting the silence that way instead.

It wasn’t too long before he was pulling into what you assumed was the parking garage for his apartment building. Time passed so differently when you weren’t waiting for him to show up—it felt like you had made it to his place in no time at all.

He parked the car, looking over at you as he pulled the key from the ignition, “We’re, uh, here,” he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to say to you at this point. He’d never felt so close to someone who was essentially a stranger. He didn’t know what to do with that feeling.

“Okay,” you nodded, grabbing your bag off the floor and pushing the car door open.

Before you could even try to step out all the way, Steve was there, offering you a hand. It was an offer you gladly took, leaning on him again the way you had before. The walk this time was much longer, but the two of you managed it.

You leaned against the wall next to his door as he fumbled with his keys, finally managing to slide it into the lock. He pushed the door open before holding his hand back out to you again, but this time you shook your head, doing your best to set your shoulders back and walk on your own. The adrenaline was wearing off and you were moving slower than you would’ve liked, but at least you were moving.

“Here,” Steve pulled out one of the chairs at the table just outside of his kitchen, “Sit, I’ll get you some water,” he quickly strode into the kitchen, reaching up and getting a glass from the cabinet. He looked over at you as he filled it under the tap, “You want aspirin or somethin’?”

You weren't sure how much good it would do, but you also reasoned that it probably wouldn’t hurt. You nodded, “Sure. Thank you.”

He walked back over with the glass in one hand, and the tiny bottle of pills in the other. He set them both down in front of you before pulling out the chair kitty-corner to yours. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. He clasped his hands and rested his chin against them, watching you and clearly deep in thought about everything. You tried not to think too much about his staring as you dumped a couple pills into your hand and tossed them into your mouth, taking a large gulp of water to wash them down.

You paused, not able to look him in the eye so you stared at your glass of water instead, “What happens now?”

He raised his eyebrows, “Hm?”

“Now that…that I’m here,” you tapped your pointer finger against the table, “what happens now?”

He took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. He shook his head for a moment before looking at you again, “You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow,” he took a deep breath, “we’ll deal with when it gets here.”

It got a tired chuckle out of you, “Is this how all of your plans go, Agent Murphy?”

His lips tweaked into a tiny smirk, “Most of ‘em, yea,” he saw the way it got a bit of a smile out of you and it made him feel a little better, “It’s worked so far, right?”

You nodded before finishing off what was left in your glass, “Right.”

There was a beat of silence before he said, “You, uh, you can keep callin’ me Steve, by the way.”

Confusion flashed across your face, “What?”

He didn’t know why he felt so nervous about saying it, “Don’t gotta call me Agent Murphy. Hell, most of my coworkers won’t even do that,” he punctuated the statement with a chuckle.

“Because you ask them not to? Or…?” your tiny smile let him know that you knew the answer already.

“Not because I ask them not to,” he shook his head with a soft laugh. He paused for a moment, fighting the urge to fidget with his hands, “I know you’re probably exhausted. If you wanna shower, you can. You can, um, you can just take my room. I’ll crash on the couch,” he gestured to the living room.

You shook your head, “No, I can’t make you—”

“You’re not,” he cut you off but his voice was still gentle, “You’re not making me do anything. It’s alright. Besides,” he stood up from the table, “I usually end up passing out on the couch anyway.”

You let him take the empty glass and the medicine back, waiting until he was done putting them away before standing up and letting him show you where the bathroom was. He grabbed you a clean towel and then left you, closing the bathroom door behind him as he went. You let out a deep sigh as you sat down on the closed toilet lid. You dropped your bag to the floor and put your face in your hands. You felt tears stinging in your eyes again, and this time you let them fall. You let yourself have your moment before standing up and turning the water on, pulling the curtain so that it wouldn’t splash everywhere.

Stepping underneath the showerhead, the hot water stung but you didn’t shy away from it. There was something reassuring about watching the dirt and blood and everything else swirl down the drain and out of sight. It took much longer for the water to run clear than usual and you tried not to think too deeply about that, but you let it run its course, letting the soap bring out the burning sensation as it cleaned your wounds.

You felt like you had overstayed your welcome beneath the showerhead. Reaching forward, you begrudgingly shut it off, left only with the thick blanket of steam that now coated the small bathroom. Peeling the curtain back, you grabbed the towel Steve had gotten you and started to dry yourself off, careful as you dried where your skin was torn. You shook your head slightly, wondering how wounds could somehow look worse when they were cleaned out and no longer covered in grime.

Digging into your small knapsack on the floor you pulled out a fresh t-shirt and pair of shorts. You didn’t remember when you’d started keeping extra clothes on hand all the time. Somewhere along the lines of having to see too many people fleeing for one reason or another and you decided that it couldn’t hurt to be too careful. You were glad for the foresight now.

When you finished drying off and changing, you hung the towel on the back of the door and finally stepped out of the bathroom. The rest of the apartment felt so much chillier in comparison to the sauna you’d just created, goosebumps prickling over your skin for a moment as your body adjusted. You heard the sound of the television from the other room and started to make your way towards it, leaving your bag just outside the door of the bedroom.

Steve was sitting on the couch, eyes looking at the TV but you couldn’t tell how much he was actually paying attention to it. Walking over, you sat down next to him, not saying anything to him as you pulled your legs up so they were bent, curled beside you as you leaned back the way that he was.

“Better?” he asked, looking over at you.

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the television, “A little.”

“Anything else I can…you know…?” he had no idea what to offer you, what you would need.

You didn’t know what you needed either. You shook your head, still not looking at him, “I’m okay.”

He didn’t say anything to you for a moment, instead just watching you watch the television. He could tell that you weren’t really paying attention to the show that was on either. You folded your arms over your chest, tucking your chin down. You looked almost as small as you had when he’d found you in the abandoned house. He saw the way that your eyes were welling up with tears, and he wanted to try and comfort you but didn’t know how.

He reached, resting his hand gently on your shoulder, “Hey, you—”

The slight pressure from his fingertips broke the last bit of restraint you’d been trying to cling to. A choked sob slipped past your lips as you buried your face in your hands. You heard the small, whispered curse that Steve let out under his breath as he moved to hold you, and if the circumstances had been different, you probably would’ve found it almost a little amusing.

He wrapped his arm tight around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. He might not have any answers for you, but he could at least give you this. You wrapped your arms around his torso, burying your face into his chest as you cried. He wasn’t expecting you to have so much strength left in you, to be able to hold him so tightly. He could feel each hitch in your breathing as you cried, and out of instinct he shut his eyes and rested his chin against the top of your head.

When you finally got your breathing under control you pulled away. You wiped to get the last of the tears off of your face, immediately feeling bad when you saw the tearstains on his shirt. Sniffling, you shook your head, “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, a sympathetic smile on his face, “It’s alright.”

As the two of you sat there looking at each other, each disheveled in your own way, you felt the embarrassment that had previously been plaguing you beginning to fade. You weren’t the only one who was a mess out of the two of you, you were just the most obvious one. You could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the stress. Whatever sleep you woke him from before must’ve been the only sleep he got that week, and for that, you did feel a bit bad.

“Steve?” you forced yourself to take a deep, steadying breath.

“Yea?” he was trying to casually pull at his shirt, the fabric stuck to his skin from your tears.

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, “You don’t gotta—”

“No,” it was interesting, the difference between the softness of your tone and the action of cutting him off, “I mean it. Thank you. I…I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t pick up the phone tonight.”

“I didn’t think that you even kept my number,” he replied honestly.

You chuckled, sniffling a bit, “Figured I might be able to get a favor or two out of you if I was lucky,” you shook your head, “Guess this counts as it.”

His lips were almost curled into a smile, “This isn’t,” he shook his head, “In the world of favors, this doesn’t even rank. You can still cash in if you need to.”

You gave him a tired smile, “Good to know.”

He could see the way that your body was fighting sleep. He knew what that looked like because that’s how he was all the time, “You should get some sleep,” he nodded back towards the bedroom, “I put clean sheets on and everything.”

You desperately wanted to go and lay down, but you still didn’t feel right taking his bed from him. He saw the apprehension on your face, and he reached over, resting his hand on your shoulder, “It’s fine, really. I got to use it earlier—‘s why it took me so long to answer the phone,” he half-joked.

After a long moment of hesitation, you finally nodded, “Okay.”

He stood up, once again holding his hand out to you, “C’mon.”

You allowed him to pull you up once more, almost stumbling into him. He chuckled softly as he braced his hand against the small of your back, making sure you were actually steady. He let his hand drop as the two of you walked back down the hallway towards his room. He flipped on the light as you both walked in, and you had to admit that you weren’t sure what you were expecting his room to look like, but this wasn’t quite it. It was clean, but so empty, which was curious to you since he seemed to have been there for a good amount of time.

He walked over to his dresser, opened the drawer, and pulled out a clean t-shirt. Despite the fact that his back was to you, you still found yourself half-turning away as he peeled off the one he had been wearing, tossing it into the hamper before slipping the clean one down over his head.

Making his way back towards the doorway, he lingered for a moment, feeling like he should be saying something to you but not quite knowing what. Something was stopping you from crawling onto the bed and under the covers while he was still there, so you just sat down on the edge of the bed while you waited for him to excuse himself, although you weren’t sure how comfortable you were going to feel in his room alone, either.

Pulling his hand down the bottom half of his face, he said, “If there’s anything else you need, I’m, uh,” he chuckled, “I’m right down the hall.”

You smiled through your exhaustion, “Thank you.”

“Yea, no problem,” he gave you a small nod before stepping out of the room, leaving the door ajar as he headed back towards the living room.

You waited for a minute, wondering if he was going to come back. When he didn’t, you finally moved and slid down underneath the comforter on his bed, your head sinking into the pillow. It was the most comfortable you’d felt in a very long time, despite the fact that it wasn’t your house. It took no time at all for your eyelids to finally grow too heavy to keep open. Sleep came for you before you could even try to do anything about it.

Steve had been sitting on the edge of the couch, hands resting on his knees as he replayed the night over and over again in his head. He didn’t know what was going to happen in the morning, what he was going to be able to do for you.

After a few minutes of feeling restless, he stood up and started back down the hallway. He lightly tapped his knuckles against the bedroom door. When he didn’t get an answer one way or the other, he slowly pushed it open, light from the hallway slowly trickling in.

He was halfway through saying your name when he saw you passed out on the bed, arm dangling off the edge of the mattress. He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he stepped into the room. Walking over, he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb you. Your expression was so peaceful, relaxed, and your breathing was so even. Even in the times before tonight when he’d seen you, you’d never seemed so relaxed. Reaching, he gently put your arm back on the mattress so that it was no longer dangling off. He smiled, letting his hand rest on your arm for a moment longer before giving it a light squeeze and getting up, silently making his way back to the living room to get what little sleep he might still be capable of.

#narcos #narcos netflix #steve murphy #steve murphy x reader #steve murphy x you #narcos fanfiction #narcos netflix fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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hausofmamadas · 2 years

Text

For Those That Seek the Jungle's Forgiveness | Part 1

(formerly titled "Gone. Like That." Read on -> Part 2)

⁂

Pairing: Mika Camarena & Connie Murphy

Written especially for @kesskirata - Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022

Word count: 4K

TWs: Canon-typical violence, major character death, grief/mourning, loss of significant other just like don't fuckin' read this if you're in the middle of grieving the death of a loved one, I implore thee

"But Colombia? It made no sense. It sounded nuts. It was nuts. But it was also something different ... So, she did it. She went nuts."

It's 1991 - six years after Kiki Camarena’s death. His widow Mika Camarena has been living in Colombia for about three years. She’s best friends with Connie Murphy, she's homies with Steve Murphy, she’s made Javi hopelessly smitten with her, and she’s maybe, possibly the only person who can save Steve from ending up worm chow.

⁂

“Kikito can you answer that please? This is the third time they’ve called and given how often your nenita calls, I’m pretty sure it’s not for me."

Kikito closed the fridge with a groan and strode down the hall.

“Don’t you growl at me. And– hey. Don’t stay on too long. You still gotta finish your homework before bed. I don’t have it in me to help you write another essay about Ernest Hemingway or whoever at three am, mijo.”

Mika scrubbed the rust off the pan, wishing the scouring pad on the back of her sponge was steel wool. Or a blowtorch. Connie insisted she’d get used to the weather, but so far, she and her cookware had failed to acclimate to the humidity. The air was so thick, sometimes breathing felt like being water boarded and the kinds of bugs they had would be right at home in National Geographic issue about insects that look like aliens. But even if the tropical weather didn’t agree with her, Colombia did have something Guadalajara didn’t. Connie and Steve had been a godsend. And Javi too … in his own way. Or, he tried at least.

