#Narcovember

[drabbles-mc]

Just Like Old Times

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin & F!Reader

Written for @narcosfandomdiscord Book of Inception: fanwork that provides an origin story for a character that doesn't have one & "He made me who I am" & improvement

Warnings: 18+, language

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: the way that the last week or so has gone really just zapped all the motivation and creativity out of me, so getting this written really fought me every step of the way lmao. but i will say, that thinking about Jake Seresin in high school was fun. giving him a brother was also fun. going three for three on these prompts was challenging and rewarding and fun. and now i want to revisit these two at some point because idk i have issues lmao

You knew from the second that you’d walked into The Hard Deck that night that he didn’t remember you. Part of you didn’t really blame him, high school being such a distant memory for all of you now. Not just in years, but in all the experiences you’d packed into those years as well. From one standpoint you understood it…sort of.

From another standpoint you couldn’t believe that he could look you in the face and not say a word, not have even the tiniest flicker of recognition. He had looked right at you, and moved right on along to the next person. No matter how much things changed, they always stayed the fucking same.

It wasn’t until everyone was sitting out on the beach after the football game that the two of you even had a real conversation. Up until that point everyone had been running circles around each other, and you had much bigger things to worry about than Jake Seresin’s recollections of you, or lack thereof.

You were mid-conversation with Bob and Natasha when you noticed that neither of them were really looking at you anymore. You searched their faces, trying to figure out what it was that they were looking at.

Natasha leaned back, palms sinking into the sand as she said, “Bagman, six o’clock and incoming.”

You rolled your eyes, still not turning around to look at him. “Man knows how to ruin a good day.”

You didn’t have to look back to know how close he was, the tilts of Bob’s and Natasha’s head spelling out that information for you. His footfalls were nearly silent on the sand. Without realizing it, the closer he got, the deeper you pushed your fingertips into the sand like you were searching for something to grip onto.

Suddenly you were cast in Hangman’s shadow as he stood directly behind you. You shut your eyes for a moment, the longest blink ever as you tried hard to bite your tongue.

“Ladies,” he said, and you didn’t have to be looking at him to know exactly what his face looked like. “Bobby.”

Natasha was squinting against the sun but she still pulled a bit of a face. “It’s a good day, Hangman,” she said with just enough warning in her tone. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He chuckled, and you could see from the movement of his shadow that he was holding his hands out. “Every day at Top Gun is a good day, Phoenix. Thought you would’ve known that already.”

You were hoping that it was just going to be a quick thing, an in-passing comment that he made because he simply couldn’t bring himself to walk by your little trio without saying anything. But of course it wasn’t. Somehow the shift went from Natasha making extremely thinly veiled comments to the effect that Jake should hit the goddamn bricks, to him plopping down on the ground right there with you. He wedged himself right there between you and Bob like he had been there the whole time.

It didn’t take very long after that for Natasha to find a reason to leave. And wherever Natasha went, Bob was only ever a few steps behind. That left it with just you and Jake and the ocean that was slowly beginning to calm in front of you. It was a scene that could’ve been a peaceful one if the man sitting next to you had any interest in that.

Legs bent and pulled up towards you, you draped your arms across your knees. You were staring out at the receding waves as you asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Seresin?”

You could feel him staring at you and you made a point to not return the gesture. “Where’d you say you were from?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t. Also don’t think you’ve actually asked me a question directly the entire time we’ve been here.” You cast him a glance. “Too busy giving Rooster a hard time.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly at you like he was studying you, but there was still a smirk on his face. The more time you spent around him, the more you wondered if that was just what his face defaulted to these days. He leaned back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him.

“Wasn’t until I heard Phoenix call you by your last name earlier that I realized—”

“Wow,” you barked out with a laugh, unable to stop yourself. “You’ve been running drills and sitting in class with me for how long and it took until today for you to recognize me? No sense of déjà vu sitting two rows over from me and picking on other kids in class? Nothin’ jogged your memory even a little?”

He leaned back, brows meeting for a moment. “When did you—”

“The first night we all got here!” you said, gesturing emphatically at nothing.

The smirk instantly returned to his face. “I’m that memorable, huh?”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head. “Fuck off.”

“What? C’mon, you can’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“No?” he asked, chuckling like he knew better than to believe you. A lot of confidence in your character for someone who only remembered who you were within the last two hours.

“No. Being mad would suggest that I’m somehow surprised that you’re still the way that you are. And I’m definitely…not.” You sighed. “You’re still Jake Seresin. Only difference now is—”

“My rank? The number of confirmed kills I have?” he tried to fill in the blanks, cocky as he’d ever been.

You looked at him. “Only difference is now you’re old enough to know better.” You saw the way he rolled his eyes at you and couldn’t help but to say, “I don't get you, Jake.”

The look on his face let you know that it had been a long time since someone referred to him by just his first name, not his last or his callsign. There was something intimate about it in a way. You wouldn't have given it any thought if he hadn't flinched at it.

He recovered as quickly as he could, that air of nonchalance reappearing around him. “I'm no Mystery Man.” He held his hands out in a brief gesture, like an invitation to scan him over. “What you see is what you get.”

It wasn't untrue. Jake Seresin had never been the type of person who lived a double life. Who he was around you was exactly who he was around everyone else. Maybe when it was just him, when there was no one else in the room looking to him or expecting anything from him, he was a different person. Not that it mattered—the world was never going to know. Reaching as far back as you could in your brain for memories of him, he'd always been some version of the man sitting in the sand next to you. He was just looking a little more refined these days.

You had just been hoping, when you'd seen him again, that maybe he would've changed by now. Nothing would be different if he wasn't different, but it would've been nice if it could be. The longer you looked at him, the more you tried to un-blur all of the memories that you hadn't bothered to tap into in a long time.

“How's your brother these days?” you asked, diverting course just slightly.

The question was immediately met with an eye-roll. “Fine.”

You had to let out a quiet laugh at that. “Yeah? That good, huh?”

He shrugged. “You want the play-by-play or something?” He shook his head, looking out at the ocean instead of at you. “He's fine.”

“You two not get along anymore or something? I thought you were both—”

“I see him on holidays. We text on birthdays. He is off doing…whatever he does.”

You hadn't expected the tension. From what you remembered, the two of them had gotten along well enough. His brother was a few years ahead of both of you, in his senior year of high school when the two of you were freshman. But he'd always been nice, nicer than Jake had been anyway. But they ran in a lot of the same circles, played a lot of the same sports, and they seemed to have a relatively good time doing it. Judging by the way that Jake was avoiding looking in your direction, you were now wondering if you were misremembering it all.

“We're grown-ups now, you know,” you offered up finally. “If you don't want to talk about him you can just say that.”

He flipped it right back on you. “We're grown-ups now, I can answer questions about Tommy if you have them.”

You laughed quietly and shook your head. “I can see that. The answers you've given so far have been so thorough and paint such a clear picture.” It got him to laugh even though you could tell that he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. After a moment you cleared your throat. “You guys just seemed to get along back then, is all.”

Now he was looking at you again. “Yeah, Tommy got along with everyone back then—still does.”

You hummed in amusement. “Guess that trait isn't a genetic one, then.”

He cracked a small grin as he swatted sand at you. “Funny.” There was a pause, and you were waiting for him to pick something else to talk about, or for him to just get up and leave. Instead, he gave himself a moment and then said, “Tommy graduated with a full ride, but even when he was gone somehow I was still…” he trailed off. “Navy was the first place I wasn't a legacy kid. No footsteps to follow. Just me.”

���Hmm,” you nodded, not sure what you really wanted to say in response to that.

He caught your uncertainty. “What?”

“Nothing, I just…you wanna say that your brother, your family, your whoever was why you were like that back then. Fine, I get that, kind of. But then why,” you curled your fingers into the sand, “are you still up to all the same shit?”

“I'm not—”

“You are.” The laugh you let out was dry. “I'm one of the only people here that you can't lie to about that. I knew you back then, and I know you now, and from what I've seen? Not much has changed.”

The pinch of his brows let you know that what you were saying was getting to him, whether he admitted to it or not. He tried to hide it, and was semi-successful at it—it probably would've fooled someone else. “If it ain't broke—”

You didn't let him get to the end of the sentence. “There's always room for improvement.”

You were used to laughing at your own little one-liners, but Jake laughing at them too was new, especially when they were at his expense. Whatever the two of you were doing in that moment, it was the closest to being friends that you'd ever been. It was still a stretch but it was something.

“I don't know, you stack my resumé up against anyone else's here and I'd say I'm about as improved as it gets.”

“I think the one thing that could definitely still do with some improving is your humility,” you rebutted with a laugh. You geared up to hear some comment about how there was no need to be humble if he could back up everything that he was saying. When he didn’t, you said, “And, if you feel like taking suggestions—”

“You got another one for me?” he joked.

You laughed. “Yeah, of course.” You cleared your throat. “You said it yourself that this is the one place where none of that other stuff matters, like it never happened. So maybe, when you get a chance, you should get around to dropping all the bitterness that goes along with the brotherhood rivalry.” You shrugged, offering a small smile. “Cocky doesn't pair well with the sad, ‘He made me who I am,’ shtick.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise as he laughed. “You're meaner than I remember.”

“Yeah, that's because you don't remember me,” you said, the lift at the ends of your lips taking the sting out of your words.

The look of surprise didn’t fade from his face, neither did the amusement. “Damn.”

You still had a smile on your face as you stood back up. Brushing the sand off the backs of your legs, you looked at him. It was a strange feeling, caught between remembering how things were back then and knowing how they were now. A lot of things hadn't changed, clearly, but the circumstances certainly had. You wanted more of it to be different, but there was no saying it so plainly.

“You heading back?” you asked, standing completely upright.

He looked up at you from where he was sitting. Shaking his head, he replied, “Not yet.”

You cocked your head to the side, folding your arms over your chest. “Going to sit out here with your thoughts?”

He chuckled and shrugged. “Well, you did give me a lot to think about.”

“Don't think too hard,” you joked as you started to walk away, “otherwise smoke’ll start coming out of your ears.”

“Your concern is touching!” he called after you, laughing as he spoke.

Turning around to face him, you continued walking away. “Guess I'm just too sentimental for my own good!” you replied, throwing your hands up in apparent exasperation with yourself.

You could still see the grin on his face as you turned back around. Even with your back to him, you still found yourself smiling too. You knew better than to get your hopes up for much, but there was still part of you that was thinking that maybe there was still a chance for things to start changing before all was said and done.

There was still the very large possibility that things would continue to be the same as they ever were. You knew that. But, the same way you'd been wanting things to be different the first night you turned up at The Hard Deck, you still wanted things to be different now. It felt a little more attainable now than it had then. And, if nothing else, at least you knew that this time everything was going to be a bit more memorable.

(divider by @inklore 🩶)

TGM Taglist: @garbinge @proceduralpassion @cositapreciosa @justreblogginfics (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

[narcosfandomdiscord]

Narcovember Prompt Roulette List

Saalud a mi gente! We in the Narcos Fandom Forever discord server are excited to bring another 30-day challenge: a multifandom event that we’re nevertheless calling Narcovember. Despite its name, this is open to ALL FANDOMS, NOT JUST NARCOS. Creators are encouraged to submit fanworks (fic, art, gifs, vids, op-eds) for any fandom your heart desires!

This event's format is a bit unconventional. Instead of a prompt for each day of the month, there's a Prompt Roulette Wheel and a Prompt Index (☟ below) featuring numbered items with three prompts each. Every day you'll spin the wheel. The number that comes up on the spin corresponds to a number on the index where you can then pick one of the three prompts.

So for example, say on day one, I spin the wheel and get number 8. I’d go to 8 on the index (titled These Damn Restraints). Of those three prompts, I like Yikes best so that's my day one prompt. Next day, I spin and get 14. I find 14 on the index (Decisions, Decisions, Decisions) and pick one of those for day two's prompt. And so on. Note: If, on Day 2, instead of 14 I got 8 again, I’d spin the wheel again to get a new number. If, for whatever reason, you don’t want to spin twice, you can choose another prompt from that "Book of" that you haven't used (e.g. Day 1, I chose Yikes. So Day 2, I’d go for, "Now you know why I never say anything.") Ideally, we think it’s more fun to not repeat index items, but ultimately it’s dealer’s choice. Aka we're not about to get real fascist policing, aint nobody got time for that.

Here's -> the roulette wheel. Or you can make your own! (Just make sure it has 30 slices.)

Use the hashtag #narcovember or tag us to submit your entries so we can reblog them! A note on the masterlist - bc of the Tumblr-imposed link limit, for now we'll only link the fic. BUT at the end of the month, there will be a comprehensive list with all the contributors’ blogs so ppl can find your other work easily. 

Happy spinning, everybody!

❖ Prompt Index ❖

1 — Book of Genesis

Fanwork inspired by someone else’s fanwork (be sure to tag the creator of the OG work!) 

“The fun begins here.” 

Ghosts

2 — Book of Fuck-ups

Righteous indignation glo-up aka fanwork that corrects a plot misstep or writing blunder that bugs the shit outta you 

“It’s not the what-ifs that fuck you up, so much as the what-might-have-beens.” 

Bite

>>>>>>>>>> more prompts below the cut <<<<<<<<<<<<

3 - Book of Stuff That Goes in the Junk Drawer

Fanwork inspired by a song and include why the song sparked the idea (was it the lyrics, genre? something you thought a character would like? etc) 

“It’s never too late to make history.”

Juice

4 — Book of the Uno-Card-Reverse

Fanwork based on your fav reverse/inverse trope**

“Evil isn’t always forever.” 

