#Narcos/Narcos Mexico crossover AU | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hausofmamadas · 2 years

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

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

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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.

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“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.”

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#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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narcosfandomdiscord · 9 months

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narcos october masterlist i

This masterlist is for days 1-10 of the @narcosfandomdiscord's october prompt event, which you can read about here and join in!

For days 11 onwards, check out the second masterlist and the third masterlist.

(Note: character x character indicates a romantic/sexual relationship; character & character indicates a platonic one.)

October 1 — Day of Firsts

Create a fanwork about a canon character you’ve never written about/used before.

↳ fanart by @tofuwildcard — Javi smoking, digital art

↳ Claro Que No by @drabbles-mc — Chepe x gn!Reader, 462

↳ Waiting Red by @narcolini — Isabelle x Chepe vampire AU, 600

↳ Depth Over Distance by @proceduralpassion — Mika & OC sibling backstory, 2.2k

↳ For Old Time's Sake by @garbinge — Carrillo x Reader, Steve and Javi & Reader, angst, 3.5k

↳ In the morning by @artemiseamoon — Marta x Amado established relationship, 2.8k

↳ Vengeance For Me by @kesskirata — Gustavo & Tata angst, ficlet

↳ what we do now by @ashlingnarcos — Feistl x Van Ness post-canon, 1k

↳ Tu cómplice by @hausofmamadas — Mayo x Benjamín pining, 2.8k

October 2 — “Porque No Los Dos?” Day

Create a crossover for the original Narcos show and the Narcos: Mexico show, featuring at least one character for each.

↳ Looking On by @drabbles-mc — season 3 og DEA & season 2 mx DEA, unite! 3.5k

↳ How Do You Do This Shit For Fun? by @proceduralpassion — Walt & Javi crossover, 1k

↳ Late nights, early mornings by @artemiseamoon — Javi & OFC, Mayo x OFC, 1.8k

↳ two tests by @ashlingnarcos — Carrillo & Trujillo & Calderoni ficlet

Anything involving polyamory, ex: a fic about somebody who has two or more partners.

↳ Aggressive Negotiations by @kesskirata — Javi x Steve x Connie, 1.1k

October 3 — Day of Music

Create and post a playlist for fic/wip of yours OR your favorite episode and explain why each song resonates for that fic/wip or episode.

↳ Three playlists by @rerorero-my-cherry — for Ramon x OFC fic Sola con mi Soledad

↳ Playlist for episode 2.1, Salva El Tigre by @artemiseamoon

Put your favorite playlist on shuffle and whatever song comes up first, that’s your prompt.

↳ Tainted by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo & Steve angst, 3.1k

↳ I need you tonight by @artemiseamoon — Amado x OFC, 1.1k

↳ on your mind by @narcolini — Javi x gn!reader ficlet

↳ Amado fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ Foldin' Clothes by @garbinge — Steve Murphy x F!Reader, 3.2k

↳ Promise by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x OFC smut

October 4 — Day of Conflict

Many people seemed to combine both prompts for this day! Ambitious day.

Anything involving a fistfight or a gunfight.

Quote prompt: “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

↳ Who You're Dealing With by @drabbles-mc — Steve & Javi & OFC, 3k

↳ Luna de Lobo by @artemiseamoon — Ramón x OFC, Barron x OFC

↳ Country Store Cherry Chocolate by @garbinge — Steve Murphy & Reader (his sister), 1.9k

↳ Unwritten by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x OFC, 1.1k

October 5 — Day of Visual Art

Visual fanworks: post a screenshot, meme, gif, gifset, video, or other non-fic visual fanwork.

↳ a glitchy Pachito by @tofuwildcard — fanart

↳ NUGGETS OF BENJAMAYO by @hausofmamadas — gifset + commentary

↳ If Narcos Had A Group Chat by @proceduralpassion — video of groupchat texts

↳ If Narcos Had A Group Chat pt ii by @proceduralpassion — video of groupchat texts

Create a fanwork about a character interacting with a piece of art (e.g. buying decoration for a new home, stealing a piece, hitting on a stranger at a gallery, creating art themselves, etc)

↳ Things I Should Have Said by @garbinge — Javi x F!Reader, 2k

October 6 — Day of International Relations

Write non-English language fic.

↳ Dos Opciones by @proceduralpassion — language: Spanish, Maria Elvira x Miguel, Maria Elvira x OFC, ficlet

↳ ¿Qué? by @ashlingnarcos — language: Spanish, Eduardo x OFC, ficlet

Use a random country picker and utilize that country in your work in some way: a character is from that country, a food from that country shows up, there’s international politics, etc. You get two rerolls if you don’t like the first or second country you get. If you get the United States, reroll automatically.