When they finally sat down to eat, Connie kept making faces at her. Mika didn’t know what she was on about but she’d find out later it was related to why Javi was, as Connie said, “on his best behavior” or as Steve put it more colorfully in that homegrown Tennessee drawl, “all minding his Ps and Qs and shit.” But before that? The only thing out of the ordinary that Mika detected was an occasional, well-disguised but evident look of awe that came across Javi’s face whenever she glanced at him, like a kid trying to play it cool while meeting his favorite baseball player. That and the downright robotic way he shook her hand when he said goodbye. You would've thought they’d just closed a great deal on the sale of a condo.

“Right. Ah, thanks for dinner.” He practically ran to his car. The only thing that could’ve made it more awkward was if he’d tacked on ‘ma’am’ at the end.

When they were clearing the table later, Connie finally told her why she was pulling faces all throughout dinner. She had been surprised at Javi’s newfound sense of propriety.

“Look, I’m just shocked he didn’t make a pass at you. I think that says something,” Connie said, handing her a plate.

Mika noted wryly, dunking it into the soapy water, “I think what it says? Is he’s that guy."

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Javi’s a good guy, he’s just the kind of— where— okay, you know how generally speaking, everyone’s prone to feeling a little lost in life?”

Mika nodded. She had no idea where Connie was going with this, but wherever it was she was intrigued.

“Right. It’s a transient thing. We've all been there, we get it." Her voice shot up half an octave, "Let's just say being lost is a permanent destination for Javi? And uh, like a kid looking for his mom in a supermarket, he grabs onto any woman’s skirt in the hopes it’ll help him find his way.”

Mika laughed at the way Connie threw up her hands, like she was giving up, stumped by the exceedingly complex math problem that was Javier Peña.

“I feel like that’s a really long-winded way of saying he's a lost cause.”

Connie shook her head, “Mm, see that just doesn’t fully convey the true depth, the scope of 'lost' that I’m talking about here.”

“Huh. Well, since it seems like he is that guy,” Mika turned to look at her reflection in the microwave, “I don’t know what I did wrong. Shoot, I guess I styled my hair a little differently today. Or, I mean— I know I put on a couple pounds in the last couple of months - y'know too much arequipe - but damn, I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Connie’s laugh sounded more like a screech. She snapped the dish towel at Mika. “Oh, c’mon! You know that’s not what I mean.”

Mika doubled down, chuckling, “Well sure, you’re my friend. That’s what you’re supposed to say.”

“You’re just going to watch me dig this grave aren’t you.”

“What? I’m right there with you, manita,” a sly grin spread across her face, “handing you the shovel.”

Connie smiled and scrunched her nose, twisting the dish towel in her hands like she was going to snap it again.

“Let’s go, guera. I can take you,” Mika threw her hands up and cocked her head, channeling the teenage-wannabe, Calexico cholita she was back in the day.

They both giggled. Connie bumped Mika’s hip with hers, “One of these days, cabrona.”

“Ey, there we go. You pick things up that quick, I’ll have you talking like a real chola in no time. Steve won’t know what to do with you.”

Connie murmured, “The better to scare him with,” a cheeky smile on her face.

“Yeah, show him who really wears the pants because he loves that so much.”

“As if he could ever forget.”

Mika wagged her eyebrows up and down knowingly, “True.” She turned off the faucet and wiped her hands on her jeans.

Connie tossed the dish towel by the sink and hopped up to sit on the counter, “No, but seriously, I only bring it up because Javi— well, he fancies himself some kind of Casanova. I call it a bad substitute for therapy. And I’m sorry but you’re exactly his type. Brown-eyed, brunette knockout. A smart, resilient, kind-yet-uncompromising woman,” she suddenly lowered her voice like a she was narrating a movie trailer and leaned forward, “with a dark past and a deep well of sadness.”

Mika threw her head back and laughed.

“No! But I’m serious!”

Connie busted up too, both laughing so hard until they were gasping for air. Steve walked into the dining room tucking his shirt in, eyes squinting, cigarette planted firmly between his lips, wearing the look of a perpetually confused and disgruntled man. He leaned on the counter of the breakfast nook, waiting expectantly. Connie and Mika just stared at him, then looked at each other and cut up all over again.

"Is anyone gonna let me in on the joke here, or are we cracking up 'cause I'm the joke?"

Mike teased, "I don't know Steve, maybe if you'd stayed and helped us clean up, you'd be in on the joke. I thought they were all about manners in the South."

Connie composed herself with one of those long, drawn out laugh-sighs and leaned over, putting a consolatory hand on Steve's cheek, "Oooh, no it's not you. Not now, anyway. No, this time, the punchline is Javi."

Steve's cigarette bobbed a bit as his tense jaw and pursed lips relaxed into a sly smirk. "Shoot, that's some of my favorite stand-up material. Guess I should've stayed and helped y'all after all. Lemme guess, y'all are discussing that school-boy crush he's desperately trying to squash."

"Actually, Connie seemed to be suggesting the opposite. He's the kind of guy who'd hit on a rock, but he didn't put the moves on me. So, it can only be concluded I am an unsightly, old wench."

"That is not what I was saying and you know it!" Connie play-smacked her in the arm.

Steve leaned back, eyes wide with mock shock, "Connie, how is that any way to treat your friend? And a widow at that?"

He looked at Mika, chuckling out a puff of smoke. Her nose scrunched as she giggled and high-fived him.

"You can't co-opt my friend with humor and Southern charm, Steve. I won't stand for it."

"Look baby, you set up such a perfect shot —can't expect me to let that one go."

Connie threw up her hands and swept them around in a semi-circle, "May I just remind everyone that I was the one who thought they should meet. I didn't expect Javi to suddenly grow a conscience and adopt the manners of a 1950s house-husband."

"He was a little uptight, wasn't he," Steve mused. "Poor little guy, just don't know what to do with himself."

That’s when Mika finally realized what Connie was trying to say. Javi was awkward, but he was on his best behavior for a reason. Despite the fact that he never knew Kiki and despite the fact that apparently anything with a pulse was fair game, it seemed Javi respected Kiki too much to let his playboy antics to get the best of him, almost like making a pass at Mika would’ve been an affront to his memory. It was naive but well-intentioned. It was also sweet in a way that made Mika want to lock herself in a closet and cry for days.

The truth was, Javi didn’t need to shut anything down. The mainframe broke a long time ago. Because no matter who it was or how hard they tried, it just wasn't Kiki. It didn't matter what all those self-help books said about grief, how "it got better with time," how "the load would lighten, float away a little more each day," enough time had passed now that she knew she’d never stop missing him like he’d just left.

Without him, no place on earth was ever going to feel like home. But Connie and Steve came close. They tethered her to reality the same way Jaime and Ana did back in Guadalajara. After Kiki was killed, Guadalajara of course wasn’t the same but Jaime and Ana took her in like she was family. So, when Jaime eventually got transferred after a couple of years, and they had to move to El Paso, the city felt downright alien. Nothing looked real and each mundane reminder of the empty space where Kiki used to be began to disassemble her, piece by piece: their favorite open-air market, favorite restaurant with the homemade, hand-pressed corn tortillas, favorite little, date-night, divey cantina, the route through the neighborhood they used to take Danny for walks in his stroller, the too-big, King-sized bed with that hideous palm-tree bedspread he hated, the one his mother gave them for their anniversary one year. Worse yet, the void of Kiki was starting to replace him, memories of precious moments going fuzzy at the edges more and more each day.

At first, she thought maybe she’d go back to Calexico. Until she realized surely, there would be little echoes of him, them, in their hometown. It would’ve been just as bad. Probably worse. She never considered Colombia until Jaime brought it up.

“Yeah, it’s a hotbed of cartel activity, fixin’ to be a war zone over there,” all pecan pie in that Southern drawl of his, “what with that Escobar at odds with the Colombian government on extradition and such.”

“Jaime. Ugh—” Mika let out a huff as she struggled to untangle the telephone cord, “you’re not really selling me on this whole Colombia idea. Why the hell would I want to live in a war zone?”

Jaime’s laugh always filled her with warmth and relief. “Look, I’m not saying it’s Sandals Resort in La Paz by any means, but you don’t want to come here to El Paso which—” he said with more than a hint of irreverence, “heck, understandable. You can’t go back to Calexico. You certainly can’t stay in Guadalajara. Maybe it could be a new adventure for you guys. With all the action, you’re bound to find some community there. ‘Sides,” he concluded dryly, “it’s not like Guadalajara has been a pacifist utopia these days.”

By community, Mika knew he meant DEA. An interesting point, given it was really the only one she’d known for several years. But Colombia? It made no sense. It sounded nuts. It was nuts. But Jaime was right, it was something different. She tried to dampen the budding hope that she might live in a place that wouldn’t haunt her. A place where maybe she could be closer to Kiki than the absence of him. And, Jaime was three for three because Guadalajara really wasn’t the ‘burbs. She’d stayed somewhat for practical reasons, to keep things like school consistent for the boys. But the other part of staying, Mika reasoned, was to raise them in a place where they’d stay connected to their heritage, their father, know where they came from. An environment with a diversity of people from all walks of life, so they could see that not everyone had what they had, so they could see and understand the harsh truths of the world before being stuck in it alone. Some of that could be achieved in a place like Colombia. So, she went nuts. She did it.

They’d only been there a few months when she happened to meet Connie at one of the colonia’s many farmer’s markets. Danny had been wandering around looking at all the exotic fruit and handmade wares when he saw a girl about his age, in denim overalls and a pageboy haircut, looking at the dream-catchers. He and Livvy made fast friends. He tugged on the hem of Mika’s jacket, “mama, venga a conocer mi nueva amiga,” pulling her closer and closer to Olivia and a no-nonsense blonde woman, swearing at one of the vendors in broken Spanish. From what Mika gathered, it seemed like they were haggling but the guy running the stand wasn’t being straight with her, trying to take advantage of who he thought was a clueless gringa.

“Estas haciendo pasar un mal ratito a mí amiga?” >*Are you giving my friend a hard time?*

The slimy little man and Connie were both startled. The man’s eyes darted to Mika and then down at the ground, as he adjusted the brim of his faded baseball cap and sputtered. “No señora, solo estaba—”

She cut him off, grabbing the dream-catcher they were haggling over.

“Pues, a esto se debe todo el revuelo? Pinshe huevon, lo podría hacer por la mitad que estás cobrarle. Una gabacha y con su niña? En serio pues, guey?” She held up the trinket. “I’ll spell it out for you. We’re taking this, sin cargo alguno. Estamos pues?” > *All the fuss over this? Fucking moron, I could make this for half the price you’re charging her. A foreigner, with her kid? Really, dude? I’ll spell it out for you. We’re taking this, free-of-charge. Got it?*

He jiggled his head up and down in agreement.

She handed it to the blonde woman, who smiled smugly at the guy. Mika stifled a laugh when the guera offered him her fakest, “muchas gracias.”

They walked out onto the pebbled street together, Danny and Livvy skipping ahead, playfully shoving one another.

“Oh my god, thank you. You have no idea how long I’ve been arguing with that asshole. I’m Connie by the way.”

“Mika.” She shook Connie’s outstretched hand and smiled warmly. “Honestly, I’m just happy to see another expat from the States. Colombians aren’t especially welcoming to us Chicanos I’ve learned. The combination of gringo and Mexican is really not— tsk tsk." She cut the air with her hand the way film directors do.

“Oh no, so you're like Double Jeopardy. But wait— I mean, I know I stick out like a sore thumb with my half-assed Spanish. But how can they even tell you’re not Colombian when you’re not speaking English?”

Mika chuckled sarcastically, “it’s the brand of Spanish that gives me away. Every country kind of has its own brand. One of the dead giveaways that I’m not Colombian is the lack of ‘vos’ but what really gives the Mexicana away are things like ‘chela’ and ‘chinga.'”

Connie looked at her with blank curiosity.

“Chela is like cerveza, just means beer, but a very Mexican thing. And I think I heard you say ‘puta madre’ back there? In Mexico, more often it’s ‘chingada madre.’”

Connie laughed, “wow, so your version of ‘motherfucker’ is as neon a sign as my gringo Spanish and Disney-princess blonde hair.”

“Ha, sorta yeah. Well, close. I mean, no matter what Mexican slang I throw around, they at least know they can’t get one over on me like that guy just tried to do with you. So, you’ve probably dealt with more bullshit. That’s is why I butted in —can’t stand crap like that.”