Mirrors 

5 — Book of Negative Spaces

Fanwork using a line from a diff show/movie as a prompt (e.g. line from Mad Men, “I don’t think of you at all” in a Narcos fic, line from Band of Brothers, “The only hope you have is to accept the fact that you’re already dead,” in a Hannibal fic, etc etc) 

“We gain more from our mistakes than our success, you know that?”

Pitch

6 — Book of (un)Consciousness

Fanwork inspired by a dream you’ve had (include 1-2 sentence summary of the dream at the beginning of the post) 

“Just dream with me.”

Technicolor 

7 — Book of Time-travel

Fanwork inspired by ancient mythology (Greek, Norse, aztec, celtic, etc. Bible counts as mythology, fuck it) 

“It’s only a matter of time.”

Constellation

8 — Book of These Damn Restraints

Fanwork that ends with 2(+) characters trapped in a phone booth with no way out 

“Now you know why I never say anything.”

Yikes

9 — Book of Fateful Conversations

Fanwork where the plot takes place entirely in the back of a cab OR where one character is the cab driver and the other is the passenger 

“You'd be surprised what you can live with.” 

Cursed

10 — Book of Nepo-baby Levels of Incompetence

Fanwork where character is in a profession they have no business being in with no prior training, so they fake knowing what they’re doing – like imposter syndrome except they’re just actually a fraud (e.g. Rust Cohle is a grief counselor, Richie Jerimovich is a hedge fund manager, Roman Roy is a beat cop) 

“And who hasn’t believed a flattering lie?” 

Evergreen 

11 — Book of Pit Stops

Fanwork that starts with a character hitchhiking and getting picked up by another character(s) 

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” 

Rush

12 — Book of Balancing In Between

Fanwork whose setting is a liminal space (e.g. empty swimming pool, bar or arcade after hours, airport terminal, church confessional, empty elevator, Twin Peaks black lodge, John Wick continental bar, etc) 

“Good things come in threes.” 

Wire

13 — Book of in Urgent Need of Assistance

Fanwork where a character wakes up on an empty submarine, 300ft underwater, thinking they’re the only person aboard until they run into another character(s) 

“One day I’ll wake up and it won’t hurt so much.” 

Desperate

14 - Book of Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

Crossover for 2(+) fandoms you have used before but 2(+) characters you’ve never used or vice versa 

“All we have are our choices.” 

Crossroads 

15 — Book of How tf Did We Get Here

Fanwork that starts off with 2(+) characters waiting in line at the DMV and ends in a completely different, totally unpredictable, why-and-how-tf-did-we-get-here place 

“There’s a moon a mile from here and nobody home.” 

Ambition

16 — Book of Locally Sourced

Fanwork that mimics a bottle episode, so the entirety of it takes place in a relatively mundane setting (e.g. the stockroom of a store, interrogation room, a hotel lobby, waiting room of a doctor’s office, etc etc) 

“Make yourself comfortable while you can."

Notebook

17 — Book of Inception

Fanwork that provides an origin story for a character that doesn’t have one in canon 

“It (he/she/they) made me who I am.”

Improvement

18 — Book of Mysteries

Fanwork where 2(+) characters have to escape a panic room. Depending on fandom, this can be like the innocent party version that you take your friends to for someone’s bday, or can be an actual doomsday shelter 

“I thought they were with you!?"

Endurance

19 — Book of Near Misses

Fanwork with 2(+) characters from the same movie/show/book who’ve never met 

“Looks like we missed our window.” 

Rattled

20 — Book of Sleight of Hand

Fanwork of partners (romantic, profesh, or both) running into each other unexpectedly while both are doing something criminal/something they know they aren’t supposed to do (e.g. burying a body, carrying out a heist, meeting someone they shouldn’t)

“You can't ask the truth from someone who trades in lies.” 

Brace

21— Book of Nerves of Steel

Fanwork where 2(+) characters do a B&E, but get stuck when the owner unexpectedly comes home, and they whisper-yell argue over how to get out

“You won't believe the day I just had.”

Cortisol

22 — Book of Identity Theft

Fanwork where 2(+) characters meet accidentally bc one has accidentally dialed the wrong number (e.g. Syd [The Bear] tries to call Carm to yell at him for Something Dumb He Did but ends up calling Cousin Greg [Succession] instead) 

“I'm not the one.”

Brand

23 — Book of Just Chaos™️™️™️

Cracked crossover/ship with 2(+) characters from very diff genres (e.g. Dwight Schrute [The Office] & Tommy Shelby [Peaky Blinders], Frenchie [The Boys] x Penelope [Bridgerton], etc) 

“You’re my idiot, forever.” 

Untouchable

24 — Book of Revelation

Fanwork where 2(+) characters are stranded in the desert and in a sick twist, must decide which one of them to leave behind in order for the other(s) to be saved

“I like that I don't have to worry about you.”

Rapture

25 — Book of Reciprocity

Fanwork where 2(+) characters play poker (or any card game that has betting) but the chips are magic and the winner gets extra years of life instead of money (e.g. say, in poker, green chips = $500, blue chips = $1k, red chips = $2k, black chips = $5k. In this scenario, green chips = 6mos, blue chips = 1yr, red chips = 2yrs, black chips = 5yrs, etc) 

“Fine, I'll do it myself.”

Quid-Pro-Quo

26 — Book of Abduction

Fanwork where 2(+) characters get kidnapped by a kooky cult, are thrown into the trunk of a car together and have to figure out how to escape

“Somebody has to be paying attention.” 

Spiral

27 — Book of Caretaking

Fanwork where a character accidentally shoots/stabs/otherwise maims another character and has to perform first responder, triage levels of first aid to save them (dealer’s choice as to whether it's successful bc yolo) 

“Don't make me take care of you.” 

 Ritual

28 — Book of Weaponized Passive Aggression

Fanwork where 2(+) characters attend a dinner party and witness that moment when a couple starts passive-aggressively arguing but not outright fighting in front of the whole table and it’s even more painfully awkward than if they just straight up fought OR the 2(+) characters are the ones arguing making everyone else uncomfortable asf

“I wish you the best and I hope you find it far from me.”

Attitude

29 — Book of the (un)Dead

Fanwork where a character dies and another character shepherds them to the afterlife like their own personal grim reaper

“We bury our dead alive.” 

Siesta

30 — Book of There's No Place Like ...

Back from the dead: a character came back wrong or right, but either way, no one else knows how to handle it

“Even if you make it, you’ll never really go home.” 

Homesick

**There will be a reverse trope list in another post for examples.

[our-future-is-up-to-us-2]

Score!

Fic number 2! @narcosfandomdiscord

Enjoy <3

Prompt #15, Book Of How TF Did We Get Here: Ambition

Word Count: 1.3K

Relationships: Trent Crimm & Ted Lasso

Warnings: None

~ Read the fic under the cut ~

Trent doesn’t know where he gets it from. 

Well, not just one ‘it’, but all of it.  

He watches Ted sit down for the press, bags heavy underneath his eyes, and watches him fumble with the crowd. 

Let battle commence.  

Amidst sparkling water and goalies resembling Mickey Mouse, the British journalist can determine that the American’s career is going to shit. 

He may have thrived well in the States, but here, it’s clearly a different ballgame, both figuratively and literally. 

Trent cracks a smile when the coach gestures his way. After all, he deserves some brutal honesty, rather than a mishmash of questions followed by a ramble on his non-existent football background. 

“ Trent Crimm, The Independent. ” Because it never hurts to make himself known, “So, you’re an American , whose athletic success has only come at the amateur level…” 

He weaves the words together, careful and precise, because he’ll hit Ted where he needs to be hit. He’ll make sure that nothing is wasted, that there’s the blow-by-blow effect of it all, scrunching up in Lasso’s sorry face. 

Instead, after all that, he remains unfazed. 

“You got a question in there, Trent?” 

Of course, The journalist thinks, clutching his glasses tightly, Better be well prepared for it. 

“Yeahhh,” He speaks without a care in the world, and yet, with this calculated fierceness that seems to send a shiver up Ted’s spine, “ Is this a fucking joke? ” 

***

There comes a time to observe the pitch, and instead of Ted Lasso the person, rather, Ted Lasso at work. 

After all, it seems appropriate that a coach stands on the sidelines, coincidentally, where he also lurks. 

“Hello, Coach Ted Lasso from America.” 

“Hello, Trent Crimm from The Independent! ” 

The exchange flies by like they’ve been friends for years, and the journalist unfortunately feels it. 

This is what Rebecca must’ve warned him about, relentless niceties and a general air of… Well, kindness. This sort of thing may as well be foreign to Richmond’s population. Crimm certainly knows that he can withhold a smile. 

“You’re organising a play, Ted.”

The man hurriedly nods, looking between the journalist and his players. 

That kind of nod… He muses, almost daring to say it out loud, just to rile the other up, “Is it really your play?” 

At first, the manager shrugs, before shaking his head and gesturing to someone in the distance, “Naw, I wish it was, Trent. Instead this was cooked up by Nate the Great! One and only.” 

Well, I’ll be, He thinks, writing the name down on his notepad and taking a step closer to Lasso.

“Letting everyone else do the work around here, hm?” 

“ No, ” Ted playfully wags a finger, “I’m just– Adjusting, you see! Besides, everyone in AFC Richmond is a part of the team, from me, to the players, to Rebecca, and Nate. We’ve all gotta bond.” 

Coach Beard, next to the other coach, nods, arms crossed as he focuses on the game ahead. 

“Did ya see that?!” The manager beams, “There’s your headline! ‘Nate The Great Makes A Great Play, Man Nods Head’!”  

Trent sucks in a breath, How can he be so sure of himself? It’s as though this play could fail miserably, and he’d still be… Happy.

Instead, the journalist adds some notes to his collection, laser-focused until Ted speaks again. 

“Lookin’ forward to that profiling today.” He says with an outstretched hand. 

He can’t do anything else. It’s disrespectful to ignore such a polite gesture, let alone swat away Ted Lasso’s hand. 

He takes Ted’s sweaty hand in his own, stifling back a laugh as their eyes awkwardly meet.  

“Looking forward to profiling you.” 

Well, how genuinely can he express that? Trent Crimm from The Independent , expressing feelings? Absurd. 

He supposes things are just the slightest bit more genuine, because he’s doing something he loves, surrounded by the energy of a person full of love. 

But, there’s still more to uncover, so he won’t be broken so soon. 

***

By the end of that night, he’s leaning back in his chair, relishing the words as though they were a meal, reflecting on an opinion piece well done. 

His eyes scan over the last words and how truthful they were, how much they shed to light… He would coin it ‘The Ted Lasso Effect’, for he remains swayed by such a simple conversation. 

And though I believe that Ted Lasso will fail here, and Richmond will suffer the embarrassment of relegation, I won’t gloat when it happens. Because I can’t help but root for him.

It’s savagery, restraint, and kindness all in one. 

Trent can only wonder where the next matches will take the team, and whether there will be the embarrassment of relegation to begin with. Maybe Ted Lasso will pull the team through, let them soar to incredible heights. Maybe they will plummet to the ground, face first, and he’ll understand what it is like to suffer, over and over again. 

Only time can tell where Richmond will go, all in the hands of some crazy (good) American. 

***

Trent Crimm is not just a journalist for football, but an avid football fan, too. 

The two go hand in hand, because, when he’s not reporting the games, he’ll watch them. From the comfort of home is, of course, the most preferable, but something tells him to buy tickets for the next game. To brace the cold weather and attend in person, like something will miraculously emerge from the pitch. 

With a sigh, he slumps into his seat and crosses his legs, his eyes predominantly tracking Ted Lasso, especially at the half-time mark. 

Jamie scores a goal and he’s benched?! What madness! The journalist thinks, craning his neck to see the manager in rapid-fire conversation with Rebecca, If I had any vulgarity in me, I’d be following the words of the crowd… 

They all call him a ‘wanker’, and Trent does not dispute the idea. Instead, he watches the community fight against him one moment, and become endeared the next. 

As time ticks on, he’s prepared to walk out of the stadium, seeing the tie at 2-2, and finding very little hope in Richmond to win. After all, ties do exist here, as Ted had to find out on his first day. 

A tie is better than a loss, and if anything, the manager should be pleased with that result. 

Trent shakes his head but somehow remains in his seat, since Cockburn’s sent the ball flying down the pitch, and captain Roy Kent is off to the races– 

This is the adrenaline, the exhilaration of football at its finest. 

To his surprise and sheer happiness, Sam Obisanya receives the ball, kicks well, and buries it.  

He doesn’t hesitate to stand up and cheer with the crowd, clapping with the rest of them. It’s an honest and open celebration, something that warms his heart. 

Trent Crimm even manages a smile, a smile when Ted jumps around the field, hugging Coach Beard and Nate the Great for good measure, only to walk onto the pitch and high-five his teammates. 

The whole thing strikes a chord with the British journalist, the high of the victory never dissipating for a second. However, as the crowd settles down, he does the same, sitting back in his seat. 

Pulling out his notepad, he writes: 

Ted Lasso manages a stunning first win for AFC Richmond. Benching Jamie was a gut-wrenching decision, but one that has paid off. The victory does not come lightly, and should be celebrated as much as possible while it lasts. 

If this match has proven anything, it proves that teams can rise to greatness, propelled by a crazy (good) American coach and manager, who strives with optimism and ambition. 

It’s the type of ambition that leaves a thorough mark on its audiences, and one that I hope never changes. 

And with that, Trent Crimm from The Independent has scored in his own way, heading home with a lighter head and heart than he has in a long time. 

[proceduralpassion]

𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐌𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫

𝐅𝐨𝐫 @𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝'𝐬 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐠𝐥𝐨-𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐤𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐤

𝐖𝐂: 𝟏𝟔𝟒 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐥 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐲

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟑 𝐨𝐟 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐤𝐚 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝟐 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐌 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 "𝐧𝐚𝐡𝐡𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚" 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨

"Please don't leave."