↳ House Special by @drabbles-mc — county: Japan, Walt x F!Reader, 3k

↳ Lespwa fe viv by @artemiseamoon — country: Haiti, Chepe x OFC, 1.3k

October 7 — Day of Darkness

Make something centered around non-death dark topics (we have a specific death day already). Morally or emotionally dark topics/themes.

↳ The Oil Has Run Thin by @proceduralpassion — Walt x OFC ficlet

↳ Twenty-Four Hours by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo & gn!Reader captivity 1.4k

One-word prompt: Blackout.

↳ Control pt 1 by @artemiseamoon — Verdin x OFC smut, 1.6k

October 8 — Day of Light

A day of pure fluff: anything insanely, unambiguously, self-indulgently, luxuriously enjoyable.

↳ Moving Day by @drabbles-mc — Steve x Connie fluff, 1.1k

↳ Happiest I've Ever Been by @proceduralpassion — Steve x Connie fluff ficlet

October 9 — Day of Gay

Create anything devoted to an LGBTQ+ character.

↳ Watching Time by @garbinge — Chepe x Pacho ficlet

↳ Bisexually-lit Dina by @tofuwildcard — fanart

Create anything with a queer and/or trans original character or reader insert.

↳ Down in the 305 by @drabbles-mc — Steve x M!Reader

↳ Would You Kill For Me, My Love? by @proceduralpassion — Pacho x OMC ficlet

October 10 — Day of Tough Shit

Write a fic whose exact wordcount is divisible by 500 (500, 1000, 1500, etc).

↳ The distance between you & me by @artemiseamoon — Calderoni x OFC post-divorce 1.5k

↳ Four People You Meet by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo x Juliana, Carrillo & Martinez, 500

↳ Talking Heads by @ashlingnarcos — Arellano family humor, 500

↳ The Bungalow by @proceduralpassion — Amado x Reader, 500

Make a fanwork in a medium you’ve never used before. If you make GIFs, write something. If you write, draw. Etc. As long as it’s uncharted territory for you!

↳ Hi, I'm a Slut (Amado's Version) by @tofuwildcard — fanvid

↳ narcos october masterlist ii with prompts from day 11 onwards

#narcos fanfiction #narcos imagine #narcos mexico fanfiction #narcos #narcos mexico #narcos mexico imagine #narcoctober

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meeedeee · 2 years

Text

Un poquito celoso, no? | Ramon Arellano Felix & Maddy Perez | You're Mine by Phantogram (AU CROSSOVER FANVID)

Fandoms: Narcos (TV), Narcos: Mexico (TV), Euphoria (TV 2019)

No Archive Warnings Apply

Maddy Perez/Ramon Arellano Felix

Ramón Arellano Fèlix/Maddy Perez

Mon/Maddy

Maddy/Mon

Ramón Arellano Félix

Maddy Perez

Euphoria/Narcos Mexico AU crossover

just your regular average everyday normal rated-R romcom

the mental image of Ramon literally shooting Nate in the face

was not at all a thing that I daydreamed about nor delighted in

whilst making this

look i never claimed to be a pacifist or a role model

Ramon x Maddy

Maddy x Ramon

-steeples fingers-

Also...

the lesson we should take away from this kids

like yes Mon kills ppl sure

but like DO NOT fuck with Maddy Perez poniendola celosa verdad?

cause she will wreck your shit straight on the dancefloor

and maybe literally eat your heart out

that's how good she is...

at the who-can-make-who-more-jealous game

also ngl the way Mon is commonly depicted as the dom in relationships...

laughable after watching this

(Feed generated with FetchRSS) source https://archiveofourown.org/works/40880508

#ao3feed #fanvid

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r0b0tb0y · 4 years

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2020 (Fanfiction) in Review

Tagged by the awesome incredible @jkrockin thank you!

Fics written this year: [deep breath] I’m just gonna link to my works page

Hanging the Moon (finnpoe post-TROS epic)

The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret (Poe/Din one night stand)

The Lost Art of Keeping Two Secrets (Poe/Din round two)

The Moment the War was Over (how finnpoe could have kissed, should have kissed, and actually kissed)

Fairweather Friends (Cassian/Din, oh my god they were cellmates)

Like Clockwork (Din/Paz, don’t look at my fucking boner while we fight)

Past Perfect (Pedro Pascal/Oscar Isaac don’t look at me)

kind, but sad (Padmé lives to raise Leia AU)

In the Presence of Royalty (finnpoe, surprise meet the parents)

Too Hot For The Hotheads (finnpoe, Black Squadron mud wrestling)

The Lesson (finnpoe, drowning and mouth-to-mouth)

The Running Stitch (finnpoe, Finn teaches Poe to sew)

The Errant Heart (finnpoe Regency AU)

A Ballad for the Rats (finnpoe rock band AU)

Plausible Deniability (Oscar Isaac/John Boyega, yeah you heard me)