“My husband’s partn— mm— one of my husband’s coworkers speaks English and Spanish. I’ve asked him to teach me but trying to get that guy to do anything you want him— well, or don’t want him to do,” Connie whistled, “phew, in one ear and out the other.”

“Classic. Sounds like a keeper.” When Connie didn’t say anything, Mika clarified nervously, “Sorry, the coworker. Not your husband.”

Connie laughed, “Oh no, I wasn’t— sorry, I just stuck a piece of gum in my mouth. No, trust me,” she spoke quietly now, like she was revealing trade secrets on the stock exchange floor, “I love Steve, don’t get me wrong. But I am well acquainted with what a grade-A ass he can be.”

“Oh, no kidding! Glad to know I’m not the only one who knows what it’s like to be married to a lovable grade-A ass.”

“Oh yes,” Connie swept her hand out next to her in a presentation-like gesture, “welcome to the support group. So far it’s just me, but uh— Hey! It reeks of stale liquor and cigarettes and the coffee’s barely drinkable, so I’m sure there’ll be more butts in these seats soon.”

That lit both of them up. Before they knew it, they were wheezing those noiseless laughs with no air left. Danny looked back at them, “What’s so funny?”

“Aw mijo, it’s too hard to explain. Don’t worry about it.”

When they settled down, Connie noticed Mika’s left hand. “You said 'be married to a lovable, grade-A ass.' Was that past-tense?”

Mika nodded gravely.

“Can I ask what happened?"

Mika looked down at the ground, watching her feet stepping on the cracks of the pebbled street as if they weren't her own

Connie ventured nervously, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to pry. You have full license to tell me to fuck off, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Mika smiled softly, without joy, “He died.”

She worried her impassiveness made Connie uncomfortable, but she figured out years ago that if she allowed herself to really feel every time she answered the question, she’d never stop screaming.

“Oh gosh, forgive— I didn’t mean— Fuck. I’m just ... I'm so sorry.”

They walked in silence for a bit, watching Livvy and Danny dodging between the crowds of shoppers ahead, playing some kind of make-believe game about pirates it sounded like. Mika gave a small, sad smile and a nod to reassure Connie she’d done nothing wrong. If anything, she was grateful that Connie didn’t ask how Kiki died. She wasn’t ready to be Mika Camarena, Kiki Camarena’s widow just yet. Eventually, she’d have to give up the ghost and put that mourning veil on again, but she was relieved Connie didn’t force it on her. For now, she was simply Mika.

In some ways, that was the first sign of an almost innate mutual understanding between them. When Connie eventually discovered who Mika really was after spotting a stray bill left out on the kitchen table, she was able to finally tell the truth about Steve. That no, he was not in fact a “janitorial services professional” for the US embassy building, but a DEA agent. And the infamous janitor “coworker” who wouldn’t teach her Spanish was actually his partner, Javier Peña. That revelation only expanded their mutual understanding into a kind of easy shorthand, so that, despite the fact they hadn’t known each other long, Mika and Connie knew each other.

That’s why it felt like such a knife to the gut, when Kikito rushed in with the phone in his hand. “Mom, mom, mom,” she could tell he was scared. “It’s Connie. I can’t understand what she’s saying, she’s crying.”

Mika took the phone, trying her best not to look alarmed. She didn’t want to frighten Kikito more than he was already.

She kept her voice, low and calm, “Connie? What happened?”

Connie was lucid but hysterical, “Steve’s gone. I don’t know where he is. No one’s seen him anyw— anywhere for several hours. Javi just left. He didn’t tell me—” She trailed off, choked by the force of her own panicked sobs.

No. Not again. This was not was happening again. Not after Kiki. She couldn’t abide a world that would put someone else through everything she went through. What he went through. The memory of his mangled body on that cold metal slab hit her again; all caked in mud, riddled with cuts and burns, pieces of rebar still stuck in the wounds on his head, his swollen, bruised face barely recognizable yet still her Kiki all the same. Sometimes, she felt it would’ve been easier if he’d been completely unrecognizable.

Mika squeezed her temples - think - then covered the receiver. “Mijo, go get your brother dressed, pack a bag, and call Laura, her phone number's on the fridge. Tell her there’s an emergency and ask if you guys can stay there. Livvy too. I'll explain the rest in the car.” Kikito skittered off down the hallway. “And hey! Don’t forget your toothbrushes. The overnight bag is in my closet on the top shelf. Just use my office chair if you can’t reach it.”

She took her hand off the receiver. “Okay Connie, how long as he been missing?"

"I— I don't even know. You know how it is on the job. It's— " she sniffled, voice growing thick again with tears, "It's not a regular nine to five."

"Do you know who the last person to see him was?"

"We think it was the Agent in Charge at the embassy. The older lady who wears the Miss Piggy make-up. But— I do—" she broke down again, sobbing into the receiver, "I don't even know for sure."

"Hmm." Mika chewed on the inside of her cheek, "Before he left, did Javi tell you where he looked so far? I'm sure he checked all of Steve’s normal, routine stops, but did he check places they go to meet their C.I.s, has he talked to any of the informants? Did he check the hospitals? Churches? Shelters? Morgues?”

Connie sucked in a huge breath and exhaled slowly. A few heartbreaking stray whimpers escaped the back of her throat.

“No, he didn’t say much and he left before I could ask him anything. All he said was that he thinks Steve’s alive, but … all that really means,” her voice broke again, “is he’s not certain he’s dead yet.”

“Listen to me. I need you to breathe. You have every right to be upset, and unlike those smug, patronizing assholes that you’re gonna inevitably have to talk to at the embassy or the DEA, I mean it with every fiber of my being. But right now, you need to have your wits about you.”

“Okay?” The sound of Connie’s voice, hoarse and confused, nearly broke Mika. It took everything not to burst into tears herself.

“We’re going to have to deal with this on our own. No federales, no Search Bloc, no DEA, no Martinez, no Javi.”

“What? Even no Javi? Why?”

“Because as much as they all mean well,” Mika chuckled with an apocalyptic edge and punctuated each word, “All they’ll do is lie.”

Connie said nothing.

“They’ll lie to save face. They’ll lie because they think it’ll protect Steve. And they’ll lie to protect you because they think you can’t take it. And because they don’t want to deal with the ‘hassle’ of your tears, your sadness, your rage.” Mika sighed the whole weight of the world, “All they’ll do is lie. And that? What they project as compassion or strength that’s really a pretense for apathy? That’s a death sentence.”

Mika waited for Connie to speak. She didn’t. Praying she wasn’t catatonic, Mika continued, “But it doesn’t have to be. No one’s contacted you, the embassy, or the DEA for ransom, so whoever it is doesn't want money. And anyone in the game who wanted him dead, no matter which side of the law, would’ve shot him walking to his car and left him somewhere. He’d be gone,” Mika snapped her fingers, “like that. So, Steve is probably alive. For now.”

Neither of them said his name. The silence was already heavy with it. But Connie knew what they did to Kiki, every gory detail. She was probably picturing Steve right now, battered and bloody, tied to a chair in some dank shed in the middle of the jungle. The irony that Steve was probably alive, and that it wasn’t much more consolation than knowing he was dead, struck Mika painfully.

"Okay." Connie blew her nose and took another breath, this one more even, chilled by determination. “What do we do.”

“I need you to get a piece of paper and something to write with.” She waited patiently through scuffling sounds as Connie fiddled with the receiver.

“Okay, got it.”

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Mika recited the number.

“Who’s this for?”

“It’s the number for the DEA field office in El Paso. Now, you need to wake up Livvy and get ready to leave. Kikito’s calling my neighbor Laura. She and her mom can take the kids. Wait for me outside your place. Listen to me very carefully. If I’m not there within a half an hour and you can’t get ahold of me? Call that number and ask for Special Agent in Charge Jaime Kuykendall or Agent Walt Breslin. Do not let them pass you off to receptionist or another agent. You have to talk to one of them.”

Connie asked breathlessly, “Wait, Mika. Who are they? And where would you— Why wouldn’t I be able to get ahol—”

“They’re people who’ll know what to do.” Mika stared at the spine of Kikito’s battered copy of Charlotte’s Web on the living-room bookshelf. “But more importantly, they’ll tell you the truth. Now c’mon manita, we don’t have any time to waste. Every second counts. I’ll see you soon.”

⁂

#Mika Camarena & Connie Murphy #Connie Murphy & Mika Camarena #connie murphy #mika camarena #javi peña #steve murphy #Narcos/Narcos Mexico crossover AU #narcos #narcos mexico #narcos imagine #narcos mexico imagine #Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022 #javi is a ho always and forever #but mans has standard's when it comes to hitting on dead fellow DEA agent's wife #so like ... go javi?#HOWMEVER #if i were to continue this ...#which i won't because i have no fucking idea where tf to take it...#but if i did ... you bet your bottom dollar i'd find a way to make Javi/Mika happen #could she fix him? ... hell no #would it be hot and probably accidentally hilarious if she tried? ... you do the math #would there be limitless bickering wherein javi realizes that he's wrong about everything? ... what do you take me for #oh also if you really wanna ruin your day #go ahead and pull up the Nmx soundtrack on apple music or spotify or wherever tf #scroll on down to a little ditty called 'Charlotte's Web' and throw that bitch on about halfway thru the fic #it will wre- aherm make your fuckin day

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ashlingnarcos · 2 years

Note

I’d really like to partake in the Narcos Fic exchange but I’m slightly confused as to how to fill out the form. Are we filling it out for another content creator or ourselves? Thanks!

Oh hey! So glad you asked <3

Basically, for the exchange, you are going to create at least one gift for somebody else...and you are going to receive at least one gift! To sign up, you put in REQUESTS - things that you would like to receive (for example, I'm requesting Carrillo/Reader like the thirsty girl I am). You also put OFFERS in your signup - things that you are willing to write about for somebody else's gift. Signups close on August 13.

Then, once signups are closed, you'll get your assignment - that's what you're going to write! You can pick just one of the assignment relationships and write at least 500 words about it. Post it sometime before the deadline (September 3).

Everybody's gifts will be basically hidden and released at the same time, on the gift reveals day (September 10).

There's a ton of detail here, but if you've got more questions, I'm happy to answer them! Send in more anons or DM me, whatever works :)

#Narcos Fanfic Exchange 2022 #narcos fanfiction #narcos fanfic #narcos mexico fanfiction #narcos mexico fanfic #narcos mexico imagine #narcos imagine

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drabbles-mc · 2 years

Text

Really That Simple

Horacio Carrillo x Steve Murphy

Gift for thee love of my life @narcolini for the Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022

Warnings: 18+, language, mentions of blood/injuries, steamy things/implied smut (it’s hate-fucking hours out here and we love that), angst, repressed feelings out the wazoo

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: I know that this pairing isn’t everyone’s bag and that’s fine. But y’all writing this fic rejuvenated me as a writer in a way that I cannot fully explain. I love these horrid little men. I am still having. So many thoughts about these two.

Narcos Taglist: @garbinge @thesandbeneathmytoes @bruxasolta @winchestershiresauce @sizzlingcloudmentality @alm0501 @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @buckybarneshairpullingkink @boomclapxox @nessamc @southotheborder @supersanelyromantic @padbrookcottage @mysun-n-stars @raincoffeeandfandoms @bport76 @marrianena @passionatewrites @ashlingnarcos (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Carrillo sighed deeply as the two of them left the scene of their botched excursion in the rearview. The fact that this was the case, proved that two miracles had taken place. One, that they didn’t get killed, by anyone else or by each other. Two, that the car still managed to work even after the sides getting riddled with bullets. How neither of them nor the car managed to get hit somewhere vital was beyond all reasoning. Steve didn’t much believe in god these days but someone or something must’ve been looking out for them.

Or maybe whoever, whatever it was, was just dragging it out for the sake of enjoyment. He and the colonel had made it through the thick of it, but with each exasperated sigh and shake of his head, Carrillo seemed like he was getting closer and closer to pulling the car over and putting a bullet in Steve’s back himself. The DEA agent had simply been hoping that the man would cool off, maybe even take a brief second to enjoy the fact that they didn’t fucking die when they probably should have. He should’ve known better.

So, despite the fact that he had one arm limp, sticky with drying blood after a bullet had torn through it, despite the fact that Carrillo was definitely the reason he didn’t catch a second bullet, one to the skull, despite that maybe the mess that they’d gotten into was his fault more than Carrillo’s, Steve still found himself gearing up for an argument. If it was going to be the last thing that he got to say, he might as well go out doing something that he did best—getting under Carrillo’s skin.