Connie stops chopping the vegetables on the cutting board as she processes her husband's words. Steve walks over to her, softly grabbing the knife from her.

"W-what?" She stutters.

He grasps her hand into his.

"I feel like every day I'm coming home and giving you more reason to run from this place. Me, Javi, and everyone else, our backs are up against the wall right now, but we're so close. I know things are.. a lot right now. But just… don't run out on me."

Connie had been facing the kitchen counter initially, but she turned directly to Steve, folding herself into his arms.

"Steve," She starts, holding his face in her hands, "Olivia and I aren't going anywhere. Where you go, we go."

His eyes are closed as he nods his head so many times as if he's making sure to reassure himself. She stills his motion and brings him closer to her.

"It's me and you forever, babe."

𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭.

Tag: @drabbles-mc @supersanelyromantic @ashlingnarcos @narcosfandomdiscord @mysun-n-stars

[hausofmamadas]

Until The Day You Don't Come Back

⁂

Pairing: Andrea Nuñez & David Barrón (+ some implied Dinarrón)

Prompt: "All we have are our choices" and Crossroads - for @narcosfandomdiscord Narcovember - #14 Book of Decisions Decisions Decisions

Word count: ≈ 4.2K

Note: shoutout to the homie @rerorero-my-cherry whose discord tonteria, talking about skipping off to Mexico to escape fascism somehow sparked the idea for this fic and I can't even explain how or why😂

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, descriptions of violent acts, smoking

There was no possible universe in which he was brought here by conscience. So naturally, she was dying to know the real reason they were meeting now under this bridge... Andrea gets a mysterious call from a potential new informant one day with information on notoriously corrupt politician and money launderer, Carlos Hank Gonzalez. She agrees to a late-night meeting on the US side of the border, so she can get all the tea, and boy is that tea scalding. (This ended up entirely too long but here you go world.)

⁂

Andrea checks her watch. Almost midnight. The road is quiet, cars passing by every fifteen minutes. The thinnest nail clipping of the moon is out and her informant is over a half an hour late. The lone street light flickering on the overpass above feels like a doomsday clock urging her to cut her losses and go home.

Really, loitering at this fork in the road under a highway bridge isn’t the most sensible idea, not when people were being gunned down in the streets in broad daylight and the cartels were using the bodies of their victims to send telegrams to each other. At least she had enough sense to insist the meeting take place on the US side of the border where her death would at least be investigated should things end badly. Just a few miles from Tecate, she’d found an unmonitored stretch of border the gringos hadn’t fenced off yet a few months ago and had been using it to touch base with informants.

It’s for this reason Salgado is always telling her she’s a clever girl with no sense. And also that if she’s senseless enough not to listen to him, as La Voz’s editor and her boss, he makes no bones about using it to his advantage. And he had - a series of groundbreaking stories about the hipódromo, Carlos Hank Gonzalez, and the AFO were enough to prove her senselessness enough of an asset, no matter how much of a danger it posed. Until the day you don’t come back, he’d note ominously.

But if not her, then who? The job was easier to do if you knew you were already dead. She did. She also didn’t think about it too much. Plus, this lead was too big to pass up. The call with the tip-off had come directly to her desk, an anonymous insider allegedly high enough in the AFO to know all about Gonzalez’s dealings not just with the Arellano family but with Amado Carrillo Fuentes in Juarez; news she wasn’t yet privy to but that made enough sense to catch her attention. And that’s how she ends up on these back-country, dirt roads in the middle of the night.

Of course, she knows it could be a trap too - she’s senseless, not stupid. She knows full well this little rendezvous could be no more than someone making good on a bounty for the head of any journalist from La Voz. She couldn’t even bring herself to revel in the I told you so, when the street edict came down from the AFO after Salgado enacted the policy of removing writers’ names from the bylines, even if she did tell him it was a short-term solution to a long term problem. It was even shorter than they bargained for because within a week of implementing the policy, the AFO had branded anyone who came in and out of that office fair game. Normally she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to retroactively gloat, but this time it didn’t seem fair. Salgado did his best to protect them and it earned the whole staff a scarlet letter. But who’s fault was that really? So she left well enough alone, like she never had an opinion on the matter to begin with.

So yeah, the prospect of this being a trap had occurred to her. More than once. And the longer she sits here, leaning against the hood of her station wagon, checking her watch, the more the possibility keeps rearing its ugly head. Right on cue, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel has her going for the handgun in her waistband and spinning around to greet the void of what she hoped would be empty space under the bridge.

“Hello? Who’s there?” She does her best to breathe, keep calm, as she anchors the gun in both hands, aiming for the shadows.“Dejate ver. Muestrate si no quieres tomarte una bala en el culo.”

A pair of raised hands are the first things to emerge followed by a modestly dressed man with a clean-cut crop of dark hair, dark eyes, and a sharply drawn mustache that gives him the look of a French nobleman caught in the wrong timeline. Her stomach drops several floors and liquifies into a puddle on the ground as it sinks in, just who he is. She’d give anything not to but there’s no eradicating the sense of recognition.

So this is it then. The end of the line.

She’d pictured it just like this. In fact the scene is so familiar, she feels the distinct impulse to laugh at just how much of a cliche she’s about to be. Because as much as she can acknowledge the possibility - meeting a grisly, undignified end, painted somewhere on the streets of a city she’s fought for and loved, just another macabre telegram - she’s also struck by the kind of shame that accompanies shattered hubris. That, somewhere along the way, she mistakenly bought into a brand of exceptionalism she always hoped to avoid, one might call it downright American. Rationally, she’s known the odds, even accepted them. And yet somehow it was still something that only happened to other people.

What a fool. She’d kick herself if she wasn’t about to die. Or maybe … How fast could this guy move? How quick could his hands be? Maybe she’d turn her gun on herself, get a shot off before he could get his out. Take things on her own terms. Not that she can even see a gun. But she doesn’t need to, to know it’s there, tucked in his waistband right at the base of his back.

After all, he is the AFO’s top sicario, David Barrón Corona. One of the most lethal men in Tijuana. Maybe all of Mexico. She’s only ever seen him at a distance, through a telephoto lens or in grainy photographs developed thereafter, but she could recite a list of his exploits from memory like a kid in some perverse spelling bee: the shootout at Christine’s, the airport massacre, the assassination of Ocampo, the shootout at the Belmont cafe. The man’s resume is a mile long and filled with nothing but death.

In her experience, meeting monsters like this tended to be unsettling for how boring and anticlimactic they always seemed to be. He appears no different. Just a man walking on two legs, with two eyes to see, and those eyes aren’t even crazed or rage-filled or brimming with hate. Whenever she came face to face with someone like him, it tended to incite within her a twinge of irritation that they couldn’t do everyone the courtesy of coming with some kind of warning label.

One of her hands drops and she walks toward him, gun drawn as she cocks the hammer and fires a warning shot into the ground next to him with an ease that surprises even her. He barely flinches. It’s obviously not his first rodeo. Which, yes, is to be expected but the stillness of him is still downright chilling.

His posture is relaxed, hands up in an effort to suspend hostilities. She’s decidedly unmoved in her hostility.

“Y’know,” he attempts to reassure her, “if I wanted to kill you, ya estarías en el piso, desangrándote en la tierra,” but it looms more like a threat.

It catches her off guard though, how much softer, gentler his voice is than she expected. It’s almost enough to disarm her entirely until she remembers all the coroner’s reports and crime scene photos she’d come across in her research. His handiwork. Well-executed executions, meted out with such quiet indifference he could’ve been telling them a bedtime story. This is who she’s dealing with.

“O sí? Pues soy yo ya quien tiene la pistola. So start talking, cabrón antes que te dé por el culo,” she flicks her wrist, pointing the gun barrel at the gravel disturbed by the first shot, “with another one of those.”

He chuckles, “Usually when people, civvies especially, say that,” making sure to keep his hands up, careful not to make any sudden movements, “no les creo. Pero a ti? A ti te creo.”

“Arre. So, if you’re really not here to kill me, fuiste tu con quien hablé por el telefono?”

He gives a stiff nod.

Andrea cocks her head to one side, examining him in the flickering street lamp light. He’d be handsome were it not for the vacuum in his eyes, no warmth, no life, yet here he was, breathing and blinking and talking all the same. There was no possible universe in which he was brought here by conscience. With what she knew, he was likely immune to that particular plague. So naturally, she was dying to know the real reason they were meeting now under this bridge, at this dirt crossroads, near the dirt town of Tecate.

“Do I, uh, have to keep these,” he looks right, then left, at each of his arms, “up the whole time?”

She considers the risk for a moment, ultimately deciding to let him but refuses to drop her gun. His hands come swinging down by his sides apparently unbothered by the fact that he remains caught in her crosshairs. Yeah, clearly not his first rodeo. Not even his second. Or third.

He meets her eyes but says nothing and the silence starts to feel like a third party in the conversation that just won’t shut up. Andrea taps her foot impatiently but he doesn’t seem to get the memo that this is the part where he’s supposed to do the talking.

“Alright.” She exhales crossly, rolling her eyes. “What did you want to talk about? On the phone you said something about Hank and Juarez?”

“That’s right.” Barrón takes a few steps closer, hands now clasped together at his waist, no more troubled by the gun than when he was further away. “He’s been working with Amado since he took over. Cleaning his money.”

“I don’t understand. Wasn’t he already doing that for the Arellanos?”

He nods.

“Wait, but that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he align himself with warring plazas?”

Looking down, Barrón shrugs, “That’s above my pay grade,” kicking a rock across the dirt, dust trailing behind it like a tiny, terrestrial shooting star. “I’m not that high on the food chain.”

She regards him skeptically, brows crinkling.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, “I can only guess,” seeming to take the cue this time. “He’s probably too high-profile for either plaza to fuck with, so big homie can afford to do business with both. But I doubt Sr. Kingpin Accountant accounted for the heat it’d bring back on him with all the, uh– y’know, scrutiny.”

Grinding her teeth, Andrea snorts. Scrutiny was both a succinct and delightfully vanilla way of saying, ‘global attention thanks to all the bodies of the streets.’ But the implications of Hank laundering money for Juarez were big. He might be playing the plazas off each other, biding his time until a victor emerges, one he’ll be all too happy to chuck right under the bus the minute the political machine decides it needs to offer up its next sacrificial lamb to the gringos. Standing there, trying to put all these new pieces together, Andrea suddenly remembers the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her flannel and wishes she’d thought to smoke one before they’d started talking. She can’t afford the distraction of lighting one up now, what with having to keep the gun in place.

“Alright, so he’s doing business with both plazas. How the hell do you know this? You said it yourself, you’re not that high up on the food chain.”

He seems to bristle at this, throwing her a sideways glance through half-lidded eyes, face overtaken by a dangerous, far-away look that spooks her even more than the gun at his back. “Why would you need to know that to write your little story.”

Interesting. Something personal, perhaps. She’d get it out of him one way or another. But later.

“Well,” she grips the gun even tighter, knuckles going white and she hopes that by keeping her voice level, he can’t sense how scared she is, “it’s not going in an article per se. But for reasons that I hope would be obvious? I can’t identify you as a source. You’ll have to remain anonymous.”

“You don’t gotta do that on my account.”

Practically gagging on disbelief, she manages to sputter out, “For you? What are you kidding?” before regaining her composure. “I mean– well frankly, you’re a criminal, a killer at that, putting a rival cartel in the headlines, so it’s more an issue of self-interest. Now, I know doing something like this does nothing but put you at risk but my readers won’t know that. So, telling me how exactly you found out about all this would lend you more credibility as a source. O sea significa que podemos confiar más en lo que me has dicho.”

This seems to wound him privately somehow like he’s taken it worse than the bullet she’d fired. But whatever it stirs in him is gone before she gets a chance to interrogate it further.

No less relentless, it is enough for her to ease up on her delivery. “So do you have proof? Something concrete that I can take back to my editor?”

His hand goes in his pocket and he begins digging around for something. Andrea’s whole body stiffens and she takes a step back, arm straightening to retrain the gun on him more decisively. If he notices, he doesn’t show it as he continues fishing around in his pocket until he finally brings out a few folded documents along with a bag of rolling papers. He takes a pre-rolled cigarette out of the bag, popping it between his lips while reaching out to pass her the documents. A few hesitant steps forward, she lowers the gun slowly snatching the papers from his hands quickly before scurrying back again. Her head bobs up and down between watching him and trying to read what’s on the page in front of her.

“What are these,” she flips through a few pages, “business licenses?”

“Among other things.”

She skims the first document and for the first time she feels like this whole thing might not be a trap. Fixing him with the coldest, most I-will-kill-you stare she can manage, “I’m taking a big risk, doing this. No me hagas arrepentirme o te arrepentiras, lo prometo,” she flicks the safety on and puts the gun in her waistband, in front so he knows she still has easy access.

Bowing his head, Barrón agrees, "Noted," cracking a small smile, something akin to respect or maybe admiration and it’s the first time his face displays any emotion. It puts her a little more at ease.

Both hands now free, Andrea combs through the documents, a few loose, the rest stapled together, some with carbon copy backings, and skims for the highlights - important phrases, dates, places, signatures - until she finds a signature at the bottom of a business license for an aeronautic manufacturing company.

“A shell company,” Barrón confirms her suspicions before they’re even fully formed. “Makes specialty parts for small planes. Like Cessnas.”

She flips to the next page, documents showing ownership stakes in the casino at the hipódromo along with two of the Arellanos’ discotheques. Flipping through the rest, it’s more of the same, SEC and CNBV registrations for shell corporations, licenses for legitimate businesses, and share certificates, none of them bearing Carlos Hank’s name but nonetheless tying him to both Tijuana and Juarez by a signature almost as important: Carolina Vera. His lawyer. She was all over these documents.