Highwater (finnpoe winter soldier postcanon darkfic)

Villains of Circumstance (Cassian/Din, round two)

1 Rogue Street (Cassian/K/Bodhi paranormal investigator AU)

Go With The Flow (marshmando shower scene)

The Texture (Cassian/Jabba, unfortunately)

The Maple Pecan Latte Incident (Rogue Street tie-in, coffeeshop AU)

That Other Time (Cassian/Kay unrequited voyeurism)

Find What You Love and Let It Kill You (Narcos: Mexico/The Thing crossover)

A Person of Interest (Kallus has a chance encounter with K-2SO)

Long Slow Goodbye (marshmando angst)

unrevealed Star Wars rarepairs exchange fic

You, Me, and the Monsters Inside Us (Cassian/Bodhi/K now with cybernetic enhancements)

unrevealed Covert exchange fic

Takeaways from reflecting on your kick-ass writing, or kick-ass lack of writing, during a year more focused on survival than perhaps any other: The range! I can see my comfort zones and the areas I want to work on as a writer. I got a lot more just-do-it this year, settling into a pretty strong pattern of writing consistently and confidently. Fanfic makes me happy and it makes others happy, so I dedicated a lot of time to it. By staying pretty consistently in one fandom, I was able to try lots of scopes, relationships, styles, and genres.

Most surprising fic you wrote this year: It has to be 1 Rogue Street, the paranormal investigator fic. It started as a joke about sleep paralysis demons and turned rapidly into a 45K horror comedy. I think it’s one of the most interesting, most unique, most enjoyable things I’ve ever written. I had some amazing friends encouraging me throughout the drafting, so even though it didn’t get much attention on ao3, I count it as a cult hit.

How you grew as a writer this year: I got more confident with writing action scenes, a major feature in Hanging the Moon, and horror doing Rogue Street. I didn’t worry too much about repeating myself or recycling ideas, which meant I could explore splinter ideas I might have discarded in the past. I literally grew as a writer by getting a lot of subscribers and friends: knowing that there’s probably someone who’ll read that silly thing I was planning to slap on my works page is so encouraging and empowering. I also did some really fun experiments with narration: Highwater made me a lot more confident taking risks with storytelling. I’m excited to see what comes easily and what new challenges are next!

What’s coming in 2021: I want to wrap up Flying Blind, my Din Djarin-centric series: I’ve been waiting until season two ended and now I need to shuffle some things around to keep it roughly canon-compliant. There’s a collaborative OT3 project I’m still really keen on. I haven’t contributed to the lovely ship of kalluzeb yet, so let’s pencil that in. If I step outside Star Wars, it’ll probably be to dust off that adoribull outline and try to get it out before Dragon Age 4. But having just wrapped my lastest multichap draft, I’m leaving myself open to suggestions at the moment (yes, you can prompt me).

Tagging: @bright-elen @intricatecakes @semisweetshadow and every other writer following me! Lie and say I tagged you!

#1 rogue street #hanging the moon #highwater #flying blind

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autumnleaves1991-blog · 3 years

Text

To Do

I’m off today! YAY!

- Finish smut prompts (only have a couple left...ya’ll have some spanking kinks)

- Finish Javi headcanons (Then probably get a million more from @peterhollandkait)

- Little Sparrow Chapter Two

- Teaser for part 2 of Sleepy Sex with Liam :O

- Work on Ezra/Blue Jones Burlesque AU...

Also if by some miracle someone is still reading this...would you like to see a Narcos Mexico/Narcos crossover story where Reader is Miguel’s sister and dating Chepe.... @fleurfatale89 thoughts?

#Autumn Rambles #To do list #I have so much to do

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hausofmamadas · 9 months

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| What’s waiting down Zuni Road |

⁂

Pairing: Gabriella Castillo (Mayans M.C.) x Ignacio “Nacho” Varga (Better Call Saul)

Gift for the wonderful, illustrious, prolific @drabbles-mc - Rarepairs Exchange 2023

Word count: ≈5k

TW: Canon-typical violence, descriptions of violence

It's dangerous to be a woman in love. A brush with death at the hands of the man she loved sends Gabrielle Castillo on the run, in more ways than she expected. Burned in a betrayal she never saw coming, and tipped off by a non-garbage Angel Reyes to a place to hide out, a safe haven, a place to temporarily call home, she books it tf to Albuquerque. She arrives with newfound determination not only to survive, but a conviction to never let love blind her to pinshe toxicos malparidos like EZ Reyes ever again. Still, in terms of an actual plan? She has no idea where to go, who to turn to, or what to do next. That is, until she runs into our fav Walter Matthau-grumpy-old-man, not nearly old enough to be so grumpy, Nacho "forreal don't call me Ignacio" Varga. In some ways, he reminds her of EZ but she's dead set against falling for another pair of brown eyes full of lost hope and squandered dreams. But the more she gets to know him, the more it calls into question ... would it really be the same with Nacho? Is Gaby willing to find out? spoiler alert: she is. she very much is. sorry but like have you seen him? lbr here

⁂

Mamá always told me to watch out for red flags in life. Dime con quien andas, te diré quien eres. Porque when someone shows you who they are, they’re doing you a favor.