“If you got something to say, Colonel,” the use of the title sounded more sarcastic than anything else, “just fucking say it. Before you suck up all the oxygen in here.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” he shot back, “considering we have more holes than doors,” he stopped himself before continuing, the thanks to you was implied clearly enough without him having to say it.

Steve let his head drop back against the headrest, shutting his eyes but still not done with the conversation, “Let’s just get this over with now before we get back to the base. If you’re gonna ream me out, you don’t gotta do it in front of a bunch of officers who hate me almost as much as you do.” Steve heard Carrillo scoff, and mumble something under his breath in Spanish. He sat upright a little more, turning to face the man driving the car, “What was that?”

Carrillo didn’t take his eyes off the road, but his voice was clear, condescendingly so, “Almost.”

Steve rolled his eyes—he was too tired, too angry, too fed up with the constant power struggle that he had been locked in with the man next to him since the day that he set foot in Medellín. “Why?” he asked, studying Carrillo’s face, knowing that his expression would say more than his words ever would.

His brows came together, “Why what, Agent Murphy?”

“Why do you have such a problem with me? I,” he waved his good hand dismissively, “I get you gotta hate all of us gringos a certain amount to keep your credit as a Colombian Colonel or whatever. I know you can’t let me have an easy fuckin’ time of anything. But what the fuck did I do that makes it so impossible for you to work with me?” he almost said to like me, but he felt that would be a step too far. He also didn’t really know if Carrillo particularly liked anyone—perhaps that would be asking a bit too much.

Carrillo was white-knuckling the steering wheel by this point. His jaw was clenched tight as he shook his head, “You think it’s so simple. You always think everything is so fucking simple.”

Steve’s laugh was sarcastic, hollow, “Trust me, I’ve figured out quick since getting down here that nothing we do here is simple.”

“None of it anywhere is simple,” he snapped, “That’s the whole fucking point. Was life simple for you back in Miami? Did it only get complicated when you came down here?” Steve’s silence spoke volumes, and Carrillo scoffed, “Then you weren’t paying attention until you got here.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asked, further proving the other man’s point.

“I’m not going to spell it out for you,” Carrillo was heavily contemplating driving both of them off the road just to save them from having to continue this conversation, or any conversation, really.

Steve took a deep, calculated breath, knowing that his response to that statement was going to make or break what happened for the rest of the drive. The wrong response and he had no doubt that Carrillo would boot him directly out of the moving vehicle, leave him to be Javier’s problem or whoever else was going to get stuck on pick-up duty.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, the wound in his arm cutting down on his ability to talk with his hands the way that he preferred to when he was angry, “You say all that shit about not wanting to spell things out for me. Fine. But you can’t fuckin’ expect people to do what you want them to if you don’t fucking tell them what you want.”

Carrillo rolled to a stop at a red light, glancing over at Steve, frustration still rolling off of him in waves, “You’re saying that if I told you what I wanted you to do you would just do it?” he took one hand off the wheel and Steve could tell that he was fighting the urge to slam it back down onto it, “Is that what that was back there? You doing what you were told?”

Some of Steve’s anger diffused, but only slightly. If they still hadn’t been dealing with the unfortunate fallout of the situation, maybe he would’ve had a better argument for it all. But, as it stood, he was getting blood all over the console and seat of Carrillo’s CNP vehicle so he didn’t have much room to defend himself on this one.

“It doesn’t usually go like that,” Steve half-mumbled.

“It only has to go worse than that once to cost all of us everything.”

He could tell by the look on his face that it wasn’t a sentimental statement. Carrillo wasn’t waxing poetic about how losing him would take a large emotional toll. Still, he felt like Carrillo was being a little dramatic about it, which wasn’t quite like him. “The wheels always keep turning. Just a matter of who’s left to turn them.”

Carrillo’s laugh was hollow as the light turned green and the car started moving again, “You think that’s how it would go? If we—if I lost an American DEA agent during all of this?” he shook his head, “No. Search Bloc loses me? They’ll find another colonel to replace me. They’d probably be happy to do it. But if we lose an American? That’s when the wheels would stop.”

“You really think they’d—”

“Yes,” he cut Steve off, “I do.”

Steve thought on it for a moment, and even if he was starting to see the colonel’s point, he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. “So, what?” he grimaced as another jolt of pain went through his arm, “Gonna put me in some fucking bubble-wrap?”

Carrillo pressed his lips into a thin line, “After today, Murphy? That seems more likely than you actually taking direction. We’ll see.”

There it was. The two of them could never be too honest for too long. Either of them making the effort to be real with each other always had to be quickly coated over with barbs and snide comments. Anything other than that felt like they were getting too close to finding common ground. Getting along too well would rock the boat, and that was the last thing that they needed.

“You say that all the time about me,” Steve shook his head, turning to look out the window, “But it’s not like Javi is any better.”

Carrillo’s voice was perfectly even, “But you’re not Peña.”

“Yea,” Steve scoffed out a laugh, “Thanks for the reminder.”

Part of Carrillo wanted to say, “That wouldn’t be a bad thing if you didn’t make it one,” but he stopped himself. He wasn’t going to give Steve any spare kindness just because he was bleeding on the console. The colonel had never been one to pity anyone and he wasn’t going to start now, especially not with Steve.

“You should keep pressure on your arm.”

Steve rolled his eyes but he did make a little bit more of an effort to pin his arm to his side despite the exhaustion he was feeling, “If I bled out, I wouldn’t be your problem anymore.”

“It won’t kill you,” Carrillo said plainly, “It’ll just make a mess.”

“Yea,” Steve laughed sarcastically, “because this car is in such good shape right now.”

Carrillo almost smiled, almost chuckled, but he stopped himself, “Again—it didn’t have to be like this.”

“How long till we’re back at the base?” Steve asked, changing the subject

“Hospital first,” Carrillo corrected, “Then we’ll go back.”

Steve sighed heavily, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“No,” his tone was sharp.

“You just said that it’s not—”

“You’re going,” he wasn’t in the mood for another drawn out argument.

Neither of them said anything more for the rest of the drive. When he parked the car, Carrillo quickly stepped out. He was at least going to do Steve the bare minimum courtesy of opening the car door for him since he was essentially only working with one arm, but Steve kicked the door open before he could.

“Don’t wait for me,” he wanted to wave the colonel off but he couldn’t, “I’ll get a cab back to the base.”

“No,” Carrillo said as he followed him into the hospital.

“Why not?”

He raised his eyebrows slightly, “Because that’s a stupid plan,” he saw Steve open his mouth to argue and cut him off before he could really start, “This isn’t going to take long. I’ll wait. No point in risking riding alone now.”

“Colonel—”

“Just get your fucking arm taken care of, Agent Murphy,” he pointed in the way that he should start heading, “Take the direction for once.”

Steve’s jaw was clenched as he weighed out whether or not he wanted to put up more of a fight about it. He didn’t want to just prove that Carrillo had been right about him all along, but he also didn’t want to just give in to his demands either. This wasn’t a mission—he wasn’t beholden to what the man said.

Carrillo could see that Steve was trying to figure out his play. Despite his exhaustion and his desire to wrap this all up so he could just go the fuck home, he didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, waiting to see if Steve was really going to put up a fight about it. He tried his best to keep a neutral expression, knowing that if he got mad, it would just give Steve more of a reason to push back against him.

Their standoff was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. They both turned to see a young nurse standing there, looking a little nervous knowing that she was probably intruding on something, but also unable to ignore Steve’s arm.

“Have you been seen yet, sir?” the answer was obvious but she figured it would give him the out if he was going to leave.

“No,” Carrillo cut in and answered for him, “He hasn’t.”

Steve shook his head at the man but reined in his frustration, not wanting to take it out on the poor girl who was just trying to do her job. She held her arm out, motioning for him to follow her, “Right this way, then,” Steve fell into stride beside her and she could feel the irritation he was giving off, “We’ll try to get you in and out as quickly as we can, sir.”

“Steve,” he corrected her gently, sensing her apprehension, and he supposed that he couldn’t blame her, “You can just call me Steve.”

She nodded as she pushed open the door to a small examination room, “Okay. Take a seat, Steve. I’ll be back with some things to help fix up your arm.”

The young nurse was true to her word, making quick work of cleaning and stitching Steve up. She even went and grabbed him a fresh shirt, not wanting to make him put on the polo he’d previously been wearing that was caked in blood. She’d offered to put it in a bag for him if he was really attached to it and wanted to take it home to clean, but he just told her to toss it. The plain white short-sleeve that she’d given him would work just fine until he got back to his apartment, then it would get tossed into the drawer with all the others.

When he walked back out towards the lobby where he’d left Carrillo, it took him a moment to realize that it was Steve waiting for him, the fresh shirt and bandages throwing him off a bit. He looked up at Steve from the chair he was sitting in, immediately making the decision to stand up when he realized how much he didn’t exactly like having to look so far up at him.

“Looks like they got to you too,” Steve gestured to the tiny bandage over the cut on the side of Carrillo’s head.

“Wasn’t worth the argument,” Carrillo’s tone was flat, but his eyes zeroed in on Steve’s freshly bandaged arm.

“Sure,” Steve didn’t give him any cue about leaving other than simply turning and walking towards the door, “with them it’s not worth the argument.”

“They’re a bit more sympathetic,” he said with a shake of his head as he walked past Steve, opening the car door and sliding behind the steering wheel.

They were already on the road again when Steve responded, “I got shot for you,” he said, and it was half a joke, half not, “That doesn’t get your sympathy?”

The tension was instantly back in Carrillo’s shoulders, “You didn’t get shot for me,” he stepped on the gas pedal a little more abruptly than necessary, his turn off of the main street and onto the dirt side road more abrupt than it needed to be just because he could, “You got shot because of you.”

It was far from the worst thing that Carrillo had ever said to him in his time in Colombia, but for some reason it was the last straw. Steve shook his head, “Turn around.”

“What?” it wasn’t often that Carrillo seemed genuinely confused, but the demand definitely caught him off-guard.

“Turn the fucking car around,” Steve said, expanding on his previous instruction, “Drop me back at the hospital. I’ll have Javi or someone come and get me.”

“Don’t—”

“Or pull over,” he pointed to a turnoff on the side of the desolate road, “Just let me out of the fucking car.”

“Murphy—”

“Do it!” it wasn’t the first time Steve had gotten loud with the colonel, but this felt different.

It felt so different, in fact, that Carrillo actually gave in. He didn’t have any intention of actually leaving Steve stranded on the side of the road, but whatever the DEA Agent felt he had to do to get the anger out of his system, Carrillo would give him that. If for no other reason than to know what it was about to turn into.

The car had barely rolled to a stop when Steve flung the door open and stepped out. He still didn’t have full range of motion in his arm, but it didn’t stop him from reaching and raking his hands back through his hair in frustration, chest rising and falling dramatically as his anger continued to bubble over.

Carrillo cut the engine, leaving the keys on the center console that was still smeared with Steve’s blood from the drive over. Shutting the door behind him, he walked around to the other side of the car where Steve was angrily pacing and muttering only god knew what under his breath. All the years of little digs and minor acts of insubordination, and one of them finally cracked. Carrillo wondered if Steve was going to try and swing on him with his good arm or what. He was more curious than anything.

“I’m not just going to leave you stranded here Agent Mur—”

He didn’t get the rest of Steve’s name out, words falling by the wayside as Steve closed the distance between them in two freakishly long strides, proceeding to slam the man up against the side of the car. Steve’s fists were balled tight into Carrillo’s fatigues, tempted to lift him off the ground the way a high school bully would before shoving an underclassman into a locker.

Carrillo couldn’t deny that the action caught him off-guard—it certainly hadn’t been what he was expecting. He could feel Steve’s breath against his skin, their faces closer than they’d ever been before. He could see the anger clear as day in Steve’s eyes, but he still hadn’t said anything. Carrillo kept his mouth shut.

“Why not? Huh?” Steve’s hands were shaking but he refused to loosen his grip, “You don’t want me to be your problem anymore? Fine. Drive the fuck away.”

What Carrillo really wanted to say was that he couldn’t drive away with Steve pinning him to the side of the car. Instead, what came out was, “You’re bleeding again.”

Steve’s eyes flicked to the bandages on his arm, the white gauze slowly turning red, “Fuck,” he cursed, shaking his head but still not letting go.

Carrillo could’ve easily pushed him away, but he didn’t. There were countless opportunities throughout this whole thing for him to get the upper hand and yet he let Steve have the win. It was curious, since he never really let Steve have the win under any other circumstance—hence the argument.