Speechless, Andrea’s head rises slowly to look at Barrón. When she said proof, she wasn’t expecting it to be this monumental. The cynic in her kicks up, wondering if it isn’t just a more elaborate trap designed to lull her in a state of submission before the jaws snap shut for good.

“It gets better," he says, examining his zip-o lighter before flicking the top back and forth a few times with his thumb.

Which reminds her, in desperate need of a cigarette, Andrea folds the papers up and sticks them in the back pocket of her jeans and then feverishly digs around the pocket of her shirt for her pack. Once retrieved, she flicks her lighter several times, sparks flying at the end of the cigarette in her mouth, until finally a little bloom of flame appears out of the corner of her eye to light it for her. He's a smooth motherfucker, she'll give him that, although strangely, there was nothing smug about it. He brings it back, cradling the flame with his other hand to light his own. After a first drag, Andrea dips her head back, a cyclone of smoke pouring from her lips while she exhales in relief.

“How,” snapping forward again, she takes another drag before asking, voice thick, each word encased in smoke, “does this get any better?”

“I have another source.”

“What? Who?”

“Cristina Palacios Hodoyan.”

“No me digas." The shock has her nearly wheezing the words and her eyes are wide, almost feral with curiosity. “You know where she is?”

He smirks. “Who do you think hid her?”

“What? So– but wait, so you didn’t—y’know. Her sons?”

Suddenly he can’t meet her eyes and she can’t wipe the image of the bridge from her mind - the row of lifeless bodies strung up, punishment para los soplones, whose biggest crime was usually no more than bearing witness to things she never agreed to see in the first place. That Alex and Alfredo were more involved in the extracurricular activities didn’t change the fact that they were just boys.

Perhaps trying to get a read on Andrea or maybe just hoping to fill the silence, Barrón offers, “Everyone assumed- and for good reason. But that time wasn’t me. I was in San Diego, trying t–”

“Save it.” With one look, she skewers him, eyes narrowed, mouth tight, not here for his bullshit. “Vete alaverga con esa ‘that time.’ How many other times was it you, huh?”

Meeting her eyes again like he recognizes his mistake, he responds matter-of-factly, “Plenty,” head held high, no attempt at contrition, false or otherwise.

Still, she’s expecting him to plead his case, so she waits for the explanation, the mental gymnastics, the cognitive dissonance, the rationalization for every single horrific act of violence wrapped up in that plenty. After standing there, watching each other in silence for who knows how long, she realizes there won’t be any of that. And up sprouts the tiniest kernel of respect that she already hates for being there. But she can’t help it. David Barrón could be called a lot of things but a hypocrite wasn’t one of them. She rolls her eyes because christ, who needs heroes when the bar is this high.

She mumbles to herself, “There’s a fire sale and everything must go,” but before he can voice the look of pure confusion on his face, she’s onto the next question, something tugging at the back of her mind since he first stepped out of the shadows of the overpass. “So, what’s in this for you? Why are you telling me all of this?”

Gaze shifting off to the light polluted horizon, he goes quiet. Eventually he just says, “That’s a big question.”

If this was a television interview, the broadcast would’ve been cut for all the dead air between them but she just waits, hoping he might give her just a little more, something to put this whole bizarre night into perspective.

“It’s just—” he shakes his head, “the way I come up—” putting his smoke to his lips and taking a pull so long, she wonders if maybe the question hasn’t short-circuited him a bit.

“Gettin’ into all this,” he waves his hand around at nothing in particular, a party streamer of smoke left behind its path, “wasn’t really a choice for me. Not like how it is here. Now in this new– whatever. Era. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. We were supposed to legitimize. Climb outta this ditch, not dig it deeper.

“This? What do you mean?”

“The game,” he huffs in a moment of frustration, the only emotion he’s let escape so far. “Used to be no civvies, no bystanders, no regular folk. If you was in the game, you get popped on the street, well okay, you knew what you signed up for. But all this other– truth is, man, I’m just tired. Tired of the game, the life, tired of doing all this shit just to be someone’s second choice.”

It was the most he’d spoken the entire time and she didn’t want to interrupt for fear he’d clam up again and go back to nods and one-word answers, but she’d have to start asking some follow-up questions if he didn’t start putting some names to these pronouns.

“I tried to save him, y’know, for her.” He keeps going, face fixed with a thousand yard stare so vacant and icy, he might’ve had the surface of the moon in his eyes. “But I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to. She knows I tried but maybe she knows that too.”

“Hm.” Crossing her arms, one hip cocked out to the side, Andrea examines the end of her cigarette before holding it off to the side and tapping it with her finger. “So the rumors were true. You and Enedina.”

“I thought it’d be different.” Barrón turns back to her, flashing a nihilistic smirk that reveals how broken he is. “But the things she’s asked me to do,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know. The game ain’t in me no more. And this last one, well—”

“This last one?”

“Your editor. He was greenlit.”

It takes a moment to register. When it finally does, Andrea feels like someone’s pressed pause on reality only to start playing it again in slow motion.

“Y— you mean, my—? uh, Salgado? Ramon?

“Pues, sí.”

“You’re certain?”

“Mhm. My next mark.”

“Hijoueputa,” she mutters. “No es posible.”

Stamping his cigarette out in the dirt with the heel of his wingtip, he nods. “Best believe it.”

“Well— so what? Are you still gonna go after him?” Andrea’s getting more panicked by the second, her fingers finding the grip of her gun.

Chuckling, Barrón puts a hand up in gentle protest, “Nah, chill.”

For some inexplicable reason, she listens to him.“Fine. So, what’re you gonna do then?”

”Something I’ve never done in my whole life.”

“What’s that?”

“Miss.”

Andrea appears to take some comfort in this as her shoulders drop, a breath escaping that she didn’t even know she was holding. Remembering her cigarette, she takes a last drag while noting dryly, “You know, you can never go back.”

A blank look from him is the only response she gets.

“If you do that— y’know, miss. The minute I talk to Cristina, the minute I write this, they’ll probably figure out it’s you. You can never go back.”

Barrón just shakes his head, resigned. “No, ma’am.”

“No? What, no? If they find out you’re my source, they’ll kill you.”

“Of course. I know how they’ll do it too.” He says it with a twinge of pride that reminds Andrea exactly who she’s talking to. “It’ll be someone I know. I’ll see it coming. They’ll want me to see it coming. Cause they know I know.”

Despite this reminder of who he is, what he’s done, she can’t quash that kernel of respect that’s been planted. Even if he wanted to atone, he had enough respect not to insult her by trying to. Nor did he feel sorry for himself that he probably didn’t deserve to. It was a display of accountability she rarely saw from someone as morally bankrupt as he’d had to be. Until now anyway. And this makes her feel, in spite of herself, almost sorry for him. “You’re not scared?”

“Sure. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Well, of course,” she shrugs, twisting the filter of her cigarette until the cherry and remaining tobacco fall out before tossing it behind her. “But I w–“

“But you wouldn’t deserve it. And it’s true, I got it coming. Made my own bed as they say. But I can still be scared. Even if I know, at the end of the day, all we have are our choices.”

Andrea smirks, crossing her arms, looking down at the ground to push some dust around with the toe of her boot, unsure what to say next. When she looks back up, he’s already walking away, hands in his pockets, leisurely like he’s got nowhere to be, back to the shadowy spot under the bridge he came from. She wondered if his car was parked there or somewhere else. Or maybe he’s just some visiting ghost of Christmas past and she’ll wake up from this dream.

”Hey,” she calls out.

Just before he reaches the edge of the void, he spins around on his heels, hands still in his pockets, eyebrows raised, and waits.

“For what it’s worth– well, you do have it coming. But … I hope you find your way to some peace somehow.”

The unexpected happens then. He smiles. But this time it travels up his face all the way to his eyes, lighting them up. It might be as rare as a passing comet. So there are signs of life, after all.

═

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[ao3feed-tedlasso]

Hell-Bent

https://ift.tt/wKdebtm by JaJaJa3510 She bites her tongue, flicking faster now as the anger races through her veins. “Fuck!” She exclaims, tossing the newspaper to the floor. Or, Rebecca finds out about the incident with The Sun. But, she won't be giving up so easily. Words: 755, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 6 of Narcovember 2024, Part 2 of Ted Lasso Fics Fandoms: Ted Lasso (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Rebecca Welton, Leslie Higgins, Ted Lasso, Keeley Jones Relationships: Leslie Higgins & Rebecca Welton, Keeley Jones & Ted Lasso Additional Tags: Blackmail, Lies, Photography, the ted and keeley photo, Season/Series 01, Episode: s01e02 Biscuits (Ted Lasso), rebecca's on her vengeance arc, Canon Compliant, Rated T for swearing, Dialogue Heavy, Manipulation, rebecca and higgins have a conversation that's about it source https://archiveofourown.org/works/60405193 November 08, 2024 at 12:52PM

[drabbles-mc]

Perspective

Bishop Losa x F!Reyes!Reader

For @narcosfandomdiscord Book of Balancing In Between: Fanwork whose setting is in a liminal space (i chose the carniceria after-hours)

Warnings: 18+, language, light angst, emotional hurt/comfort, reader is the oldest Reyes sister

Word Count: 2k

A/N: MAAAAAAAAN it's been a while since i've written for Bishop and i simply just love giving him complicated relationships with Reyes Women.

You knew better than to sit with your back to the door no matter where you were or what time it was. But, after how the last few weeks had gone you were too tired to think about it. You were too tired to think about it, it was two in the morning, and out of all the places in the world to sit with your back to the door you figured that Felipe’s shop was one of the safest. So there you were, camped out at one of the small tables inside the shop with your back to the door.

It'd been a long time since you made a point to notice the sound of motorcycle engines. It was like having the fan on at home or the window down in the car as you drove, noise that you heard but never really listened to. The sound of the bike engine went in one ear and right out the other, but the shifting lights and shadows of the singular headlight coming through the front windows of the shop are what caught your attention. Then you heard the rest of it.

Taking a deep breath, you wiped at the tears in your eyes, the ones smeared across your cheekbones. Raking your fingers back along the sides of your head, you tried to take breaths deep enough to get your heartrate and your breathing back on track.

The sound of the engine went away, the light streaming through the window went away too and sent all of the shadows running with it. You sat perfectly still, and within seconds, right on cue, the bells above the door chimed as someone pushed it open.

The pacing of his strides gave it away before he even opened his mouth to speak. “Shouldn’t turn your back on the bad guys, querida,” he said, resting his hand on your shoulder.

Something about the feeling of the callouses on his palm against the exposed skin of your shoulder was more comforting than usual. Reaching up, you threaded your fingers with his. “Only bad guys who come here tend to be pretty good to me, so I think I’ll be alright.”

His hand fell away from your shoulder as he walked to sit across from you, and you begrudgingly let his hand slip out of yours. Leaning back in the chair, you watched as Bishop sat down across from you. Once he sat, he immediately leaned forward onto the table, hands resting in the center of it close enough for you to hold if you wanted to.

There was something so familiar about the way he looked in the patchy light coming through the windows from the streetlamps outside. It reminded you of when you’d first met, first really gotten to know each other. A lot had changed since then, and it reminded you of all that too.

“What’re you doing here, Obispo?” you asked, mirroring his position but not taking his hands in yours again just yet.

“You weren’t home,” he offered up simply.

You chuckled. “And why were you—”

“Because you didn’t stop by the clubhouse.” He pulled his phone from his kutte and tossed it onto the table. “And you didn’t answer your phone.”

Tears were gathering in your eyes again but you still smiled at him. “Something going on that I should know about, then?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

Bishop looked at you, studied the expression on your face. He could see the puffiness of your eyes, the way that the tears beginning to creep over the edge were not the first ones that you’d shed for the night. He saw the tiredness in your eyes, even though only the smallest traces of light were hitting your face.

“Why here?” he asked, completely avoiding your question.

“What?”

He made a tiny gesture, a flick of his hand motioning to the expanse of the shop. “Why do you end up here at three in the morning when shit goes sideways?”

You chuckled. “It’s only two in the morning, first of all.”

“You know—”

You pointed to his kutte. “Can I?”

There was a pause, and the look on Bishop’s face let you know that he was contemplating holding out on you until he got some answers from you, but he’d never been good at turning you away. Reaching back into his kutte, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. You watched as he went through the motions that were so second-nature to him now, placing it between his lips and sparking the lighter, waiting to make sure it’d catch. He pulled one drag off of it before holding it out to you. You let your fingers touch for a second longer than necessary before taking it.

The inhale that you took off the cigarette in your hand was the steadiest one that you’d taken for most of the night. You tried to savor it, the steadiness and the burn you felt. Closing your eyes, you let your breath sneak back out one calculated centimeter at a time.

Finally opening your eyes again, you found Bishop still staring at you, that same unique mix of anger and concern in his eyes that never truly seemed to go away. “The worst thing happened here,” you said, quieter than you intended.

Bishop’s frown deepened in a way you didn’t know was physically possible. Nodding, he kept his voice just as quiet as yours as he said, “I know.”

You brought the cigarette back to your lips for a moment to buy you some time. “So now, when other bad things happen, sometimes I’ll come here. Get some perspective…or some shit like that.”

The tacked-on ending got weary but genuine chuckles out of both of you. “Right. Some shit like that.” Bishop took a moment to light up a cigarette of his own. “Still don’t like it.”

You hummed in amusement. “You don’t have to.”

“I do if you’re gonna keep comin’ here.”

“Only if you’re gonna keep comin’ after me.”