She never said it out loud but I learned early on, the ones who waved the red flags most were the boys. Not that I was especially boy crazy at that age, but it seemed wherever I looked, there they were: waving red flags, making promises they couldn’t keep, being unfaithful, disloyal, dishonest.

My older cousin Mercedes had a boyfriend back in Mexico who used to tell her not to wear shorts that were too short because he did not like the way her thighs flattened on chairs when she sat down. At the age of five, I knew how mean it was and to this day, I cannot understand how it didn’t bring her to tears. But it didn’t. And she always listened to him about things like that, until he got her best friend pregnant and the two of them ran off together, leaving Mercedes behind. It was the best thing he could have ever done for her though. Because she never let anyone tell her what kind of shorts to wear after that.

The first boy I ever had a crush on in elementary school told me that even though he thought my eyes were pretty and he liked how I wore my hair in braids, we couldn’t be together because I raised my hand too much in class to answer questions. And girls were not supposed to be as smart as boys. At the picnic tables at lunch, I cried over my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich, when my friends asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t even explain what it was that hurt me so.

Even Papá, loving and kind as he could be, made Mamá feel small when he told her that having to sell her floral shop in Mexico, so we could come here, wasn’t as great a loss as him losing his career as a police officer. “What’s selling a few flowers to a few abuelitas to putting my life on the line, to upholding law and order every day?” he’d ask. And she would say nothing in return, just smile soft and sad, plopping a scoop of rice onto his plate. It took me years to understand that sadness in her smile.

𖤓

Driving down highway 40, with the windows down, my hair whipping in the wind, and all the desert dust mixing with the faint, floral smell of my shampoo, I feel like I have been mainlining that sadness for the last five hundred miles. Because from the moment I met Ezekiel Reyes, I did not see it coming. It’s not that there weren’t red flags as with all the other boys. But he had a way of making it seem like they were all a force of circumstance. Gee, how did those get there? Someone must have put those up when I wasn’t looking. He was sensitive, compassionate, smarter than anyone I had ever met, and troubled in a way he seemed not to be responsible for.

I should have trusted my instincts. I should have listened to my mother’s advice. But EZ Reyes is also one of the best liars I have ever known. People who lie best are the ones who believe the lie first themselves. That is what he did. It was easy. So it was easy to believe him.

On the road, when it gets dark, I start to see his eyes like they were the last time I saw him. They are every pair of headlights in the rear view mirror: two voids with a kind of frigid, lifeless pain inside. Any echo of the love between us snuffed out, washed away, sterilized like a surgeon’s scalpel. Nevermind that candle in my heart might have burned for him forever. But it seems we do not love the same way.

One of my hands comes off the wheel to touch the spot at my ribs on the left side where he had held the gun. A shot I would have never seen coming, were it not for Angel’s screaming and tackling us both to the ground, shoving me away, telling me to run as fast as I could and never look back. If only I had fallen for that big lug instead of Ezekiel. But that one wore his red flags on his sleeve, screamed them from a mile away. That honesty I misjudged as a warning was really an asset. Porque Angel no podía mentir una mierda, ni siquiera a sí mismo. But we cannot help who we love.

Wiping sweat from my forehead, I pass a mile marker and then a bigger sign: eleven miles to Albuquerque. Good because Angel’s check engine light has turned on and I need gas. I drag my hand across my forehead again. Leave it to Angel to have a car with no AC. Well, no. I remind myself I’m no fool. The car probably wasn’t his. They would’ve stolen it before they got to the hospital.

The sun has been beating down on me through the driver’s side window, relentless and my face is so damp, I can’t seem to tell the difference between the sweat and the tears that periodically drop down to dot my cheeks. I stopped bothering to wipe those all the way back in Tucson. The dust has stuck to them too, so the skin on my face is stiff and my lips have a grainy feel to them. There is something about it that I like, that feels tangible. Algo sobre la tierra en mis lágrimas es un consuelo, y en mi dolor me hice sentir menos sola.

My cellphone buzzes in my bag. Low battery. It is a miracle it has lasted this long. Perhaps my last tether to civilization, I wonder if I shouldn’t let it die and disappear from my old life completely. No, with Mamá back home there is no old or new life. I escaped Santo Padre with the only one I have. Angel said he would get word to her, let her know I was okay, tell her where I was going. A place I didn’t even know.