“Let’s say I leave you here,” Carrillo’s tone clearly conveyed how much he was trying to get a rise out of Steve now, “then what, hm? You fucking wait here just to see me again later tonight? Or tomorrow morning? What does it get you?”

The tic in Steve’s jaw was impossible to miss as he tried to string his words together, “What the fuck do you want from me, Carrillo? Honestly, what would get you off my fucking back?”

He shook his head, “Nothing. That’s the whole fucking point, Steve.”

All of his years in Colombia and Steve could confirm with certainty that Carrillo had never used his first name. And vice versa. It was always gringo, or carne fresca, or Agent Murphy, or whatever other insults the man could come up with on the fly. But never Steve.

His grip loosened slightly, the relief instant in his injured arm although the rest of his body, and his entire brain, were on the brink of short-circuiting. Carrillo’s eyes didn’t waver from his. The DEA agent’s chest was still rising and falling with each deep breath, and he felt like his heart was about to burst clean out of his ribcage, from adrenaline or anger he wasn’t quite sure which. On the other hand, Carrillo’s breathing was frighteningly even, arms still hanging limply by his sides like he wasn’t even worried about the possibility of Steve losing his shit and hauling off for real.

“So,” each word Steve spoke felt like a herculean effort, “that’s it, then? Nothing is ever going to be good enough?”

He didn’t respond to the accusation. Instead, he took a beat and said, “Are you ready now, Agent Murphy?” his voice toeing the line between professional and sarcastic.

It was the strangest feeling of disappointment that Steve had ever experienced. The disappointment quickly shifted right back to anger as he pressed his forearm harder against the Carrillo’s chest, “No.”

Carrillo froze for a second, “What?”

“I’m not—I’m not fuckin’ ready.”

He was trying to keep his breathing under control, but Carrillo wondered if Steve could feel the erratic beating of his heart against his arm. Even with guns pointed to his head before, the colonel had never felt quite like this. Life and death scenarios had a simplicity to them that this situation didn’t. The harder that Steve leaned into him, the more weight he pushed onto his chest, the closer the two of them became.

Carrillo was trying to force himself to say something, some sort of scathing comment to get him out of whatever this mess was about to turn into, but he couldn’t. Steve’s eyes had him pinned harder than his arm, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to fucking think.

And Steve could see it. Despite the frustration and the conflicting feelings of inadequacy while also thinking that maybe Carrillo owed him a little bit of a thank you every now and again, Steve knew that in this moment he had the upper hand. And he never had the upper hand with Carrillo. Towering over him had never felt so good.

Steve felt the shift in the man’s breathing, the change in how his chest pressed against his arm. He knew from the look in Carrillo’s eyes that he was gearing up so say something, or to finally, maybe, fight back. Steve didn’t know what was coming next, but the second the colonel’s lips parted to try and speak, Steve robbed him of the opportunity by crashing their lips together.

It was sloppy, tense, awkward, but Carrillo didn’t push him away. It would’ve taken nothing for him to drop Steve to the ground, and even though this was all Steve’s doing, he was a little surprised that the colonel hadn’t done just that.

His arm shifted, fist finally unfurling as he went from pinning Carrillo to the car with his arm, to doing it with his entire body, his hand roughly cupping Carrillo’s jaw, biting at the man’s lip like it was the only way he knew how to get rid of the frustration that had been bubbling up inside of him. His other arm braced against the side of the car beside Carrillo’s head, almost caging the man in but not quite. Carrillo’s one hand gripping tightly onto Steve’s forearm, not pulling him away, not trying to get him to release the harsh grasp on his jaw, just trying to match the energy the only way he could think to.

“Fuck,” the word fell from Steve’s lips, somewhere between a grunt and a whisper as he pulled away.

Before he knew what he was doing, Carrillo tightened his hold on Steve’s arm, twisting his grip slightly to gain a little more control. Steve felt the shift, too, eyes darting back and forth between Carrillo’s eyes and his lips. They were already long past the point of no return. Carrillo knew that. Steve knew that. As they both stood there, bodies pinned against each other on the side of the road in the middle of fucking nowhere, they each wondered if the other knew.

“Fuck,” Steve repeated, his tone different this time, almost like he was admitting defeat.

Carrillo was afraid that that was it. What was more alarming to him was the fact that he didn’t want that to be it. The exasperation in Steve’s voice almost made him protest but at the last second, he realized that Steve’s sense of defeat was because he was giving in. Hardly a second later he was everywhere, lips on his, hands all over, one leg wedging itself between Carrillo’s as he pushed harder against him. There wasn’t an ounce of gentleness.

It wasn’t often that someone bested Carrillo, was able to get any sort of upper hand on him. Even more rare than that were the times that he would ever let someone have any kind of advantage over him. But there he was, allowing himself to be used and bruised by Steve fucking Murphy of all people.

Steve’s lack of grace, lack of finesse, was something that was so constant across all areas of his life. And in every other circumstance, it was one of the things that Carrillo was bothered by the most. But the messy, angry, desperate way that his hands grabbed him and pulled at his clothes had Carrillo thinking that this was the payoff for the rest of it. In the moment, it seemed like more than a fair trade. Steve’s fingers clumsily battled with the belt of Carrillo’s fatigues, and while he could’ve made it a little easier for him, he figured that he’d made things easy enough for Steve so far. A few extra seconds of struggle would be good for him.

Carrillo was about to say something, but whatever it was, Steve didn’t care to hear it. He saw the look on Carrillo’s face and before he could even take a breath to prepare, Steve cut him off, “Don’t.”

Much to both of their surprise, Carrillo listened. It was one of the few times that Steve let his actions do all of the speaking for him. There wasn’t much of a need for either of them to say much—this wasn’t some sweet confession of a moment. This wasn’t the kickoff of some sort of clandestine romance, something that would turn into a, “We’ll see where it goes,” situation behind closed doors. This was months and months of anger and annoyance and frustration coming out in the only way that didn’t involve one of them getting punched in the face. They’d finally reached a breaking point that could’ve gone one of two ways, and the silent agreement to handle it like this meant that they were going to handle the fallout the same way—silently. For all of Carrillo’s talk of everything being complicated, this was one thing that was incredibly simple.

Steve had never successfully made himself an overpowering presence until that moment. The ease with which he was so roughly maneuvering Carrillo’s body was something that he would’ve taken the time to be impressed by if his mind hadn’t zeroed in on the outcome of this so much. If his face hadn’t been so deeply buried into the crook of Carrillo’s neck, he might’ve gone on a bit of a power trip from seeing the expression on the man’s face. Carrillo’s hands were like vices in the way they held onto him so fiercely.

Then, as roughly and abruptly as it had started, it was over. Steve’s body went lax, still keeping Carrillo pinned against the car but in a much gentler manner than before as he tried to catch his breath. As his mind started to slow down, started to clear, that was when he felt Carrillo’s harsh grip still enveloping his arm, somehow narrowly missing the bandages that were much more saturated in blood than they had been a few minutes before. Steve briefly wondered if he had done that intentionally, or if it just happened to be luck. He wasn’t going to ask.

Finally peeling himself away, Steve allowed Carrillo a beat of breathing room. They each set about redressing and adjusting, neither of them saying anything to each other even in the brief moments when their eyes met. Steve’s still slightly-disheveled appearance could at least be blamed on the fact that he got shot. Aside from the mildly confused expression on his face, though, Carrillo had managed to make himself look no worse for wear. The fast rise and fall of his chest the only giveaway that anything had transpired.

When the two of them were as resituated as they were going to be, they lingered in place for a moment. Carrillo leaned back against the car, the placement much more casual than it had been a few minutes before. Folding his arm across his chest, he watched Steve watch him, unable to really read the look in the man’s eyes. Steve reached up and raked his fingers through his hair once more, looking like he was mulling over what exactly he wanted to say. Carrillo was still prepared for the worst, but without any further acknowledgment, Steve sighed, turned around and got back into the car, the door slamming behind him like a punctuation mark for the entire thing.

Carrillo frowned and shook his head before heading back to his side of the car. Steve wasn’t looking at him when he got in, too focused on the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his arm, knowing he was going to have to switch out his bandages sooner than planned. He was shaking his head but for the first time all afternoon, Carrillo didn’t feel like it was really at him. Neither of them said anything as he put the car in drive and pulled back onto the road.

It was dark when they got back to the base. Most people had gone for the night, cars gone from the parking lot with the exception of the officers who were working overnight. Plus Steve’s and Carrillo’s. Both of them got out of the car, and they fell into stride next to each other. Steve spared a few brief glances at Carrillo, never managing to catch the man when he was looking over at Steve. They filed through the door one right after the other, and while Steve had fully intended to simply swipe his things out of his desk drawer then leave, he found himself collapsing into his chair instead.

It wasn’t until Carrillo walked off and shut his office door behind him that Steve realized how empty the base was. The few officers who were still working were out on the streets for the night, meaning that it was just Steve and Carrillo. Steve couldn’t remember the last time the place had been so quiet. Usually when he was here this late it’s because everyone was there and hustling. The stillness felt strange. As much as he wanted to get home, he couldn’t manage to force himself back up out of his seat.

He reached up to run his hands over his face and back through his hair, stopping as he winced at the pull against the injury on his arm. It was going to be annoying even if it wasn’t debilitating. He propped the elbow of his good arm on top of his desk, dropping his forehead heavily into the heel of his palm.

His eyes were still closed when he heard the sound of boots on the floor behind him. Turning around, he saw Carrillo standing there staring at him. He sighed, “What?”

“You’re still here,” Carrillo’s brows drew together.

Steve’s laugh was sarcastic as he forced himself up from his desk, landing them only inches apart, the energy markedly different now than it had been before, “And you’re still a fucking detective.”

He frowned, “Steve—”

His expression twisted at the sound of Carrillo using his name so easily, like there was real concern existing somewhere in the space between them, “Don’t,” he cut him off, harsh, quiet, “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do wh—”

“Act like,” he gestured vaguely with his good arm, “Act like we’re friends, like you have advice for me, or like you even really give a shit what’s going on with me. You don’t. You made that perfectly fuckin’ clear today,” Steve saw the look on the colonel’s face and scoffed, “I didn’t forget what you said.”

Despite it all, Steve still wasn’t brave enough to say what he really wanted to say, which was something along the lines of, “I know what happened earlier doesn’t mean that you care. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean that we’re good now.” He knew that there was no way that the colonel had gone that soft that quickly. Steve knew that there was no way that he was the first questionable decision that Carrillo had made.

“It doesn’t really matter to you if I care” Carrillo snapped, voice quiet but sharp, “We’re not different in that. So don’t stand here and act like I hurt your feelings, like you’re a victim.”

Steve huffed, shaking his head and fighting the urge to roll his eyes, “I’m not sayin’ I’m a fuckin—” he cut himself off, deciding it wasn’t worth the fight, “Fuck this,” he bypassed Carrillo, brushing harder against the man’s shoulder than necessary, “I’m going home.”

Before Steve got too far, Carrillo reached out and grabbed his arm, this time his fingers wrapped directly around the bloody bandages, “Murphy.”

Steve hissed at the sensation, yanking his arm away to try and alleviate the sting as he whipped around to face Carrillo, “What?”

Carrillo looked at him for a moment, the anger in his eyes looking so familiar but it was missing something that had been there earlier. Maybe the exhaustion finally got the better of him, maybe Carrillo was putting too much thought into all of it because of how the day had unfolded. Steve’s jaw was clenched tight as he waited for the man to say something. It didn’t take much for him to see how Carrillo was overthinking whatever it was that he wanted to say.

After a few more long seconds of silence, Steve scoffed, and shook his head, “Nothing’s changed. Some things really are that simple, Colonel. Hate to break it to you.”

“No, you don’t,” the retort came automatically.

Steve’s lips pulled down into a pensive frown for a moment as he started to turn back around again, “Go home, Carrillo. We’ve got another day of this shit tomorrow.”

#narcos #narcos netflix #steve murphy #horacio carrillo #steve murphy x horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x steve murphy #narcos fanfiction #narcos netflix fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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drabbles-mc · 2 years

Text

A Good Time

Walt Breslin x F!Reader

Gift for the lovely @ashlingnarcos for the Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, smoking, steamy things/implied smut, Sad Boy Walt

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: My first Narcos: Mexico fic and it’s for the saddest boy on the planet??? No one is surprised by this. There is just something about Walt and his scruffy little face that just gets me. Ashling gets it. 😌

Narcos Mexico Taglist: @narcolini @garbinge @artemiseamoon @southotheborder @bruxasolta (I don’t want to assume that everyone I tag for my OG Narcos fics wants to be tagged for any future MX fics. But if you want to be added to the taglist, please let me know!)