It was a sweet moment, one of small smiles and tendrils of smoke making it even harder to get a clear picture. But you each knew how the other looked even in pitch black darkness. There was a warmth about it, separate from the scorch down the back of your throat. You almost wanted to reach out with your free hand to take his.

But then the moment passed. Pressing the knuckle of your thumb across your brow, you asked, “So, did you come hunt me down tonight to tell me something that I already know?”

His expression faltered. “I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think I would’ve known by now that my brother got shot?” Ash fell from your cigarette onto the table, a mess you’d be sure to clean before Felipe found his way back to the shop again. “You didn’t think that between the hospital, and his girlfriend, and my other brother that’s part of your fucking club,” your palm slammed down on the tabletop, causing it to rattle, “You didn’t think that with all of that, I wouldn’t find out?”

“Querida, I—”

“Ah-ah,” you shook your head. “You didn’t come here to break the news to me, Obispo. When you called me a few hours ago? That was to try and break the news. And you were still too late on that, by the way. But the rest of it? Showing up to my house? Here? You only go that far when you know you’re up shit creek with no fucking paddle in sight.”

Neither of you said anything then. The longer you looked at Bishop, the less you felt that you knew what he was thinking. If tradition held, he was probably trying to come up with excuses for a few things: why EZ got shot, why he wasn’t the one to tell you, and why there wasn’t blood running down the streets of Santo Padre yet. You didn’t need the laundry list for it all, but you’d played games like this with him enough now to at least be curious about the answers.

The same thing happened when you found out Ezekiel had killed a cop and was going to prison, and when Angel was joining the club, then again when Angel was looking down the pipe at eighteen months in Chino, then again when you heard that not only was Ezekiel getting out of prison, but he was getting out of prison and funneling himself right into the club alongside his brother. The same song and dance again and again over the years, and to think that neither of you would’ve had to learn the steps if Bishop hadn’t found you here, alone in the shop in the middle of the night, scrubbing at the floor because you were convinced that the last of your mother’s blood still hadn’t been washed away after the police department left.

Clearing his throat, he started again. “I didn’t think that you should be alone.” He paused, waiting for you to start right up again. When you didn’t, he continued, but tentatively. “I’m sorry that you head to hear it from…” he trailed off, realizing that you hadn’t said through which avenue you found out.

“Gaby,” you filled in the blank, shaking your head as you remembered the sheer terror in her voice.

“I’m sorry about that.” He sounded genuine as he was saying it. Before the scoff in the base of your throat could make its way out, he said, “I am. But would hearing it from me have felt any better? Would you have ended up,” he gestured to the carnicería with both hands this time, “anywhere else?”

You chuckled, a bitter sound. “You almost had a decent apology going for a second there.”

He took a deep breath, and you could see it on his face that he was actively fighting the urge to say the first thing that came to his mind. “I am sorry. And I am fucking here. And if you ask me to do something for you right now, I’ll do it.” He waited for you to look him in the eyes again. “What do you want right now?”

Pulling every last bit you could from your cigarette, you snubbed it out. Smoke cascaded from between your lips as you sighed. Leaning forward, you dropped your head into your hands as you tried to wrap your head around Bishop’s question, about what your answer to it was.

“Where’s Ezekiel?” you asked.

“Out of town. Gaby’s with him.”

You nodded, hands dropping back to the tabletop. “Right.”

He covered one of your hands with his. “What do you want right now?”

You focused on the warmth seeping from his palm into the top of your hand. You zeroed in on the way he dragged the pad of his thumb across your knuckles. Looking at his face, you felt yourself getting pulled underneath the waves of desperation in his eyes. He always looked so sad, and so earnest about it. And the undertow of it all always seemed to get you.

Turning your hand, you interlocked it with his. “I don’t know.”

“Thought this place was supposed to give you some perspective?” he asked, a twinge of a smile on his face.

It got you to laugh if nothing else. Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, you said, “Maybe I just gotta sit here a little longer.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

He squeezed your hand before standing up. You tilted your head to the side as you watched him walk deeper into the shop. “What’re you doing?”

He crumbled the last of his cigarette into the small trash can by the bookshelf. Picking it up, he brought it over to the table where the two of you were sitting. “Cleaning this up before you forget,” he said as he swiped the butt of your cigarette and the ashes from it into the trash can. Once he brought it back to its rightful spot, he sat down across from you again. “And I’ll sit with you.” He watched as the tears started welling in your eyes again. “And I’ll bring you home before Felipe comes back.”

You managed a smile, and despite all the mess and the hurt, you felt a little bit of relief at his offer. Nodding, you gave a soft but sincere, “Thank you.”

He took your hand in his. “Whatever you need.”

(divider by @silkholland 💞)

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[drabbles-mc]

Missed It

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Written for @narcosfandomdiscord 's Book of Abduction: "Somebody has to be paying attention."

Warnings: 18+, language, established relationship, fluff

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: despite the name of the prompt, no one is getting abducted in this fic 😂 idk what it is about Bradley Bradshaw but whenever i want to write a fluffy fic with that man i put him in the kitchen alongside his partner. don't ask me why my brain always goes there because i just Don't Know lmao

When the two of you had gotten everything set out on the counter to make dinner, you had been asking yourself why you didn’t cook together more often. Most day-to-day things you tackled together, things like grocery shopping and laundry. Even so, whenever one of you was cooking, it was always just one of you. You could try to chalk it up to work schedules or one of you not bothering to ask the other for help because it was just part of the routine now, but there was no actual reason for it.

Things had been going fine for the first fifteen minutes while you were prepping everything. You couldn’t help but to rag on him a little bit about his knife skills, remarking that it was pretty impressive that he managed to do all of that without chopping the tip of his fingers off like you’d thought he would.

He’d laughed and shaken his head at you, but it didn’t pry his focus away from what he was doing. If anything, now he was even more determined to stay dialed in and not mess up in front of you—he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of getting exactly what you were waiting for. His competitive streak followed him home form the base, but he was fortunate in that most times you found it to be a little endearing or at least amusing.

The two of you playing chef was going fine until you’d started to sauté everything together in the pan on the stove. For the first two minutes you were perfectly focused on that while Bradley busied himself getting the bowls and silverware. The two of you were moving around each other without any issues, each in your own lane, until you felt him stop and linger behind you.

Turning your head, you saw him looking over your shoulder, watching as you deftly moved the noodles and vegetables around in the pan. You laughed, raising your eyebrows at him. “Can I help you with something, Bradshaw?”

His eyes drifted from the pan on the stove to your face, and once he was looking at you, a smirk immediately pulled at the end of his mouth. “No, but looks like I could help you with something.”

You rolled your eyes, but still smiled. “And what’s that?”

He nodded towards the pan. “You missed one.”

The laugh you let out was equal parts humor and sarcasm. “I missed one?”

“Yeah,” he replied as plain as ever.

You made a brief gesture towards the pan that was sizzling nicely on the stove. “Where? I would love if you could point it out.”

“If you can’t see it,” he shook his head admonishingly as he placed his hand on your hip, “then I don’t think I can help you.”

You turned the rest of your body to follow your head and Bradley made sure his hand didn’t stray from your hip as you did so. Once you were facing him, your back to the stove, you held out the chopsticks that were in your hand. Pushing them towards him, you lifted your eyebrows in a way to wordlessly communicate that he was more than welcome to take care of it himself.

He held his hands up, palms facing you. “No, no. You said that I could help with the prep and then you’d handle this part. Your words. I wouldn’t wanna take that away from you.”

The false sincerity that he said it with got you to break your silence with another laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure that’s what it is. Chivalry, or whatever your approximation of that is.”

“I’m very chivalrous.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “Is that your final answer?”

He mirrored your expression. “What else would it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you dragged the word out for all it was worth before pointing at him aggressively with your chopsticks. “Maybe you don’t want to admit that you still haven’t learned how to cook using chopsticks.”

He waved you off as though you’d said something ridiculous, but he didn’t reach for them to prove you wrong. That’s how you knew you had him, because if there was one thing that Bradley Bradshaw was always going to do, it was take advantage of an opportunity to be right in any debate that the two of you got into a home.

“Go ahead,” you held your hand out, palm-up with the chopsticks resting across it like a peace offering. “Prove me wrong.”

Bradley looked at your hand, and then at you. He saw the smirk that was on your face, and even though he was shaking his head at you, the warm smile that was crossing his face was giving you a different message entirely. While Bradley might’ve been the one out of the two of you known for being stubborn, especially outside the four walls of your shared apartment, you knew how to give him a run for his money on that. More often than not you were happy to go with the flow, but when you decided that you were going to pick a point and stand on it, Bradley hardly ever stood a chance. Lucky for him you usually only used those powers in small, silly debates like the one you were currently in.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” he finally said, grin splitting a little wider.

You barked out a laugh, head dropping back as you did so. “Really?” Instead of giving you a verbal response, he just kept the smile on his face as he shrugged at you, like he was daring you to try something else. As tempting as it was to take the bait, you shook your head at him. “You know, I tried to be so nice and invite you to cook with me. And this is what I get!”

“Invite me?” he parroted back incredulously, trying not to laugh. “Invite me to cook with you, my own girlfriend? In our own kitchen? In our own apartment?” Taking his hand off of your hip, he pressed it against his own chest with the type of dramatics he saved just for you. “How did I get so lucky?”

You were both breaking down into fits of laughter as you said, “Keep asking your—”

The rest of your sentence was drowned out by the sound of the smoke detector in your apartment going off. Both of you looked around, and while it wasn’t bad at all, the alarm in your apartment had always been on the sensitive side—luckily your neighbors had yet to complain.

“Shit!”

“Fuck!”

You both cursed at the same time, still laughing as you each made yourselves busy trying to get the alarm to shut off again. You turned off the stove, moving the stir-fry pan to the cool burner at the back of the stove. Bradley swiped the dish towel off the counter and went over to stand underneath the smoke detector. Unfolding the towel all the way, he flapped it in an attempt to get the smoke to dissipate enough for the incessant beeping to stop. It only took about thirty seconds for it to stop, but it felt like so much longer when the noise wouldn’t abate.

Once it did, Bradley tossed the towel so that it was draped over one shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You laughed as you checked to see if any real damage had been done to what the two of you had been planning to eat for dinner. A few noodles on the bottom of the pan caught the worst of it, but it wasn’t unsalvageable.

“This is why I cook alone,” you said as you tentatively turned the stove back on, using your chopsticks to pick out the few pieces that were just a little too crispy to keep and tossing them in the trash with expert precision.

He chuckled as he walked up behind you, his chest pressing against your back as he loomed over your shoulder again. “What’s that supposed to mean? Like this happens to you all the time.”

You shook your head at him. “Well somebody has to be paying attention, and clearly we can’t—”

“If I remember correctly,” he interjected, and you could feel the tickle of his breath against your skin as he spoke, “this all got started because I was paying attention.”

You hummed in amusement. “That’s how you remember it, huh?”

He nodded before pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Yep.” Another kiss. “You’re welcome.”

You could feel the way he was leaning in for another kiss, and before he could you reached behind you with the hand that wasn’t holding your chopsticks and playfully pressed your palm to his forehead, lightly pushing him back away from you.

“No more distracting me—we’ll set off the smoke alarm again.”

He laughed as he took a step back, leaving a small gap between you. “Worth it.”

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[drabbles-mc]

Desperate

Jax Teller & OC Claire Morrow

For @narcosfandomdiscord Book of In Urgent Need of Assistance: "One day I'll wake up and it won't hurt so much." and Desperate

Warnings: 18+, language, angst, smoking/weed, mentions of injury/violence, Jax Slander

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Claire Morrow IS my Roman Empire. i think about her constantly. i have yet to come up with a longfic plot for her, so for now i just keep putting her in angsty little one-shots and calling it a day

By the time they had gotten back to her apartment, Claire hadn't been expecting Jax to wait around for her. It would be far from the first time that he stormed out of her place before they got the chance to talk about everything that was going on. Sometimes she wondered if it was a purposeful move on his part—a way to avoid having to tell her things that he didn’t want her knowing, or hearing about things that he wanted no part of. Other times she simply didn't believe that her brother was that smart.

But there he was, sitting at the tiny table that was in her kitchen. He heard her as she entered the room, but he didn’t turn to look at her. It wasn’t until she was sitting on the chair kitty-corner to his that he deemed to look at her at all. It was the first time in a long time that she had seen anything resembling sympathy on his face, more specifically sympathy that was meant for her. Must've been the bruises littered across her cheek that was catching the light.

She pulled one leg up so that her foot was resting on the edge of the seat of her chair. Wrapping her arms around her bent leg, she rested her chin on top of her knee. There were plenty of things that she wanted to say, but past experiences with everyone in her family had taught her that the second she opened her mouth, their tirades would come. So now, she waited.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Jax finally asked, taking his baseball cap off and tossing it onto her table as he did.

Claire didn’t answer right away, feeling like the question was more rhetorical than anything, like Jax was just coming out of the gate with that to tee himself up nicely for the rest of his rant about what exactly he thought she had been thinking. She sat silently, not breaking eye contact with him even as she reached for the joint and lighter that were on her kitchen table.

Jax raised his eyebrows. “Nothing? You got nothin' to say for yourself?”

“Oh, sorry,” she said, sarcasm etched deep into her tone as she placed the joint between her lips. Flicking the lighter, she spoke around it, words muffled but still plenty clear enough for Jax to hear what she was saying. “Didn’t sound like a question you really wanted my answer to.”

“I can't wrap my head around it. So please,” he held his arms out slightly, “explain.”

Claire nodded but she didn’t get around to answering his question right away. She inhaled deeply off the joint in her hand, letting it crawl down the column of her throat and linger there for a few long seconds before allowing it to slip out as smoke between her lips. For a brief moment she contemplated extending it in an offer to Jax, but thought better of it quickly and kept it for herself.