Once I hit the city limits, I reach in my pocket and pull out the crinkled cardboard pack, an empty cigarette box Angel had hastily scribbled an Albuquerque address on. I triple check to make sure I have remembered it correctly, then take the fourth exit.

𖤓

After I left Angel and EZ, grappling with each other on that hilltop by the hospital, I went to Mercedes’ house to hole up. It was a dingy little duplex not far from the hospital but EZ didn’t know where it was and that’s what mattered. It was kind of funny. I had not expected Angel to follow up, texting me, asking if I was okay, where I was. But he did. Even after I told him, I had not expected him to do anything with that information, certainly not stop by or send someone. But he did. So, when a knock came at the front door, in a frenzy, I lurched off the couch and lunged for the baseball bat that I’d taken from the coat closet earlier and set against the front door before dozing off. Glancing through the peephole, I half expected to see EZ's cold, hard eyes, peering back at me across the threshold of warped glass. Mercifully, it was somebody else. Someone I didn’t recognize. Judging by the kutte over his hoodie and the large black script inked on his neck that spelled Mayans, another proud member of the club. Someone I had not met before. He stood in front of the door, hood up, hands clasped in front of him at attention, almost like a bouncer at a nightclub but without the air of compensation. On the contrary, he was at ease, almost serene when I swung open the screen door, wild-eyed and bat in hand. “Are you Gaby?” He'd barely batted an eye. I nodded slowly. “Angel sent me with some stuff for you.” I furrowed my brow, suspicious but too frazzled to form words. “Yeah, uh— He wanted to deliver this himself, but homie had to take care of that trifling, mocoso cagado brother of his, chase that motherfucker back down to Santo Padre. But I stuck around, so he sent me instead.” He extended his hand. “I’m Manny.” With some hesitation, I set the bat down and shook his hand, then motioned to allow him inside. He refused, head rattling from side to side. “Nah, I don’t— I can’t stay long. Just wanted to give you these.” He held out the crumpled cigarette box and the keys to 'Angel’s' car, dropping them in the palm of my hand. Through tears that I wasn’t even aware had begun to fall, I joked tiredly, “So, I narrowly escape getting killed by the love of my life and Angel thinks I’m ready to take up smoking?” “Yea, right? Guess when you cheat death, seems as good a time as any to pick up a habit that causes terminal illness.” Manny stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets and leaned against the doorway, eyes cast down, chuckling at the ground. “Nah, actually there’s an address on it. A guy we know in New Mexico from a job Yuma and Santo Padre did with him a while back. His people’ll take care of you.” “Who is it?” “His name— well, he’s a guy who’s connected enough in Mexico that EZ can’t come after you there. Y’know, bad for business.” With a knowing smirk, he tipped his head, “Si me sientes.” There seemed a reluctance to say this man’s name outright but I couldn't understand why. Oh, right. Connected in Mexico. One of the cartels. So more of that then. Standing in the doorway with my arms crossed, at the manic pace only akin to that of an animal backed into a corner, I evaluated the options presented to me now. Could this truly be my only one? Something else my mother used to say was already at the tip of my tongue. “Lo peligroso que es ser una mujer enamorada.”** I began to cry harder now and Manny’s head snapped back up to look at me. “Aw easy now, ma,” he said gently, stepping closer to brush a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. “Todo estará bien.” I nodded weakly before choking out through something that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, “I know this is a weird question but— pero ya puedes abrazarme?” He smiled softly, stepping back with open arms, and the moment my head hit the shoulder of this kind stranger, I came apart at the seams.

𖤓

It had only been two days on the road but the writing on the cigarette package is already faded, probably from so much time spent folded up in the pocket of my jeans.

6611 Zuni Rd SE,

Albuquerque, NM

ask 4 grumpyass mf named Varga

I am not sure why I bother to keep looking at it when I have the address memorized, seared in my brain because I had charted my route the old fashioned way, on a map I got from a gas station back in Lodi. A measure that seems silly now given that my phone is still somehow clinging to life.

I pull into the parking lot of 6611 Zuni Road and slide into an open spot, of which there are many. Business does not appear to be booming. In quaint, Hot-Rod red cursive along the top of the building, it reads “Tapizados, Custom Upholstery, Reparación.” Auto upholstery. As good a front as any, I suppose.

My nerves are fried and the entrance of the shop taunts me while I stare at it, trying to figure out how to smoke out this Varga. It would’ve been helpful to have more than just a name. Was it a first? A last? Based on what little was in the note, Varga could be a woman for all I know. Although Manny had specifically said it was a guy. Tracing the hastily scribbled address on the wilted cardboard, I am filled with warmth, reminded of my gratitude to Angel for doing the best he could with what he had. I can do the rest. I simply have to.