He hadn’t said much since he walked into the tiny little dive bar. You didn’t recognize him, which may not have been saying all that much, because who would know everyone? But he sure as hell didn’t look like a local either, or even a tourist. Whatever reason he was in town, it didn’t seem like he was there having a good time.

He was sitting down at the bar, and aside from a polite greeting to the bartender before placing his initial order, the only things he’d said since then were, “Another, please,” or, “Yes,” when she asked him if he wanted another round. Other than that, he was just sitting there in the lowlight, staring at the glass in front of him that was always at a different level each time you looked depending on if he was due for a refill or not.

You spent all this time watching him, also not saying much of anything to anyone besides the bartender. You were content with your little corner seat tucked off to the side, a good vantage point for people-watching. It crossed your mind that maybe you should get different hobbies, but it was too late tonight to pick one up.

“There somethin’ I can do for you?” the man finally spoke up, still not looking at you.

You froze, not answering. Maybe you should’ve known better than to think that he wasn’t aware of what was going on around him just because he seemed so focused on the condensation accumulating on his glass. Still, you didn’t say anything, not wanting to expose yourself so quickly if you could help it.

Then he turned and looked at you. He didn’t look upset or angry, but he didn’t exactly look thrilled either. He just looked exhausted. He raised his eyebrows just slightly, “Is there?”

You cleared your throat, knowing that there was no way to get out of it now, “N-no. No.”

“You sure?” from someone else the question would’ve felt flirtatious, or some approximation of that, but not from him.

You nodded, “I’m sure,” you motioned to his glass that was nearly empty, “Want another?”

He shrugged, nodding, “If it’s going on your tab, sure.”

That got a small smile out of you as you nodded, “Sure,” you were moving before you even knew it, and suddenly you were sitting on the stool right next to his.

“See?” he said as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, “This feels like there might be something you want from me.”

You nodded towards the pack in his hand, “Well, now that you say that…”

He shrugged, flipping the top open again and holding it out to you, allowing you to pick one. You brought it up and rested it between your lips. You were about to reach for your own lighter when he brought his up, flicking it and lighting your cigarette for you. He was staring at the smoldering end of your cigarette while you were staring at him.

“Thanks,” you let out a small puff of smoke as you said it.

He lit his own smoke before replying, “No problem.”

Neither of you said anything more for a couple minutes. You asked the bartender for another round for each of you, telling her to put both drinks on your tab this time. She smiled at you, “One of these days you’re going to actually have to close that tab, you know.”

You chuckled, exhaling a stream of smoke, “One of these days, sure.”

She rolled her eyes but it didn’t stop her from getting another drink for you and for the man sitting next to you. He said a quiet thank you before taking another drag. You wrapped your fingers around the neck of your beer bottle, watching him for a moment before taking a sip. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who was interested in small talk, or any kind of conversation, really. But definitely not small talk. The last thing this guy wanted to discuss was the weather.

“You always watch everyone who comes in here this closely?” he said, taking a sip of his drink.

You chuckled, shaking your head, “No,” you took a puff of your cigarette, “just the ones who look like they really don’t actually want to be here.”

“I don’t seem like I’m havin’ a good enough time?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

You laughed a little harder at that, “You don’t seem like you’re having a good time at all.”

He slowly exhaled, smoke trickling out from between his lips, “Not everybody is.”

You frowned in thought at that. You didn’t have anything to say, anything to offer as a response to try and make things any better. He didn’t seem like he was really the type to be looking for someone to give any words of wisdom. Sometimes bad days were just bad days and that was all they had to be. That was a sentiment you were familiar with, one you could respect.

“Hopefully that changes soon, then,” you didn’t look at him as you said it, taking another drag as soon as the last word fell from your lips.

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it, “I stopped hoping for that a long fucking time ago.”

“Wow,” you laughed, not sure what else you could do in the fact of such abrupt pessimism, shaking your head as you tapped the ashes off the end of your cigarette, “Alright, then. Can I ask you something?”

He looked over at you, “You seem like the type who’s just gonna ask anyway, so sure.”

You chuckled, ignoring the first part of his comment, “What’s the point, then?”

“What?”

You shrugged, setting your smoke on the edge of the ashtray so you had a free hand while the other gripped your beer, “If you’re not hoping for things to get better, what’s the fucking point of any of it?”

He shrugged, swirling the alcohol around in his glass, “Still waiting for the answer to that one.”

You leaned, bracing your arms against the edge of the bar, “What’s your name?”

“My name?”

“Yea,” you chuckled, “you know, what some people might call you if they’re feeling friendly.”

He didn’t look amused, but he still answered the question, “Walt.”

“Walt,” you repeated it back to him. The name felt fitting. You also noticed the way that he didn’t ask for yours—you didn’t take it personally that he didn’t seem to care. “What’re you doing here down here anyway, Walt? Besides not having a good time,” you picked your cigarette back up and took another drag.

He watched as the tendrils of smoke slowly crept from between your lips, focusing more on that than he should’ve been. He shook his head, bringing his own smoke to his lips, “Work.”

“Ah,” you nodded, “No wonder you’re not having a good time.”

He huffed out something that you assumed was his version of a laugh, “Yea, that’s why.”

You wanted to ask what he did for work, but the longer you looked at him, the more you realized that maybe it was better that you didn’t have an answer to that question, “I’d say you should come back here sometime off the clock, but something tells me that once you’re gone, you won’t be coming back.”

He shook his head, “Don’t know about that—I always seem to end up back here.”

“But never for fun, right?” you perched your chin in the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette, “Always work?”

He glanced at you for a second, his eyes darting back and forth between yours. It seemed like he put an awful lot of thought into his response for it to only be three words long, “Yea…always work.”

Once again it was just the muffled sound of the music coming through the speakers of the bar, the static that seemed to be present in every radio station that they chose for this place. Walt went back to looking at his drink, and you went back to looking at Walt. Something about the look of him told you that the exasperation that was rolling off of him in waves was rooted in something much deeper than whatever work was. That kind of exhaustion, the kind that never went away no matter how much or how little sleep you got, that was from carrying around the weight of things that you should’ve let go of a long time ago. You knew because you had your own baggage in tow, you just put a little more effort into hiding yours.

You wondered when the last time he felt anything close to relaxed was. Happy might’ve been too far of a reach judging by the look in his eyes, but something other than stressed to the absolute max. You wanted to reach out and run your fingers through his hair, along the stubble that was too long to be five o’clock shadow, but too short to be a real beard. You didn’t really know why, you had nothing at stake with this man. But you had yet to come across someone like him. New was always interesting—it might not always be good, but it was always interesting.

“Walt?” there was something about saying his name.

“Yea?” his eyebrows lifted but his gaze was still on his glass.

“Do you want another?” there was a tiny lilt to your voice, one you weren’t going to expand upon if he didn’t pick up on it.

But he did. Of course he did, “Or what?”

You smiled, shrugging as you snubbed out the last of your cigarette, “Or we can get the fuck out of here.”

“We?” he repeated the word back to you, looking genuinely amused for once.

“Yea,” you brought the bottle back up to your lips, drinking what little was still left, “If you’re not having a good time here, might as well go and try to find a good time somewhere else, right?”

He looked at you, doubt written all over his face, “And you know where to find it?”

“Well, I’m certainly in a much better mood than you, aren’t I?” you quipped, unable to suppress your smile.

You watched him consider it for a moment, those seconds feeling like the longest of the entire day. His expression stayed so neutral. For a moment you wondered if he really was about to tell you to leave him alone. Maybe he just wasn’t in the mood to be around someone who was holding it together a little better than he was.

“Alright,” he nodded, tossing a few bills onto the surface of the bar, covering all the rounds that you hadn’t bought him.

Your smile grew as you placed some money down as well, hopping off the stool and waiting for him to do the same. He didn’t complete the action with quite as much enthusiasm as you did, but he was still willing to follow you and that was…something. You didn’t know what, but it was something.

The two of you walked out of the bar, and you cracked a smile at the fact that he held the door open for you. Despite the grumpy disposition he still had his manners. At least for the most part. Once he let go of the door, he reached into his pocket and grabbed the pack of cigarettes again. He flipped the top open, staring down into it. A joke was on the tip of your tongue until you saw the look on his face and thought better of it.

“Yours or mine?” you asked as you walked across the parking lot—apparently wherever the two of you were going, you would be taking his car.

He hesitated for a moment before saying, “Yours.”

You wished you knew him better so you could ask what the pause was about. But you supposed that was the whole point of this—you didn’t know him, and he didn’t know you. And that was okay, that was good. You reached over, pushing the pack of cigarettes shut since he still hadn’t made a move to take one out and light it. One end of his mouth tugged into a smirk at the gesture but he didn’t say anything about it as he tucked the small carton away again.

Pulling his keys out, he unlocked the car doors. He couldn’t deny that he was a little amused by the ease with which you slid into the passenger seat, as though you’d done this with him a million times before. With a sigh, he swung into the car, plopping down behind the wheel. Glancing over, he saw the way that you already propped your feet up on the dash. He shook his head silently as he put the key in the ignition, the car struggling for a brief second before rattling to life.

“You gonna give me directions? Or just let me guess?” he asked as he reversed out of his spot, arm reaching across to your seat as he looked back over his shoulder.

You chuckled, “Not feeling lucky enough for that?” you saw the look he was giving you and you just smiled before pointing, “Take a left out of here, hm?”

He nodded but didn’t say anything else, just following your directions as you gave them. The streets were so quiet out by you, especially this late at night. You managed to find the sweet spot between being in the midst of the danger and chaos of the city, and the intense desolation of being out in the desert. Your house shared the street with a small handful of others. All of them were dark inside, a precious few had the lights above their doors on, small blips of warmth against the darkness.

“This one,” you pointed to your driveway, “And don’t run over my flowers,” you added with a light laugh.

He followed you up the walkway, leaning against the doorframe as you put the key in the lock. He was lingering close enough for you to smell the alcohol on his breath, and you could feel the way he was watching all of your movements. It made you second-guess everything that you were doing. Pulling the key from the lock of your door was something that you had done countless times, and yet this time your fingers weren’t cooperating with you as you jimmied it out. He didn’t say anything to you about it, though.

Finally pushing the door open, you stepped in first and gestured for him to follow you in. You toed your boots off before walking deeper into the house, turning the lights on as you went. You didn’t hear his footsteps following yours, and for a second you thought maybe he had reconsidered the whole thing. Turning around, whatever words you were going to come up with on the fly completely fell by the wayside as you watched him crouched down untying his boots. You smiled, continuing your way to the kitchen, turning on the lights there as well.

“I’ve never been much for scotch,” you chuckled as you recalled what he was drinking at the bar, “Sorry to say,” you grabbed a beer can from the fridge and the bottle of wine from your counter, waiting for him to walk over before showing him the options that you had, “All I’ve got is red,” you held up the bottle, “and beer,” you held out the can.

You didn’t miss the slight frown that went across his face as he looked at the wine bottle. He reached for the beer, “Beer is fine.”

Once he took it from you, you turned back around to grab a can for yourself. You’d originally planned on maybe pouring yourself a glass of wine, but once you saw the look on his face you thought better of it. Pulling the fridge door open again, you quickly nabbed one of the last cans from the shelf, letting out a quiet, deep breath as you swung the door shut.

Turning your attention back to Walt, you saw that he’d wandered over to the small space that passed for your living room. He was looking at the picture frames that were all perched up on your bookshelves. Most of them were pictures of you with your family, a couple snapshots were with your friends. He seemed to be studying them so intently.

The sound of the can opening was enough to snap him out of his thoughts, making him turn his attention to you. You took a sip of your drink, “What’re you thinking, Walt?”

He took a deep breath, and for a moment you thought that maybe he was going to tell you something. What? You weren’t sure. Maybe something about why the sad look in his eyes never seemed to go away, or why he was so drawn to the family photos, or why the thought of sharing a couple glasses of red wine with you caused a twinge of pain, or guilt, or whatever that emotion had been on his face. There were a couple seconds when you could see him almost wanting to say what was on his mind, what had been on his mind all night. You didn’t realize that you had started holding your breath in anticipation.

He frowned in thought, considering his words carefully, “I don’t really know these days.”

You nodded slowly—it hadn’t been quite the answer you were looking for, but it felt honest in its own way nonetheless, “Okay,” you paused, seeing the way his attention was still going back and forth between you and the photos, “Something you wanna talk about?”