“It's been an absolute shitshow on set,” she told him, making a point not to look him in the eyes as she did.

“Since when do you care what happens at the fucking porn studio?”

She gestured towards the door angrily with her hand that was holding the joint. “Since Luann asked me for some fucking help!”

He scoffed. “So you thought—”

“I thought,” she cut him off, “that I would help out since all anyone in the club ever does is show up to gawk at the girls. I helped her shoot. I helped her edit. Then all this shit with Georgie started popping off and all the girls started freaking the fuck out.”

“We took care of that.” Jax said it like it was a declaration.

Claire laughed in his face before taking another drag. “Yeah, and then Lyla came in with her nose nearly broken. So, you know,” smoke came out in tendrils with each word she said, “Luann started to think that maybe whatever you did, didn't work.”

“So she asked you?”

“No. She didn’t ask anyone, but I knew that she really didn’t want to ask you again.” She saw the way that indignant confusion went across Jax's face. “Come on, Jax. You guys have been treating her like absolute shit throughout this whole thing. And then you act like you're doing her a favor.” She shook her head, tone dropping to a mutter. “Par for the fucking course.”

“What's your fucking problem?”

She shook her head, kicking off with a lie before getting to the truth. “I don’t have a problem. And now, thanks to me, you and Luann and all the fucking girls at Cara Cara have one less to deal with too.” She stood up. “You're welcome.” She turned and headed for the fridge.

Jax watched from the table as she dug around in her refrigerator. When she popped back up into view again, she had a box of takeout in her hand. Swinging the door shut, she grabbed a fork from the drawer. She tucked into her food without even bothering to heat it up. Even if the day had been a better one, she wouldn't have put that minimal amount of time into prepping the food for herself. She paid no mind to the way that her brother was looking at her as she shoveled one forkful of rice after another into her mouth. Now that her adrenaline had runs its course, all those pesky little sensations like hunger and exhaustion and pain were starting to creep back in.

Silence settled between them again as Claire stood and leaned back against her counter while Jax stayed seated at her table. As Jax watched her, he couldn’t quite remember the last time it was just the two of them existing alone together like this. One of them was always traveling with a crowd—usually Jax. And, more often than not, wherever Claire was, Clay or Gemma wasn't far. It was never just them, and as Jax continued to sit and watch her, he didn’t know what to make of any of it.

He fussed with his cap that was still on top of her table. He knew that there were things that he wanted to say to her, but now it all just came through like static on the radio, one thought not discernible from the next.

“Do you realize,” Claire spoke up, some rice still tucked in her cheek as she spoke, “that everyone just is doing shit to try and keep you happy? Or,” she scoffed, “the closest thing to it?”

Jax shook his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Right now, specifically, I'm talking about Luann and the girls. They've been losing it but didn’t want to tell you because they didn’t want you getting upset again. They all feel like they owe you. And you,” she paused, looking at the container of food in front of her, unable to look him in the eye as she said, “you eat that type of shit right up.” She pushed rice around with her fork. “You always have.”

He shook his head, working overtime to not consider the fact that his sister was absolutely correct in everything that she was saying. He didn’t want his world put off-kilter so much. “You're insane.”

Claire scoffed, finally looking at him again. “Yeah, it's in the fucking genes.” She took another bite, granting herself a brief reprieve before asking, “You really going to sit there and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about?”

Jax had no problem lying, to anyone really, but especially to Claire. He'd done it outright and by omission their entire lives. The levels of success varied, but it never stopped him from trying. But now, for some reason, he found himself having a hard time faking genuine denial with her. Maybe it was because for the first time in a long time she was being honest with him too. Real honesty, not the type she usually doled out that was cloaked by layer after layer of sarcasm and well-timed jokes.

He rapped his knuckles lightly against the top of the table as he tried to figure out what he wanted to say. “I don't—"

“Forget about Luann and the girls. What,” she huffed, setting her food on the counter and going back to where she'd been sitting before, “what about me?”

He shook his head in confusion. “What about you?”

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards the door. “I'm the one who went and took care of shit tonight, Jax. I'm the one who rolled up to Georgie's fucking house with a crowbar and—”

“A fucking crowbar? Jesus Christ, Claire—”

She continued on like he hadn't spoken. “And you still haven't asked me if I'm okay.”

He gestured to her face. “I can see the answer to that.”

She shook her head, disgust on her face. “Don't do that.”

“What?”

“You know what.” She let that statement hang in the air. “They do all that shit to try and keep you happy. Mom does, the club does. And, as much as I hate it, so do I.”

Jax laughed before he could stop himself. She almost had him. Until those last three words, he was taking everything that she was throwing at him. But that was just a tad too far for him to believe. For as long as he could remember, she'd been a thorn in his side and she loved every second of it. He'd chalked some of it up to typical younger sibling things, the kind of stuff that Thomas probably would've done too if he'd gotten the chance. But then the rest of it? It felt like jealousy, maybe, or even just a desire to nettle him for pure enjoyment on her end. Sometimes he chalked it up to the crazy she must've inherited from Gemma.

But in that moment, the look in her eyes almost seemed heartfelt. If he'd been anyone else he would've taken her at her word but he knew better. He'd watched her grow up, seen the way that she was always so easily able to get what she wanted from Clay and Gemma. Jax and his happiness were the furthest things from her mind.

“You've never given a shit about that.”

Propping her elbows harshly on the table, she raked her fingers back through her hair. It still wasn't completely dry from the shower and left a traces of residue between her fingers. “I've never been able to figure out how to do it, but that doesn't mean that I've never given a shit.” Looking at him, she felt the familiar burn of tears growing in her eyes. “For a long time I tried so hard to just get you…get you to fucking like me. When we were kids I tried so hard. And then I stopped because it wasn't working and you were so mean. I stopped and I tried not to care anymore and I tried to give up. I just kept telling myself, ‘One day I'll wake up and it won’t hurt so much.’ But it never happened. It still does.” She shook her head, just as much at herself and the emotions welling in her chest as at Jax. “And when Luann asked me for my help at the studio, I thought that maybe that would do it, you know? And maybe if I took care of Georgie and you saw that I can pull my weight, then maybe you'd get around to caring about me.”

“It's not—”

“You know how much it sucks, how…how fucking pathetic it feels, that some days I’m trying as hard as those fucking Crow Eaters to get you to give a shit about me? You know how sad and desperate that makes me feel? You talk all that shit about family with the guys in the club, those people you call brother just because they have the same piece of leather on their backs. But then, when it comes to your real actual family…this is all you have left for me? Those guys might be in your club but you're my brother.”

He could tell by the tremble in her fingertips that those were words she had been sitting on for a long time. They'd burrowed and made a home deep down in her chest and she had been content to leave them in hibernation indefinitely. He felt bad, angry too. It wasn't the first or the last time that she made him feel like an idiot, either.

Claire couldn’t make herself look at him. Real vulnerability was something that was so hard to come by in their family, and now that she felt the sinking pit in her stomach she started to understand why. There was a tiny part of her that wanted to take it all back, but it was too late now—she was probably better for it.

He'd never given much thought to whether or not Claire cared about being liked, by him or by anyone else. She certainly never acted like it was a concern of hers. Plus, in his mind, when it came to family it didn't really matter how much someone liked you, because at the end of the day they loved you and that would always outweigh everything else. That's how their family always ended up back in the same messes—no matter the anger, they would always show up at the eleventh hour. What else mattered?

Claire sniffled quietly as she tried to wipe at her face as casually as possible. “Now look who has nothing to say,” she forced out. Leaning back in her chair, she said, “Next time, just fucking say thank you and ask if I'm okay. It's a, a decent place to start.”

The discomfort that was burning a trail down the back of Jax's neck was telling him that this was one of those times when he should be apologizing, but that type of thing had never been his strong suit. This was one of the few times that he wished he was a little better at it.

“This isn't the kinda shit you should be handling on your own,” he told her, voice gentler than it'd been so far as he nodded towards the bruises on her face.

Claire could see it on his face that he was trying. And if she had been less exhausted, if she'd been in a more forgiving mood, she would've given him credit for that. But the Morrow in her was getting the best of her and she wasn’t about to hand him any kind of participation trophy after everything that had happened.

“You're telling me that if I'd called, you wouldn't have sent me to voicemail?”

He sank back in his chair as though her words had physically pushed him away. “This what you're always thinking about whenever you call me?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Usually it doesn't…” she trailed off, wanting to find the right words. “The stakes felt higher this time, I guess.”

Quiet washed over them again. Claire switched back and forth between looking at the tabletop, and looking at her brother. She was fairly positive that Jax hadn't ever let her go this long uninterrupted. It felt like the first time she was ever able to lead a conversation with him. She had no idea what good it would do, if any, but it was something at least. Part of her was still just stuck on the fact that he had stayed and waited. It wasn't necessarily any great feat, but for Jax it was something close.

“I'm glad you're alright,” he said with a nod. When Claire nodded back at him in response, a small smirk crossed his face as he said, “I'm glad you beat Georgie's ass, too.”

Claire didn’t want to, but she found herself laughing with him for the moment. It helped shed some of the weight that had been crushing her chest. “It felt kinda good. Lyla's busted nose is nothing compared to what his looks like now.”

Jax chuckled and for a moment they seemed like a pair of teenagers, talking to each other about the things they could never tell their parents. It was the kind of moment they never had when they were actual teenagers. It was refreshing in its own way, even if they were still avoiding the gaping wound of a problem between them.

“Did you tell Luann?”

Claire shook her head. “No. Did you tell Clay or—”

“Hell no,” he stopped her sentence short. “Neither of us would hear the end of it. I'd lay low ‘til those fade.”

She grazed her fingers over the slightly raised skin of her cheek. “Right.”

The exhaustion of the evening was starting to hit Jax, too. It felt useless to ask, but he still did. “Need anything?”

She shook her head. “I'm good.”

“You sure? I can stay.”

She laughed, and the sound was as humorous as it was sad. “Don't. It's fine.”

Jax frowned but he didn’t fight her on it. Reaching to grab his baseball cap of her table, he spoke as he pulled it down onto his head. “Alright. I'm gonna head out, then.”

Claire nodded, watching him as he walked around the table. “Night.”

“Night.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment as he walked by. “Call me tomorrow, let me know how shit goes at the studio.”

“Sounds good.”

Jax paused when he was halfway out the door of her apartment. “Claire?”

She raised her eyebrows, and Jax saw every ounce of tiredness that she was weighing on her. “Yeah?”

“Thanks, and…” he trailed off, knowing how he should end the sentence and still not able to say it.

There would be time for more fights about it another day, so Claire let this one go for the sake of her own sanity. “Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow.”

She wasn't able to fully slump back in her chair until she heard Jax's bike start up and then fade into the distance. Once it was silent in her apartment and on the lot again, she all but melted into the seat of her chair, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and disappear under the covers, but feeling like she couldn’t make the last of the trek to do so.

(divider by @thecutestgrotto 💞)

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[drabbles-mc]

Here On Out

Benny Cross x Kathy Cross

Written for @narcosfandomdiscord Book of These Damn Restraints: "Now you know why I never say anything."

Warnings: 18+, language, angst

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: I have been wanting to write another Benny/Kathy fic for a hot minute now and I'm so so glad that the prompts gave me the inspo for this little heartbreaker! in my head this is a missing scene from the movie, but if that's not your jam you can pretend it's an AU lmao. I just. I think about them so much idk

The ride back to the house after his last conversation with Johnny felt longer than usual and yet still not long enough. He went through the motions like it was business as usual, even though it was anything but. He cut the engine near the end of the road, rolling quietly until he landed in front of Kathy's house in an attempt to not wake her or the neighbors up in the small hours of the morning.

All the lights in all the windows on the street were out, except for the bedroom light in Kathy's window. Benny knew that she was probably still going to be awake when he got home, but part of him had been hoping that she wouldn’t be. It would make all of this so much easier.

He dropped the kickstand and swung his leg off and over the bike in what seemed like one fluid motion. Everything about it was second nature now. He padded quietly up the stairs until he was on the front porch. He lingered by the door for a moment, chin tucking down towards his chest as he took a deep breath. He allowed himself to linger there for a few more seconds, soaking up the last of what would be the latest in a long series of before’s.

There was the Benny that he was before he came to Chicago. There was the Benny he was before he became one of the Vandals. There was the Benny he was before he married Kathy. He thought that he'd run out of them, that the rest of his life was just going to be a permanent state of after.

But he found out that he had at least one more in him: The Benny he was before he left her.

Once he got up those stairs and went down the hall and through the bedroom doorway, he would be moving into a brand new after. He didn’t know what that was going to feel like, didn't know if he was really ready for it. Didn't seem like he had much of a say in the matter, though.

Finally, he opened the door. He left his jacket and boots on, but still shut and locked the door behind him. Out of habit he went to reach for the pack of smokes he had but he fought the urge—he wouldn’t be staying long enough to enjoy one before he had to turn back around and leave again.

The stairway was dark but he could still see the warm yellow light that was coming from down the hall. One hand tracing against the wall, he made his way upstairs. The silence of the house felt heavier than it usually did, or maybe it was just him that felt heavier.

When he reached the doorway, it was to find Kathy awake with a book open across her lap. The duvet was pulled up and covering her legs, her hair falling down around her shoulders while one hand toyed with a stray lock of it while she read. Messing with the rings on his hand, Benny lingered just outside the room so he could steal a few more seconds of looking at her like that before he shattered the façade of it all.

“You just gonna stand there then?” Kathy asked, only lifting her eyes from the pages in front of her when she asked her second question, “Gonna stand out in the hall all night like some kinda creep?”

Benny let out a laugh, or the closest that he ever really got to it, that sharp breath out through his nose. Shaking his head, he crossed the threshold into the room. “No.”