A broken bell clangs pitifully as the door of the shop closes behind me. It is empty of customers and seemingly, anyone who might work there. There is another bell on the counter and I wonder if that one is broken too. If it isn’t, with the Norteño music blaring in a room in the back with a bunch of tables with sewing machines, I wonder if anyone would hear it. Before I get a chance to find out, two men in matching uniforms arguing in the parking lot outside catch my attention. Partly because they’re arguing but largely because they both seem to be wearing matching uniforms, an indication yes, someone indeed ran this fine establishment and didn’t leave it to the norteño corridos to manage.

An older man with a thick, dark head of hair and a dark mustache alternates between pinching his forehead and speaking through gritted teeth to a younger man with hair buzzed so short, he looks almost bald, whose back is turned to me. Mustache man looks to be the boss and when the other man steps aside for a moment, I spot the name on his shirt. M. Varga. Simón! Él es un gruñón de verdad like Angel said. He looks just like another gruñón I know too. In fact, if his hair wasn’t so dark, I might have actually mistaken him for Felipe Reyes. He shared the same proud nose, perpetually furrowed brow, and lines etched deep into his forehead that say he’s had someone important to worry about for a very long time. Who was this Varga’s someone?

More heated now, Señor Varga points to the building and I think I can make out the words 'vuelve ahí dentro' coming out of his mouth. Exasperated, the younger, short-haired man throws his hands on his hips and tips his head back, as if pleading with the sky but whatever the old man has said trumps his silent negotiation with the Above. Varga throws him a set of keys and shoos him in the direction of the shop before stalking off back to the garage.

It takes me too long to realize I am staring. The short-haired guy makes it to the sidewalk in front of the windows, but by then it is too late to play it off like I’m just a clueless customer. Swinging my purse from one shoulder to the other, I attempt to anyway, and turn to examine the fabric swatches hanging on the walls and the stand full of pamphlets about “The Wonders of Kaptex!” and “Chrome-Tanned Whole Cowhides!” leafing through as if I know what I am looking at. The look of confusion on my face is the only honest thing about it. I have no idea what I am doing here, in more ways than one.

The short-haired man walks in, sighing heavily as the broken bell claps against the door handle, making another pitiful, pinched sound. It is not until he turns around to put something in the register that I finally see the name on his uniform. I. Varga.

Qué se chinga, of course there is two of them. Of course.

I nearly tear the cigarette box yanking it out of my pocket to study it again in the hopes I have missed some detail, some clue Angel might have left to differentiate the two Vargas. But no. There it sits, staring back at me, the same phrase I’ve read repeatedly, over and over and over: Ask 4 grumpyass mf named Varga. The qualifier doesn’t even help. They both seem equally grumpy. Could I just ask? Would Angel or Manny have thought ahead to let this Varga know I was coming?

A voice cuts through my panic. “‘Scuse me, miss? Something I can help you with?”

My head snaps up to meet a look of cool intensity from the younger Varga. He was younger sure, but I couldn’t venture a guess as to how old he might really be because even asking the most mundane of questions, there is something heavy in the tone of his voice and a weariness in his eyes that betray the gaze of a boy aged beyond his years by forces out of his control. I know this look. I am well acquainted with this look, yes. The headlights in the rearview mirror on the drive here flash in my mind. But there is a softness in this one’s eyes that I don’t remember EZ having. Not even in the beginning. By the time I finally understood, it would do me no good, but everything about Ezekiel Reyes was hard. And always had been.

All of a sudden, I am self-conscious, unsure of how long I’ve been standing there, not saying a word in response. Taking a deep breath, I finally open my mouth to answer, but instead of words, what comes out is some kind of throttled sigh.

“Prefieres que hablamos en español?” He is polite but with enough of an edge of impatience that it does nothing to distinguish him as the less grumpy of the two Vargas.

“A mí no me importa,” I shrug, trying my best to seem casual. “Puedo hablar de los dos.”

“O sí? Pues la podría preguntarte de nuevo pero ya sabrás que es la misma en ambos.”

Maybe this Varga is more prickly than grumpy. Would Angel know the difference? Probably not.

“Hmm,” I hum. He seems skeptical, so I switch to English. Two can play this game. “Huh? Yes. Yeah. Actually yes. I need- I’m looking for someone na—“ I start heading toward the counter but in the process, my purse swings to one side, knocking over the wire display of pamphlets. Varga is nice enough to come around from the counter to help me pick them up off the ground, even if he is chuckling to himself at my expense.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what-” I pause, closing my eyes, searching for the words. “I have not slept much. I just came here all the way from California and did not make many stops.”

Varga picks up the last of the pamphlets and with a resigned smirk on his face, offers his hand. “Ah, well, you wouldn’t be the only person to end up in ABQ who’s running from something.” I accept and he pulls me to my feet.