He looked at you curiously, allowing himself a laugh, “You bring me here to talk?”

You folded your arms over your chest, “I think my offer was something about a good time,” you shrugged, “What does that look like for you?”

He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again, like he was thinking better of whatever his knee-jerk response was about to be. He took a long drink of his beer, and you weren’t quite sure if he was plucking up courage or just trying to come up with any kind of answer. You didn’t rush him, though, didn’t repeat the question—you knew that he had heard you the first time.

“I’m not sure anymore,” he finally said, locking his eyes on yours.

You nodded, “I get it.”

He chuckled, arching one eyebrow, “Do you?”

You smiled, stepping in a little closer, “I do.”

He felt like he was frozen in place as he watched you unfold your arms. The hand holding your beer fell to your side, but the other reached forward, resting on his chest for a moment. Your fingers toyed idly with the buttons on his shirt, not really trying to unbutton them, but not leaving them alone either. You waited to see if he would pull back, or push you away, but he didn’t move at all. You felt his breathing deepen, like he was fighting a little harder to keep it together.

Sliding your hand up his chest, you let it travel until it rested on the side of his neck, your thumb tracing back and forth along his jaw. You could feel the tension in his body but you didn’t pull back. Your body continued to hover closer and closer until you were nearly chest to chest. He still hadn’t said anything, still hadn’t touched you back, but his eyes never left yours.

The silence of the house made your whisper feel so much louder than it was, “Walt—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, voice rough as he leaned in and crashed his lips against yours.

The abrupt action should’ve caught you off-guard, but it didn’t. There was no hesitation as you leaned into him, matching the force he pressed into you with. You both almost simultaneously discarded your drinks on top of the bookshelf, almost knocking the picture frames in the process. The clattering felt almost deafening despite the fact that you knew the sound didn’t reach past the limits of your living room.

Once he had both hands free, they were everywhere—raking over your skin, pushing beneath the fabric of your clothes, weaving their way into your hair as he tried to pull you as close as he possibly could. You were flying blind as your hands worked to actually undo the buttons of his shirt this time, each one coming undone acting as its own small victory. The only thing that was frustrating was the fact that even when you’d gotten to the last one, he had on another shirt beneath it. You broke your kiss just long enough to let out a huff of frustration at the fact, and that got the most genuine laugh out of him that you’d heard all night.

“Come on,” you smiled, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the hallway that led to your bedroom.

Even though it was just the two of you in the house, Walt still pushed the door shut behind you once you were both inside. You wondered if that was out of habit, the need for privacy, or the fact that he just wanted to pin you back against it as he caught your lips in another bruising kiss. You pulled at both shirts, managing to yank them off, only having to take your lips off of his as he lifted his t-shirt off over his head.

Pushing yourself off of the door, and in turn pushing him towards the bed, you cupped the sides of his face, matching his roughness as you walked him back towards the bed. You broke the kiss, both your chests heaving as you made quick work of removing your own clothes. Walt reached out to pull you back to him, but you didn’t give him the chance, pushing him back onto your mattress and climbing on top of him with no hesitation, immediately attaching your lips to his once more. Only then did he get the chance again to run the calloused palms of his hands over your soft skin, trying to let the difference between the two be comforting instead of jarring.

The two of you were tucked safely underneath the thin sheet of your bed, each of you trying to catch your breath. You watched the dramatic rise and fall of his chest as he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. You reached over, resting one hand on his chest. You were a little surprised by the way that he instantly brought his hand up, interlocking his fingers with yours even though he wasn’t looking at you.

With your free hand, you reached over to your nightstand, swiping the pack of cigarettes and the lighter off the top of it. You slowly pulled your hand out from underneath his as you sat upright, placing a smoke between your lips and lighting it. You felt Walt looking at you and you turned to him, silently offering him one as well. He nodded and your lips curled into a smile around the cigarette before you pulled one more out of the pack and handed it to him. He sat up, allowing you to light it for him.

You smiled, blowing out a puff of smoke, “Now we’re even.”

He chuckled, nodding, “Yea, guess we are.”

You hesitated for a moment, but then figured that after everything, what you were about to do wasn’t the strangest thing in the world. You put your cigarette back between your lips before carefully maneuvering yourself so that you were straddling his lap, one hand on his shoulder while the other held your cig perched between two fingers. Tendrils of smoke curled up between you, the only thing obscuring your vision as he locked his eyes onto yours. His gaze didn’t waver as he rested his free hand on your hip, thumb tracing softly back and forth.

He wasn’t tense anymore, the muscles in his shoulders relaxed, his jaw no longer clenched. There was still a bit of a sad, lost look in his eyes, and as you saw the hint of a smile on his face, you realized that maybe he was the kind of man who was just always going to carry that weight with him. Your hand moved from his chest up to the side of his face, fingers dragging lightly along the stubble there like you had been wanting to do so badly hours before.

You took a drag, holding it in for a second before speaking, letting the smoke escape with each word, “Not a bad time, right?”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he mirrored your actions, “Not a bad time, no.”

Your fingers ran briefly through his hair before returning to his cheek, “Good.” You paused, and even though you pretty much had his undivided attention, you still said his name, “Walt?”

“Mm?”

“I meant it when I asked if you wanted to talk.”

He nodded, “I know,” he took a long drag before letting his head drop back against your headboard, exhaling smoke in a steady stream, “I don’t think I want to.”

You chuckled at the honest uncertainty of it, “Okay,” you leaned, tapping the ash off the end of your cigarette into the ashtray beside your bed.

You felt him watching you again, seemingly so intrigued by the minor movements. He cleared his throat, “Hey.”

You looked at him, getting situated again, “Yea?”

He studied your eyes closely, “I never got your name.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “No, you didn’t,” you paused, “What, now do you want it?” you inhaled deeply off your cigarette before continuing, “Seems like it would’ve been a little more useful to you before,” you rested your free hand flat against his chest.

He shook his head, “Yea, maybe.”

“You really wanna know?” you asked, cocking one eyebrow.

He allowed himself a smile, “Maybe.”

You took one final drag off of your smoke before snubbing it out in the ashtray. You climbed off his lap, lying down on the mattress next to him as you propped your elbow up and rested your head against your hand, “If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll tell you over coffee.”

He chuckled, dropping his cigarette beside yours in the small tray, “Alright,” he laid down on his side so that he was facing you, one hand resting on your hip, “that’s fair.”

Sliding closer to him, you draped your arm around him as your head rested against his chest. You felt him let out a deep sigh as he tucked his chin over your head, and even though you couldn’t see it, you could picture the way he was fighting to close his eyes, to let himself sleep. You were drifting off in no time at all, wondering if he was still going to be there when you woke up, if you were going to have someone to share coffee with in the morning.

#narcos mexico #narcos mx #walt breslin #walt breslin x reader #walt breslin x you #narcos: mexico #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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drabbles-mc · 2 years

Text

Let Me Take You Home

Horacio Carrillo x OFC

Gift for @beecastle as part of the Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022

Warnings: language, minor injuries, soft Carrillo feelings

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: It’s been a hot minute since I let Carrillo have any nice things so here’s a little reprieve for him. 😂 Also, for the next few days all my fics posted on here are gonna be Narcos/Narcos: Mexico fics because I’m cross-posting from the exchange. So be ready for that. I’ve been in full Narcos mode the last few weeks with all of these lol

Javier’s voice rang in her head as she drove to the Carlos Holguín base, “He’s fine, promise. But I still think you should come and get him.”

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as she drove. Javier hadn’t sounded all that worried, and that was the only thing that provided her with any sort of reassurance. It wasn’t like Carrillo had ever been the type to reach out and ask her, or anyone, for any type of assistance, even when he probably should have. So she was thankful that at least his coworker, or perhaps friend was more fitting at this point, took matters into his own hands and called.

She’s never really been one to pay too close attention to the news. She tuned in enough to stay updated on the big things, but if she listened for too long she’d always get sad. So for a long time she stayed as detached as she reasonably could. But that all had started to change when she and Carrillo found themselves tangled up together. Now, the easiest way to know if things were going alright with him, was to watch the news. He wasn’t always able to call to provide any reassurance or updates, but the news stations seemed like they were always on top of what was going on with the Search Bloc, and the DEA agents that accompanied it.

The news hadn’t said anything about the raid that had gone on the night before, though. No news was good news, though. Or at least that's what she told herself so she didn't get too worried. If something had gone horribly wrong, someone would've reached out with the bad news by now. So instead of staring at the phone all day, she decided to keep herself busy.

Even with that being the case, the phone call from Javi was more than welcome. She hated how quickly she’d leapt to snatch the phone off the receiver when it rang, allowing it to interrupt her getting ready routine. The initial realization that it wasn’t Carrillo’s voice on the other end of the line put an instant knot in her stomach. But Javi’s reassurance kept her from spiraling out too far.

So now, here she was, parking on the street just outside of the base. Grabbing her purse off the passenger seat, she quickly strode up the walkway. She wasn’t going to run, trusting Javi’s assessment that it wasn’t an emergency, but her pace was more than just a leisurely stroll. She reached up to push her hair back out of her face out of nervous habit, only to realize that the long dark waves were tucked perfectly behind her ears, falling down her back out of the way. Instead, she picked at the strap of her purse as she got closer to the door.

The only thing that got her hands to still, was the sight of Javi on the front steps of the base, cigarette between his lips, hand cupped around the end as he tried to light it. He heard the clicking of her heels on the concrete and looked up, eyebrows lifting in recognition. He wondered if his phone call had interrupted her potential plans for the day, her long, floral sundress was bursting with warm colors and certainly didn’t seem like the kind of outfit she would show up in just to bring Carrillo back home. He finished lighting his cigarette before he addressed her, choosing not to comment on her nice outfit.

“That was fast.”

She laughed, raking her fingers back through her hair as she spoke, “Didn’t seem like something that should wait.”

He held the pack of cigarettes out to her. “This help?”

She shot him a look, but she did contemplate the offer. After a moment, she shook her head. “I just want to see him, Javi.”

“I told you he’s alright,” he said it with a light enough tone, but she still wasn’t convinced.

“I just don’t think,” she nodded in thanks as he opened the door of the base for her, allowing her to walk in in front of him, “that any of you can be trusted to know when something should be a concern or not. That’s all. Nothing personal.”

He smirked as he took the cigarette from his mouth. “Feels a little personal.”

“Where is he?” It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy chatting with Javi, but given the circumstances, banter wasn’t really her priority.

He waved for her to follow him. “Base infirmary.”

Her eyes widened, “I thought you said—”

“He’s fine, Lina. They’re just checking him out, makin’ sure he doesn’t have a concussion.”

She sighed, having no choice but to accept what he was telling her, having to believe that he wasn’t underselling what was going on. “Yea, none of you can afford any head injuries at this point.”

Javi huffed out a laugh, exhaling smoke as he did, “Tough crowd.”

He stopped in front of the infirmary door. He knew that there was no reason for him to go in, and if anything he knew that Carrillo was going to be a little pissed that someone called his girlfriend, so there were plenty of reasons for Javi to head back to the bullpen.

He nodded towards the door. “Go get ‘em.”

She laughed, a knowing look on her face as she prodded him a little bit, “Don’t wanna take the heat for telling me to come down here?”

“Would you?”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Thank you, Javi. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He gave her a smile and a nod before turning on his heel and heading back the way that they came.

One of the nurses heard the footsteps and was getting ready to ask who it was and who they were here to see out of habit. However, when she looked up and saw Lina standing there, recognition flooded her features immediately. She pointed in Carrillo’s direction as she reassured the woman that the colonel would be fine, that he just needed to take it easy for a couple days. It was much more reassuring to hear a medical professional saying it, no offense to Javier.

Carrillo was sitting on the infirmary bed, legs hanging off the side with his back to the door. Lina was thankful for the slight element of surprise. The clicking of her shoes against the tile was the only thing that was giving her away, but he wasn’t turning to face the sound. She wondered how hard he hit his head.

“What’d you do this time, Horacio?” there was a lightness to her voice to let him know that she wasn’t actually accusing him of anything.

He turned to look over his shoulder at her, but not too quickly. A few different emotions flashed across his face in rapid succession. He finally settled on confusion. “How did you…”

She walked over so that she was standing in front of him. “Javi called me. Said that maybe you shouldn’t be driving.”

Carrillo huffed, shaking his head slightly, “Fucking Peña.”

She chuckled, resting her hand on his knee. “Fucking Peña,” she mocked his tone playfully, “was just looking out for you.”