Even as he was walking into the room, he didn’t really know what his plan was. He knew how it all had to end, but he had no idea how he was going to get there. Living that way had served him just fine so far. At least neither of them had the anger in their voices that they'd had in their conversation earlier. It all had given way to exhaustion now.

He went over and sat down on Kathy's side of the bed. He could see the confusion on her face, wondering why he wasn't getting ready to come to bed with her. She closed her book and set it off to the side, hands resting in her lap as she stared at him, watched him as he looked back and forth between her and the window.

“Everythin' alright?” she asked. Before he could try and give an answer, she said, “How'd it go with Johnny?”

Benny shrugged at that, frowning slightly. “Fine. Took care'a some things.”

Kathy scoffed quietly and shook her head as she repeated the words back to him, annoyance in her voice. “Took care'a some things. I was tryna talk to you before, you know. I had somethin' to say and you just,” she gestured vaguely to the doorway, “went right on ahead and took off. No goodbye, no nothin', but apparently it was real important. Now you come back at,” she turned and looked at the clock beside her bed, “God. And all you can tell me is you took care'a some things? I can't keep doin' this, Benny, you know? I can't—”

“I know,” he said, interrupting wherever the stream of consciousness was threatening to take her next.

His reaction gave her pause. “What?”

He nodded, looking down at his hands for a moment. “I know. That you can't, you know,” he forced himself to look at her, “can't do this no more.”

Kathy’s eyes were wide as she slowly shook her head while processing through what he'd just said to her. “Okay. So…so what's that mean, then? What's that mean you know I can't do this no more? ‘Cause, come on, Benny, you must'a been knowin' before this, you know? You must'a known back when all that happened that there was no way that I could just keep—”

“You wanna leave.”

Kathy stumbled on her words for a moment. “I never said that.”

Benny sighed, staring down at the seams of the blanket for a moment. “You want me to leave the club.”

“That's not the same as me wantin' to leave. But if the only way to get you outta all that mess is to leave, then, then yeah I'll do that, y'know. If that's what it takes I'll do it. Hell, Benny, I'll pack my bags right now and we can leave tonight.”

He shook his head. “You don't gotta do all that.”

Kathy reached for his hand. “I will, though. If it gets us away from all’a this mess I'll do it.”

Benny almost went to pull his hand away from her but stopped. He soaked it up, the soft warmth of her palm as it seeped into the top of his hand. He reached with his thumb, running it along her fingers.

He studied the way that their lands looked layered and tangled together like that as he tried to choose his next words with the utmost care. “You don't gotta do all that,” he looked her in the eyes again, “’cause I'm leavin'.”

Kathy froze. “What?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I'm, uh, I'm gonna grab a couple'a my things, and I'm just gonna go.”

“Benny—”

“That's what you want.”

She squeezed his hand tighter. “That's not what I want. I want—”

Benny felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. He tried his best to ignore it. “What you want,” he shook his head, “I can't give you that.” Finally, he pulled his hand away. “Leavin' is the best I can do for you, Kathy.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “C'mon, Benny. Don't do this. You always say you're gonna do this but you never—”

“And now I am. It's, uh, it's better this way, y'know?” His frown stretched deeper. “I ain't ever gonna be what you really want, so I might as well just go now.”

Kathy sniffled, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes for a moment to get the tears to go away. “This what you really want, then? This what you really think you should do? After everythin' and all'a this…”

“Now you know why I never say anythin'.” He wanted to reach out for her again but he stopped himself. “All it does is break your heart.”

The chuckle that Kathy let out was weak and sad, matching the small smile on her face perfectly. Tears were already back in her eyes again. “ No one better at it'n you.”

He didn’t know how to apologize for some of it without apologizing for all of it. He wasn't sorry about the club, but he was sorry for what it'd done to her. He was sorry for the hurt she was going to feel when he left, but he wasn't sorry for leaving. She was always the talker, always the one that could pick things apart down to each little bone that made up the skeleton. Maybe after he was gone she would be able to peel it open and see the intricacies for herself. Once she was done being sad, once she was done being angry. It might be awhile.

“I gotta go, Kathy.”

Benny said the words with such finality that Kathy didn’t even try to argue. She didn’t get out of bed to try and stop him from shoving some of his clothes into a bag. Instead she sat there, twisting the blanket between her fingers and gnawing on the inside of her cheek. Benny tried not to keep looking over at her, knowing that it wasn't going to change or help anything if he did. He could look into her big, sad, brown eyes all he wanted but it wasn’t going to do anything but break both their hearts more.

When he was done, and he closed up the bag where he'd stuffed all of his clothes, he felt a wave of familiarity wash over him. He'd rolled into Chicago with nothing but his bike and a bag, and now he was leaving with the same thing.

He paused by the foot of the bed and looked at Kathy. She looked small and sad and part of Benny just wanted to slide into bed beside her and hold her but he'd given up the right to do that the second he told her that he was going to leave.

She sniffled. “I still love you, y’know.”

That got a crack of a smile out of him. Walking over to her side of the bed once more, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, the kiss reaching her through her bangs. He pressed his forehead against hers for a brief second, and then pulled away.

His boots sounded heavier on the hardwood as he left than they had when he'd arrived. He fought the urge to turn back and look at her, knowing that this was just another after now.

When he got outside to his bike, he allowed himself to look up at the bedroom window. The crushing weight on his chest got a little lighter when he saw the bedroom light go off.

(Divider by @silkholland 💞)

The Bikeriders Taglist: @garbinge @narcolini @hausofmamadas @xxanaduwrites @sirbogarde (If you'd like to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

[narcosfandomdiscord]

Inverted Tropes List (for Narcovember #4 - Book of Uno-Card-Reverse)

✸ childhood sweethearts -> childhood enemies/rivals

✸ friends to lovers -> enemies to lovers OR lovers to friends

✸ mutual pining -> mutual passive aggression OR one-sided pining

✸ arranged marriage -> shotgun divorce (but for any reason) OR unarranged, even ill-advised marriage (passionately in love but it’s a shitshow or marrying causes couple to fall out of love)

✸ fake dating -> everyone is convinced you aren’t dating

✸ sharing a bed -> too many beds

✸ mind-control/brainwashing -> reverse psychology (brainwashed feigns victimhood to control captor)

✸ Mary Sue -> Mary Sam (character who can't do anything right)

✸ first time -> last time

✸ amnesia -> faking a fugue state I call this The Walter White

✸ huddling for warmth -> escaping to cool down

✸ love at first sight -> hate at first sight OR love at first kick/punch

✸ opposites attract -> birds of a feather

✸ deus ex machina -> diabolus ex machina (out-of-nowhere-win for Good!Guys vs out-of-nowhere win for Bad!Guys)

✸ star-crossed lovers -> star-crossed haters (unable to destroy each other due to fate and circumstance)

✸ will-they/won't they -> they will (or won't) like, immediately

✸ coming-of-age -> arrested development

✸ in vino veritas (drunken confession) -> in siccus veritas (we-are-not-drunk-enough for this confession)

✸ fix-it fic -> fuck-it-up fic

✸ royal AU -> serfdom/peasant AU

✸ high school/college AU -> nursing home AU

✸ fairytale AU -> nightmare AU

✸ miscommunication -> too much communication

✸ missing scene -> altering scene from canon

✸ true love's kiss -> true hate's kiss (only kissing the person you hate will save them and/or you)

✸ kidnapped by mafia boss -> you kidnap a mafia boss

✸ love triangle -> subverted jealousy (letting loved one go with other person bc you want them to be happy)

✸ sex!pollen -> strife!pollen (powder that makes ppl physically/mentally/emotionally repulsed by one another)

And anything else I haven't thought of! Feel free to put your own spin on these as well because a few of them can be inverted in different ways and I definitely did not list them all.

[drabbles-mc]

Untouchable

Herman Kozik x OC Tawnie Trager

For @narcosfandomdiscord Book of Just Chaos: untouchable

Warnings: 18+, language, violence, blood/injury, hurt/comfort, takes place during s2

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: this pair of crazy kids is BACK! i haven't written for them in so long and I've honestly missed them so so much. this is a switch-up from the usual fun vibes that i usually write for these two, and i lowkey wanna write another part for this, but i'm not gonna make promises i can't keep lmao. hope y'all enjoy!

Tawnie had always been a bit of a magnet for trouble. Whether she was out there actively looking for it or not, it always seemed to find her regardless. She never seemed bothered by it—all part of being a Trager, was what she would always chalk it up to. There was no way that someone could be raised and live under the same roof as Tig and not have a habit of landing themselves in hot water.

For years, she was ducking in and out of scrapes. When she was a teenager, just being young and reckless with her friends, the fallout of it was always manageable. But she wasn’t a teenager anymore, and the stakes these days were much higher than they’d ever been. Getting mixed up in the wrong things now no longer just meant that someone would have to post bail and get stared down by Deputy Hale.

In Tawnie’s defense, she hadn’t been the one who started it this time. All she had been trying to do was go to the liquor store and grab a few bottles of things to bring to the clubhouse for the party later. It should’ve been a trip that took all of five minutes, maybe closer to ten if she got distracted looking at all of the labels in some of the aisles. Regardless, it shouldn’t have been a situation that ended with anyone getting hurt.

The shop’s plastic shopping basket was hanging in the crook of her arm, a couple bottles of the vodka brand that she liked laying on the bottom of it. She understood why they bought the cheaper stuff for the clubhouse, because it wasn’t as though the guys ever paid attention or gave a shit anyway. That didn’t mean that she wanted to feel like she was drinking lighter fluid, though.

She was reaching to grab a whiskey bottle off the top shelf when she heard a man’s voice behind her. He wasn’t loud, and with the way that he’d said, “Hey,” she didn’t even think that he was talking to her.

When he said, “Hey,” again, she could tell that he was standing right behind her. “I was talking to you.”

Tawnie wrapped her fingers tightly around the neck of the whiskey bottle she had been trying to grab. Pulling it down off the shelf, it dangled by her side as she turned around to face whoever it was that was trying to talk to her.

She had turned around with her usual air of confidence, and it didn’t falter as much as maybe it should have when she had to crane her head back slightly to look up at who was speaking to her. Seemingly unperturbed, she cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t work here—I can’t help you.”

The man looked her up and down, and Tawnie wasn’t sure if he was sizing her up or trying to figure out what he was supposed to say to her at that point. Whatever his motives were, Tawnie had to assume that he wasn’t trying to figure out a pickup line to use on her.

“You’re Trager’s kid.”

Her grip tightened a little more on the bottle. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she replied, “Let’s say I am—who the fuck are you?”

She didn’t recognize him, and he wasn’t wearing a kutte or anything else that would place him with an MC. Him knowing the connection between her and Tig, however, was enough of a red flag for her to know that whatever this man wanted, it probably wasn’t really about her at all.

“Big talk for someone who doesn’t know who they’re talking to.”

“If I don’t know who you are, then I have no reason to talk small.”

Tawnie had spent enough of her life putting on acts depending on who she was in a room with, so keeping a look of indifference on her face while her heart was hammering inside her chest was nothing new. The man was larger than her, and she had to assume that his jacket pulling tightly in certain points along his shoulders and arms wasn’t because he purposely bought it a few sizes too small. But they were also still on SAMCRO turf, and they were standing in the middle of a liquor store, so she had a little faith that if nothing else, those two things would still work in her favor.

She didn’t turn her back on him as she went to side-step and get around him. Even so, she wasn’t able to get very far. The second that she wasn’t pinned between him and the rack of bottles behind her anymore, he reached out and snatched her by the arm closest to him, the one holding the basket.

He let out a low laugh as he shook his head. “Oh no,” he tugged her back towards him, “you’re not going any—”

Whatever line of threats he was planning on saying to her never made it past the base of his throat as she swung her other hand with everything that she had, the whiskey bottle colliding with the side of his head. She heard him grunt in pain, and she saw the way that the bottle started to show some minor cracks along the side of it, but even so it didn’t force him to release the grip that he had on her arm. She felt the way that his fingertips dug into her even more, blunt nails starting to break the skin, and with a yell that was a little louder now, she swung the bottle at him again one more time.

This time when it hit the side of the man’s head, the bottle fully shattered. Glass shards went everywhere, the neck of the bottle breaking and slicing into Tawnie’s palm. Between the liquor and the broken glass pieces that were digging into the side of his head, the man released her with a string of curses. Without a single moment of hesitation, Tawnie dropped the basket to the floor and sprinted towards the front of the store. Before she even got to the end of the aisle, the owner who had been at the register appeared to try and see what was going on. He held his hands out like he was asking her to stop and talk to him, but rather than abiding by that, Tawnie shoved right past him, leaving blood from her palm smeared across his shirt in the process.

“Tawnie!” the shop owner called after her. His shouting didn’t even cause a falter in her steps. She sprinted out the front door, the bells chiming on it giving a strange air of whimsy to her departure of such a horrid scene.

She didn’t even feel herself digging her car keys out of her jeans pocket as she ran down the block to get to her car. Quickly unlocking the door, she flung herself inside the car. Jamming the key into the ignition, she tried not to think about the way that she was leaving bloodstains on everything that she was touching. She pressed her foot down hard on the gas pedal, speeding down the street.

The road took her right past the liquor store again, and she could see the store owner yelling at the man who had just tried to attack her. She didn’t take her foot off the gas, but she still tried to get another look at the mystery man’s face as she sped by, his facial features now streaked with whiskey and blood. He looked like he could’ve been anyone, no tattoos or scars to speak of. She went to tighten her grip on the steering wheel from nerves and was instantly greeted with a sharp jolt of pain across her palm that shot right up to her shoulder.