On his way back around the counter, he shoots me the look of a parent worried their kid is going to tear through the candy aisle at the grocery store. Pointing to a technicolor display of stacked, neatly wrapped, little trees, I laugh. “Oh, not the car fresheners. It looks like someone went to a lot of trouble to make these look nice,” I tease, holding up my hands in defeat. “I’ll keep my distance.”

Varga shakes his head, suppressing a laugh like he doesn’t want me to know I have said anything he’d find funny. He resumes doing whatever he was doing at the register. Not sure what to do with myself, I just stand there, watching him, moving the cash trays to the back counter, industriously counting the bills, scribbling in some kind of ledger. Without turning to look at me, he calls out, “So, you were saying?”

“Sorry?”

“You were about to say you were looking for someone right before you decided to go full Jenga with my pamphlets over there.”

“Oh,” I blow a puff of hair out of my lips, sending stray pieces of hair that have fallen out of my ponytail floating above my forehead. Glancing around the empty store, something in me snaps and I decide. Why not? What is the worst that could happen? I say the wrong thing to the wrong person and they kill me for it? They’d have to get in line. I am already on borrowed time and dancing around the issue might only serve to end that time. Entonces a la verga con esa chingadera. So I shoot my shot. The contact my hand makes as it smacks down on the counter with the mangled cigarette box is loud enough to surprise Varga. He stops and spins around.

“Alright, I have danced with death,” I hold my index finger and thumb up together and squint my eyes, “once this week already. I have also been driving for two days straight. I am exhausted. And you know what? Truthfully, I have never been good at this– hmm, what is it called? Playing my cards close to the chest? I never had to be. So, I'm going to come right out and say it. My name is Gaby Castillo. I came here from Lodi, California. My ex-boyfriend is EZ Reyes from the Santo Padre chapter of the Mayans motorcycle club. Two days ago,” the lump in my throat hurts as I swallow it, but still choke up despite myself, “he tried to kill me. His brother, Angel Reyes, told me to lie low here in case he tried to come after me again.”

Instead of the appropriate shock one would express at the stream of insanity I just blurted out to a perfect stranger, he seems entirely undisturbed. Just as I'm about to give over to reassurance at his calmness, it all at once becomes more jarring that he has no reaction. My heart kicks up, pounding so rapidly, I wonder if it’s visible from the outside, if he can see it's picked up speed.

Aggravated by the silence, I snap my fingers in front of his face, grumbling, “Uh, hello? Does any of this sound familiar?”

Face impassive, he crosses his arms and just keeps staring at me before finally breaking the silence with one infuriating word. “Vest.”

“Mm? Pardon?”

“You said chest. You meant vest.”

He is like a brick wall. I am still not getting it.

“You meant vest. You said,” he flattens his hand bringing it down to punctuate the end of each phrase, “‘playing your cards close to the chest.’ The expression is ‘playing your cards close to the vest.’ Like back in the day, old guys playing Poker in saloons and shit.”

How dumb must I look, standing there, eyes narrowed, mouth gaping open in disbelief that we are calmly discussing grammar after everything I said? The motorcycle club? The attempted murder? I can only imagine. He does not even seem to notice. What’s more infuriating, he turns back around to the money trays and the ledger and continues talking at me like that. “Yeah, yeah, I got a call from Manny, told me someone was coming. I remember those Reyes brothers too. One of them’s a wiseass and one of them’s a dipstick. Which one almost killed you?”

Poor Angel. My cheeks are burning and my chest floods with indignation on his behalf. “Angel is not a di–” the word is new to me and comes out of my mouth clumsy, “dip-ssstick.”

Varga’s shoulders rattle as he chuckles, “So it was the dipstick,” nodding to himself like he’s just shared some private joke that he happens to also find hilarious.

I roll my eyes and turn my back to him so I can lean against the counter. My head sinks back to look at the ceiling and now I’m the one who’s pleading with the sky. “No, it wasn’t the d– no, not Angel. He’s the one who saved me, told me to come here for help. Not that I would call,” I wave my hand around at nothing in particular, “whatever this has been, 'help.'”

Varga says nothing, so I continue. “No, it was the other one. Ezekiel. EZ. He’s the one who– well.” I stop, my thoughts invaded again by Ezekiel's eyes in the headlights, this time mixed with flashes of that night on the beach. How soft and gentle his fingertips were on my shoulders. How cold the barrel of his gun felt pressed into my side. Tears begin streaking from the corners of my eyes. With my head back like that, they drip down across my temples and into my hairline.

Another pair of fingertips gently brushes my shoulder. I jerk forward violently and turn around to see Varga on the other side of the counter, with his hands up, as if to say, 'oh god, don’t shoot.'

“Hey, look. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so— such a dick. I forget what it’s like for people not—” he wavers, running his hand up and down the back of his head, searching for the words, “well, normal people. People not in our business.”

I scoff, "Normal. That's funny, normal."