It got a small smile out of him and he put his hand over hers. “I’m fine, querida.”

“That would be much more convincing if we weren’t talking about this in an infirmary.” She studied his face a little closer as he looked up at her, “And also if you had a few less cuts, and bruises coming in.”

“I’m—”

“If I ask the nurse,” she cut him off, knowing his song and dance too well, “is she going to tell me that you most likely have a concussion?” His silence spoke volumes. She smiled, leaning in and softly kissing the side of his head. “Let me take you home, Horacio,” she murmured against his hair.

Despite all of his best efforts to stay stoic while he was on-base, there was something about the softness in her voice and the way that she was touching him that took away his resolve. He let his eyes shut, feeling himself relaxing as he gave in to her request.

“Gracias, querida.”

She pulled away, her smile brightening as she looked at him, finding relief in the act of him giving into her so easily. “Por supuesto.” The joking tone was back in her voice, “Want me to carry you?”

He gave a slight shake of his head, but she could still catch the tiny hint of a smile that was threatening to curl his lips as he stood. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

She chuckled to herself as she grabbed his sunglasses off the stand next to the bed. She knew better than to offer him a helping hand again. She rested the sunglasses on top of her head as the two of them walked to leave the infirmary. They stopped for Carrillo to slap his signatures on a few sheets of paperwork, but then they were good to go home.

They walked side by side down the hallway, not holding hands, but extremely close to it. With each stride her hand would brush against his and if they had been just about anywhere else, Carrillo would’ve caught her hand in his own. He was still trying to hold on to his last shred of professionalism though.

Lina could feel the way he was fighting the urge, though, and she didn’t try to stop herself from smiling at it. She was perfectly aware of how Carrillo had to carry himself at work. She understood it, tried to never give him any grief about it within reason. But she knew more than anyone that there was more to him than that. And she loved him for it, for both sides of him.

The two of them walked across the main floor of the base. All of the officers were shuffling around, and Lina was in awe of the organized chaos of it all. She didn’t stop by the base often, but whenever she did it was always busy. It truly was its own little ecosystem.

“Good,” Javi spoke up with a nod when he saw the two of them, “get him out of here.”

Lina laughed but Carrillo didn’t look nearly as amused. “Thank you for calling her, Agent Peña.”

Carrillo was being facetious, but Lina wasn’t as she said, “Appreciate it, Javi.”

“You got it. Hey, Lina,” he paused, waiting for her to make eye contact with him before tossing her Carrillo’s car keys, “don’t let him have these back.”

She chuckled as she caught the keys, immediately tucking them into her purse before Carrillo could try to snatch them away. “Thank you.”

Carrillo sighed, but he knew better than to try and argue with either of them. On a good day, he could win an argument against Javier, but it wasn’t a good day. And to win an argument against Lina he had to have everything on his side, and it was apparent to everyone who laid eyes on him that that wasn’t the case this time. So the two of them conspiring against him together certainly didn’t set him up to be winning much of anything besides being driven home and told to rest.

“You guys be safe too, though, yea?” she looked back and forth between Javier and Steve. Both of them nodded back in confirmation but didn’t say anything in response. She said a quick goodbye to them, Carrillo doing the same, although a bit begrudgingly, and then the two of them started to make their way out of the building.

They were walking down the main strip that led to the sidewalk when Carrillo spoke up again. “I could’ve driven myself home.”

She laughed, looping her arm through his as they stepped onto the sidewalk. “Should you have, though?”

He allowed himself a smile as he pulled open the passenger door, “Hm. Maybe not.”

He let out a sigh as he sat down, letting his head fall back against the headrest. Lina looked over at him for a moment, feeling a tiny pull at her heartstrings at the state of him, but also feeling grateful because she knew how much worse things could’ve gone. He was a little banged up, but it wasn’t the worst shape she’d ever seen him in, it wasn’t anywhere close to the worst-case scenario. He was a little scraped up, his brain a little rattled, but he was going to be fine. In a couple days it would be like none of it ever happened. Still, in that moment as she looked at the exhaustion on his face, the heaviness in his shoulders, she did feel bad.

She slid his sunglasses down, and if she hadn’t been so focused on the road she would’ve seen the amused look that Carrillo shot her way at the sight of her wearing them. It was a rough day, and he was exhausted, but he had never been too exhausted to not notice those types of things. Those were the little things that he had spent so long thinking he wouldn’t have with someone, but there she was, and she didn’t even realize it.

They were about halfway back to her apartment when he said, “Where were you going before Peña called you?”

She glanced over at him for a brief moment before returning her attention to the road. “What?”

He reached over, resting his hand on her thigh. “Your dress. You didn’t dress up to come to Carlos Holguín?”

She chuckled, “No, I didn’t. I was going to meet up with some friends for lunch,” she shook her head, “but I didn’t want to waste time changing.” She paused. “Why?”

His neutral expression shifted into a smile, “It’s nice. You’re beautiful.”

Her laugh was soft, “Thank you. But you can’t sweet-talk your way out of me making you rest. You know that, right?”

He chuckled, thumb tracing back and forth on her leg. “I know.”

She parked in the garage of her apartment complex. Pushing his sunglasses back up to the top of her head, the look she cast in Carrillo’s direction asked the question that she didn’t verbalize out loud. He shook his head, silently reassuring her that he didn’t need any help. She stepped out of the car and waited—he was moving a little slower but it wasn’t as though he was limping, and she took comfort in that.

He leaned against the wall, watching as she slipped the key into the lock of her door. She wasn’t looking at him, but she could still feel him watching her, and it still made her face warm even after so long. She shook her head slightly, but didn’t say anything to him about it.

Lina pushed the door open, tossing her purse off to the side as she walked into the apartment. She carefully set Carrillo’s sunglasses down next to it before slipping out of her shoes. Carrillo watched her go through the motions as he shut and locked the door behind them.

“I’ll grab you some clean clothes and a fresh towel,” her brain had already shifted into caretaking mode, the gears visibly turning in her eyes as she spoke. Her movements were fast, but they were comfortable, like she had done this time and time again. Because she had. “You should shower, really clean out those cuts. Then you can rest. I can make us something to eat.”

“Lina.” His voice was soft, and he gave it a few seconds before he repeated himself, a little louder this time, “Lina?”

She stopped just before she rounded the corner to the hall that led to her room and the bathroom. She raised her eyebrows, “Yea?”

“You don’t have to…” he paused, trying to make sure he picked the right words, “I’m alright. You don’t have to do anything.”

She smiled, leaning against the wall for a moment. “We take care of each other, Horacio. That’s what we do.” There was a brief pause before she continued, soft smile still on her face, “Now come on.”

He chuckled softly to himself as she went down the short hallway and out of sight. Crouching down, he unlaced his boots, leaving them beside her shoes before following her footsteps through the apartment. He walked into the bedroom to find her pawing through the drawer that had been reserved for him in her dresser for the last couple months. She plucked out the comfiest t-shirt and pants that she could find for him, making a mental note to stock up on more of those for him at some point down the road since he wouldn’t do it for himself.

“Here,” she handed the clothes over to him, “There are clean towels on the shelf in there.”

He tucked the clothes under his arm, nodding as he listened to what she was saying. “Thank you.”

She hummed in approval as she reached and gently cupped the side of his face. “Of course,” she leaned in, pressing a long, gentle kiss to his lips, “I love you.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “I love you too.”

Pulling away, she gave him a light nudge towards the door. He didn’t fight her on it, slowly making his way out of the room and into the bathroom. She lingered, waiting and listening until she heard the sound of the water running in the bathroom. Letting out a small sigh of relief, she stripped out of her dress and pulled on a comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top. Pulling her hair up into a ponytail, she made her way back out to the kitchen to get started on cooking.

Carrillo let the hot water scald him. He braced himself against the cold tile wall of her shower, letting the water beat down his shoulders and back. It stung his cuts, and didn’t feel great on the bruises that were beginning to bloom across his body either, but it was necessary. So he let it happen.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he figured it was time to actually shower. He chuckled as he looked at the collection of bottles that were on the corners and edges of her bathtub. Lina had more bottles in her bathroom than Carrillo had had in the last few years combined. He thought to himself for a moment that there was no way that all of them could’ve done things that were all that different. He scanned over the labels until he found one that was just claiming to be body wash. Good enough. If he smelled like flowers for the next day or so, then so be it. Lina was going to be the only one who would know anyhow.

The soap was another round of stinging in the litany of cuts and scrapes on him. None of them were that bad but it definitely brought his attention to ones that he hadn’t noticed before. Like paper cuts in inconvenient places, none of his injuries were life-threatening but they certainly were annoying.

He finished up his shower, getting dressed in the cloak of steam that shrouded the bathroom. He took the towel and wiped at the mirror that had completely fogged up, taking a moment to look at himself. Lina was right about the bruises coming in, marks he hadn’t seen because he hadn’t looked at himself until just now. They’d fade soon enough. They always did. The mirror began to fog up again so he pried himself away from it, hanging his towel on the back of the bathroom door before opening it up.

He made his way to her kitchen, and it never ceased to amaze him just how quickly she managed to make her kitchen smell like a restaurant in the best way. He watched her flit so easily around the small space, music coming in through the mild static of the radio. Spanish melodies flowed off the tip of her tongue quietly but with the same ease she seemed to have with everything else.

She hadn’t even looked at him head-on yet but she still said, “Feel better?”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a hum and a laugh, “A bit.”

She put a lid on the pot that was sitting on the stove, wiping her hands on the dish towel that was draped over her shoulder. She walked over to him, her head at a slight tilt as she investigated, trying to make sure that he was telling the truth. The change of clothes did wonders, although the bruises were darker now than they had been at the base. She tried not to pay it too much mind as she gently rested her hands flat against his chest.

“You look a bit better.”

He chuckled. “That’s one good thing, then.”

She smiled at him as she reached up and carded her fingers through his still-damp hair. “I like you like this.”

He rested his hands on her hips, a smile threatening to curl the edges of his mouth. “Concussed and held captive in your apartment?”

She laughed, head tilting back slightly as she did. For Carrillo, the sound blotted out all of the chaos of the last twenty-four hours. She shook her head at him as she slid her hands up to rest on his shoulders.

“I like having you home,” she clarified.

He let out a hum of approval, tried not to let it show just how deep of a chord such a simple sentence struck with him. He had never been one to feel at home in places that weren’t really his. And even then, arguably, there were days when his house didn’t feel much like home either. But the fact that Lina considered her space to be his too—that meant something. He wasn’t even moved in but she still referred to it as home for the both of them. What would’ve made him want to turn tail and run if he heard it from anyone else, just made him wrap his arms tighter around her.

She melted into it for a moment, her fingers gently massaging small circles along the base of his neck, feeling the tension dissipate with each small, fluid motion. She turned, pressing a light kiss to his jaw as she breathed him in.

Pulling away, she kissed him briefly on the lips. “Let me finish this,” she gestured back towards the stove, “It won’t be long.” She peeled herself away from him, a smile on her face as she turned and stepped back towards the stove.

He sat down at the small table that was tucked off to the side of her kitchen. The couch would’ve been more comfortable, sure, but watching her was resting his mind more than lying on the couch would rest his body. Every now and then she’d look over at him and flash him a smile, able to look past whatever scrapes and injuries he came home with as long as she knew he’d be alright. It was a skill that Carrillo appreciated.

“Alright,” she spoke as she walked over, a bowl in each hand, “this might not have healing powers but,” she set one down in front of him, “it still tastes really good.”

She sat down across from him, letting out a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been pulling her hair out by any means, but she couldn’t deny how reassuring it was to have him sitting across the table from her. Even with the exhaustion in his eyes, there was still a small, genuine smile on his face. He listened as she cussed quietly under her breath as she stood up, muttering about forgetting drinks as she went and grabbed two glasses for water for each of them. He toyed idly with the spoon in his bowl as he watched her toss a few ice cubes into each glass.

She was watching the water pour from the faucet into the glass when she said, “Yes, Horacio?”

He chuckled, unable to do much else at the fact that she always knew. He shook his head at himself. “Nothing, querida.”

She walked back over, setting down their glasses before reaching and clasping his hand for a moment. “Gotta be more careful with your head,” she joked, “Any more injuries and your staring might start to become a real problem.”

“Hm,” he shook his head at her, “I’ll try to be more careful.”

“Please do.” She pulled her hand back and grabbed her spoon, still smiling at him. “I’d really appreciate it.”

#narcos #narcos netflix #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x oc #horacio carrillo x ofc #narcos fanfiction #narcos netflix fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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