He looks at me perplexed, waiting for me to clarify. But I can't even begin. So, staring at the air fresheners almost catatonic, I simply say, "Normal is not what I feel."

Varga seems to accept this well enough because he starts putting the cash trays back in the register and locks them up with the ledger. On his way back around the counter, he grabs his car keys and motions for me to follow him. “C’mon.”

He stops at the door once he realizes I am not following him. More speaking to the door than to me, he calls out, “Yo, you coming or what?”

“Coming? Coming where?”

In an oddly graceful gesture, he spins around, arms swinging, coming to rest on his hips, as he tips one out to the side. “You like milkshakes?”

“Do I like—?”

“Milkshakes. Y'know, milk, ice cream, they blend it all up with like chocolate or strawberry or confetti sprinkles or whatever sugary shit people like. How do we feel about them.”

“I mean—” I shrug. “Who doesn’t like milkshakes.”

“Great.” He nods, with a small smile on his face that reaches his eyes for the first time. It softens his otherwise prickly demeanor, exposing a charm so authentic in its self consciousness, it is plain to see he doesn’t smile with true joy often. Something clicks just then and it occurs to me: what if he’s the someone the senior Varga, M. Varga, has had to worry about all these years? He turns back around, grabbing the door handle. “Let’s get a milkshake.”

“Wait.”

I watch his shoulders rise and fall, an unmistakable sigh of frustration. A reaction I immediately resent. “Hey.” I cross my arms. “No mames, hombre. Like it is unreasonable for me to be uncertain about letting a perfect stranger take me to some unknown location, in a town I have never been to before, for a mystery milkshake.”

Turning back around, he strolls slowly over to me, smirking and fiddling with his keys. “Mystery milkshake, huh?"

Still unamused, my eyebrows are halfway up my forehead. I wait.

“Yeah alright, you got me there. But I think I’ve got a solution for that. You said your name's Gaby, right?” I bob my head once and he holds out his hand. “My name’s Nacho.” He seems to take notice of my eyes darting to the name tag on his uniform. “Well, Ignacio, but no one calls me that.” Leaning forward, voice dropping low and quiet, he pleads like it’s a secret. “Yeah, please don’t call me that, seriously.”

I can’t help but smile, accepting his hand. Though firm, it's also warm and softer than I expect, sending goosebumps up my forearm that take me by surprise.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” I beam at him, our hands moving up and down in tandem, "Señor Not-Ignacio Varga.”

“Oh good,” he says, smile deflating slightly as he cocks an eyebrow. “Another comedian. Remind me never to introduce you to Lalo.”

It seems I’m already treading dangerous ground, but that only makes me beam at him more. “Who is Lalo? And why should you never to introduce us?”

“Pues,” he looks me up and down, assessing me before rolling his eyes, “hay muchas razones pero la primera? Eres demasiado guapa y chistosa para conocer a un hombre peligroso así. But he’d sure think you’re— I dunno, something.”

O, demasiado guapa? Nacho is becoming more interesting by the minute. “Hmm, well–," I muse as he turns to open the door. "And what does Not-Ignacio think?”

He shoots me a look like don’t go there through half lidded eyes. It is the first time I notice how long his eyelashes are. Tú eres guapísimo también. He seems like the type to not really know it. Or at least, the type to be unconcerned with it anyway. Of course it’s just a hunch, but for some reason it warms me to him even more. Nothing like the Reyes boys. Well, except Felipe, who had never seemed especially preoccupied with his appearance.

“Okay, okay,” I put my hands up, “last time, I swear. So, what does Nacho think?”

“I think...” he takes a long pause while holding the door open for me, scratching his head like he is considering the question with genuine sincerity. “I think ..... thaaat it’s time for a milkshake.”

Stepping outside into the simmering Albuquerque sun, it is my turn to roll my eyes. But for some reason, I decide to up the anti by crinkling my nose and sticking my tongue out at him like a petulant child. Maybe it’s the sleeplessness, or maybe it’s just nice to talk to someone after 3 days of running. On the road alone. He laughs at me, letting the door slam shut, and waves me over, in the direction of his car.

Despite my pretend annoyance, I walk around to the passenger’s side of Nacho Varga’s car and a feeling hits me as suddenly as a flashbulb of an old camera: relief. For the first time since I left Lodi, I finally feel like I just might be okay.

As it turns out, I am right. I would be okay. Just not before all hell breaks loose.

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taglist: @narcolini

#Gabrielle Castillo x Ignacio “Nacho” Varga #gaby castillo #nacho varga #better call saul #mayans mc #crossover AU pairing #rarepairs exchange 2023 #shockingly not narcos mexico #ignacio nacho varga #yoyoyo #148- 3 to the 3 #to the 6 to the 9 #representing the ABQ #whaaaddup biatc????#leave it at the tone

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