Eyes still on the road, she leaned and felt around on the passenger seat for the burner phone that the club had given her. She always felt a little idiotic having a second phone, especially when she communicated with several of the club members on her regular one, but times like this seemed like the perfect reason to use up some of the minutes that were on there.

Up until the point when she was about to hit the call button, she’d had every intention of calling her father. She knew that it was something that he needed to know about, and it was something that he would probably be the one who handled it in the end. But right before she hit the button with the tiny green phone etched into it, she stopped herself and started over again.

Picking the second person on speed dial instead, she pressed the phone to her ear. With each ring that she had to wait through, her hands trembled more and more. With her holding her hand up, the blood from her palm was starting to trickle down her wrist and the rest of her arm, and it felt like a burning sensation even though she knew that wasn’t what was happening to her.

Right when she thought she was about to burst into tears or steer her car clean off the street into a random storefront, she heard the click of someone answering on the other end of the line.

“Hey, T,” Kozik’s voice came in calm and smooth.

“H-hey,” the short word still managed to get stuck in her throat on the way out.

There was a pause, and when he spoke up again his tone had shifted. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I’m on my way to your place. You’re home, right?” she felt the way that her bottom lip was starting to quiver and tried to ignore it, tried to keep the last few shreds of composure that were keeping her together.

There was rustling on the other end of the line as he said, “I will be in ten.”

The feeling in her chest was as close as she could get to relief in the given circumstances. “Okay.”

“I love you.” Even with all of the uncertainty surrounding whatever the situation was, there was no waver of questioning in his voice when he said that.

Tawnie let out a short breath, one that she had been holding without meaning to. “I love you too.”

She hung up without any more of a goodbye than that. Snapping the phone shut, it dropped into her lap as her hand began trembling violently. The adrenaline of the situation could only blind her for so long, and the ache of pain was getting worse as the minutes ticked by. This wasn’t the usual type of trouble that she had to call anyone about. This trouble, this danger, felt too real and far too close to home.

Any other day, she would’ve been worried about how Kozik managed to get there not even a minute after she did, his bike skidding to a stop in the driveway. He practically threw his helmet once he took it off. Before Tawnie could blink, he was on the driver’s side of the car and opening the door for her.

He was halfway through asking her if she was alright when he saw the blood all over her. His eyes popped open wide, and he was fighting the urge to just climb into the car with her to check her over. The sight of her like that raised a million questions that he desperately wanted immediate answers to, but he stopped himself.

“C’mon,” he said instead, leaning in to loop his arm underneath hers and across her back, “let’s get—”

She flinched away from his touch, not quite ready for the sensation of someone else touching her. It was impossible to miss the pained look on his face, but she didn’t have it in her to apologize. Even on her best days, sorry was not a word that came easy to her. Right now, though, an apology was the last thing that Kozik was looking to get from her.

He stepped to the side and allowed her to get out of the car on her own. “Let’s get inside.”

He walked behind her as they made their way up the short driveway that landed them just off to the side of his house. His neighbors had learned quickly that even if they wanted to be nosey, it was better for them if they weren’t. Still, he walked behind Tawnie and checked their surroundings, also looking to see if anyone had followed her to his house that he needed to worry about.

Reaching around her, he unlocked the front door and pushed it open for her. She silently walked inside, wishing that she felt a little more at ease now that she was with him and safe inside his house, but she couldn’t manage it. It was the first time in a long time that Kozik had ever seen her so quiet.

With her good hand tightly gripping the wrist of her injured one, Tawnie made her way through the house to the bathroom. Kozik followed her, wanting so badly to reach out and try to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder or the small of her back but knowing that it wouldn’t be any help to her in that moment.

She was about to crouch down to open the cabinets under the sink. “Is it—”

“Sit,” he said, motioning to the toilet that had the lid down. “I got it.”

Tawnie nodded, doing as he instructed. Kozik tried not to think about how tight her grip was on her own wrist, or the look that she currently had in her eyes that he didn’t know how to piece apart. He busied himself with turning the sink on so that the water could start to run warm while he got the first aid kit out. Grabbing a clean washcloth from the drawer, he got it damp with warm water and held it out to her in an offer, thinking that she might want to wipe off her arm and what she could of her hand herself if she didn’t want him touching him.

“Thanks,” she said, nearly mumbling as she started to scrub at the blood that was quickly drying on her skin.

He nodded and got into a kneeling position in front of her as he waited for her to finish. She tossed the bloody rag into the sink. She looked at her own hand for a moment, taking in the damage that was done in earnest for the first time since it’d happened.

“Fuck,” she said, her voice steadier and clearer than it had been before.

With the first aid kit open on the floor beside him, Kozik held his hand out in a wordless question to allow him to see what the damage was and what he could do to help. Tawnie hesitated until she looked him in the eyes and remembered where she was and who she was with. Then it came easy, offering her hand out to him to inspect. His touch was gentle despite the callouses on his palm and fingers.

“Jesus,” he said, trying to hide the reaction under his breath but failing.

Tawnie let out a weary chuckle. “Promising.”

It got Kozik to crack a smile, hearing the sarcasm come back into her voice like that even if it was just for a moment. The relief that it brought him was momentary as well as he got back to looking at the state of her hand. The cut was deep—deep enough to need stitches. And while he could do a lot to help take care of her, that was one thing that was outside of his area of expertise.

Looking up at her from where he was kneeling, he gave a small shake of his head. “This is deep, T.”

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be saying to that. “Okay?”

“You’re gonna need stitches and I,” he chuckled weakly, “I can’t do that. I can call—”

“I don’t wanna see anyone right now,” she stopped him before he could get to the end of his thought.

As much as he didn’t want to argue with her in the state that she was in, he also didn’t want things to get worse for her because she didn’t want to get her injuries taken care of. “You gotta get this looked at by a doctor.”

“Am I gonna bleed out before tomorrow?”

“No, but—”

“Then just wrap me up for now and tomorrow I’ll give The Good Doctor a call, alright?”

She phrased it like a question, but Kozik knew her well enough to know that there was only one answer that she’d accept. With a sigh and a nod, he started rooting around the kit he had for disinfectant and the waterproof bandages that he could wrap her hand up with.

He waited until he was about to start really cleaning out her wound before he asked her any questions. “So do I get to know what happened?”

Tawnie shook her head, not in a denial of an answer, but as though now as she was thinking back on it, it seemed so ridiculous. “Some guy came at me when I was at the liquor store today.”

“What guy?”

She shrugged, instantly followed a wince as he flushed out the cut on her hand. She tried to pull away from the pain but Kozik tightened his hold on her so that she couldn’t. It was going to feel way worse before it started to feel any better—they both knew that.

“Some random guy,” she finally said, gritted out through the pain. “Knew Tig’s my dad.”

Kozik raised his eyebrows. “What’d he look like?”

Tawnie was fighting the urge to clench her hand into a fist. “Big fuckin’ dude. Took two hits to the head with a whiskey bottle before he let me go.”

He nodded knowingly. “That explains the hand.”

She shrugged. “I was working with what I had.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

Tawnie shook his head, watching him as he placed a few gauze pads on her palm before getting the roller bandage ready. “Not really. He asked me about being Tig’s kid, then he tried to grab me up. I hit him before I got around to asking for his agenda.” She hissed quietly as she felt the bandage putting pressure on her injured hand. “He wasn’t wearing any kind of kutte. I couldn’t see any tattoos but he had long sleeves on so who fuckin’ knows.”

“I’m sorry you’re getting caught up in all this, T.”

That time when she tried to pull her hand away, it wasn’t because of the physical pain. It got Kozik to look up at her. “What’s all this? Something going on with the club?”

He shrugged to try and make it seem casual, but the slightly panicked look on his face let her know that he definitely just said more than he was meant to. “Not…I mean…it’s the club. There’s always something going on.”

She scoffed. “Is this something the type of something that has random men coming after me in the middle of a store?”

“I—”

“Who the fuck are you guys getting into it with now?”

“Who were we getting into it with last time you asked?” He saw the look on her face and immediately backpedaled. “Sorry.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “You remember those guys who came by the clubhouse and were giving Clay a hard time about the guns?”

Her face contorted in confusion. “Them? Still?”

Kozik shrugged, like he didn’t get it either. “I know.”

“What the hell does any of that have to do with me, though? I don’t help you guys sell your fucking guns.”

He nodded. “And we are all safer for it.” He taped the roller bandage in place and sat back on his heels. Letting his expression grow serious once more, he said, “I got a feeling they’re going after people who are close to the club.” He rested his hand on her knee. “You do match that description.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

He wasn’t going to try and disagree with her, especially since he knew as much as anyone that she was right. “I know. But that’s…that’s how they operate. No one’s untouchable.”

She let out a sigh, and Kozik watched in real time as the exhaustion started to set in as the last of the adrenaline ebbed out of her. “I hate it.”

“Me too, T.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth on her knee. “You wanna shower? I’ll grab you some clean clothes?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Moving his hand from her knee to the sink counter, he used it to balance while he rose back up to his feet. “You call your dad yet?”

She groaned as she stood up as well. “No.”

He chuckled at her reaction. “Want me to call him?”

She chuckled. “You wanna throw yourself in front of that moving bus?”

Leaning in, he kissed her on the temple. “I’ve been run over by that bus before. I’ll be fine.”

“He’s gonna come over, you know,” she called after him as he walked towards the bathroom door.

“Wash the blood off yourself, then.”

She chuckled and shook her head as she watched him go. He was about to pull the door shut behind him when she grabbed his attention one more time. “Hey, Koz?”

He paused, leaning back so that he could see her. “Yeah?”

She gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

He smiled, that soft, boyish charm shining through despite how the day had been going so far. “I always got you, T.”

(Divider by @saradika-graphics 💕)

SOA Taglist: @garbinge @espieviolet99 @littlekittymeow @i-just-read-stuff @justreblogginfics

@withmyteeth @paintballkid711 @jitterbugs927 @fanfic-n-tabulous @winchestershiresauce

@darqchilddaydreamz @choochoo284 @artemiseamoon @proceduralpassion @nessamc (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

[proceduralpassion]

𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐥𝐞

𝐅𝐨𝐫 @𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝'𝐬 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 (𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐤, 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐳𝐭𝐞𝐜, 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐜, 𝐞𝐭𝐜. 𝐁𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲, 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐭)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧/𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟐.𝟐𝐤

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟐 𝐨𝐟 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈'𝐦 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐁𝐈 𝐟𝐢𝐜! 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨… 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐙𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫!! 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 "𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 (𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐤, 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐳𝐭𝐞𝐜, 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐜, 𝐞𝐭𝐜. 𝐁𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲, 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐭)" 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐲𝐲𝐲𝐲𝐲 𝐀𝐔 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐍𝐘𝐂 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐥. 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲'𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝟏𝟎-𝟏𝟐 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐤𝐮𝐝𝐨𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝!

With the sunset comes coolness after a blazing day. And still, Tiffany finds herself invigorated. Filled with so much passion that her happiness bursts at the seams of her. It's been so long and she can't remember the last time she's felt this heavy stream of inspiration flowing through her.

It might've been when she first joined the FBI. She had all these aspirations of hunting down the worst of the worst when it came to criminals. Giving victims' families peace and making the world a safer place. It was a service she felt like she was doing, but it was also something that gave her purpose. Filled her with meaning. Buzzed her with an energy that meant that life was worth living to its fullest. It was a burden until it wasn't.

And she doesn't let herself be stapled down by society's way of shoehorning people into one path and one path only. Life had different colors, different seasons.

Egypt brought a new season for her.

***

"I think we should stop seeing each other."

He's prepared for the shocked expression that paints Gemma's face. He still winces internally because he hates that he's now planted tears in her eyes.

"Y- you want to break up with me?" She stutters.

"It's not you-" he curses himself before he even registers how quickly her gaze turns from sadness to ire.

"It's not me? The old and tired 'it's not you, it's me' cop out? Really, OA?!"

"That did not come out right. I'm sorry," he says.

Gemma backs away from the hand he uses to reach out for her, "Then, what is this really?? I deserve, at least, an explanation."

He takes a deep breath and in that moment, her eyes veer from him and looks at what's behind him.

"Why do you have so much luggage out? You're going somewhere?"

"Can we sit? Please?"

Begrudgingly, she follows his lead and they're eye to eye, sitting across from each other in the penthouse they live in together.

"I'm going back to Egypt to spend some time with family. A lot has happened this year and I'm starting to feel… dillusioned. With life. With my job." The "with you" remains unsaid but they both hear it clearly in the echoes that linger between them. "I haven't been sleeping. I'm unfocused at work. I.. I don't feel like myself."

Gemma's eyes water again because she can't deny that she hasn't noticed.

"I had dinner over at my mom's last night and she just… knew. I try to be upbeat and leave all that stuff out of my mind when I'm there, especially when it's the only time I get to see my nieces and nephews, but she confronted me after everyone else left and… Well, I haven't cried that long and hard for a really long time."

His shoulders still feel worn down with the weight of his problems, but they feel lighter from yesterday. His umi had held him in her arms like he wasn't 6'5" and twice her size. When they finally parted from their embrace, OA felt like he could breathe again without the achiness.

"Mom's hugs have super powers," Zahra, one of his sisters, used to say when they were young.

OA continues, "We had a long talk about everything I've been feeling. How unhappy I feel, no matter how hard I try. She made a suggestion. Says I should consider taking some time off from work and visit my relatives in Egypt. To take a minute to enjoy life beyond the swiftness of NYC. I reminded her that I haven't been since-" He finds himself at a loss, just like last night, trying to remember his last time in the country where his ancestry lies. "It was definitely before I joined the FBI, possibly even before I did my stint with the DEA, so we're nearing the ten year mark for sure."

They both look at his luggage by the door. Gemma with frustration and OA with resoluteness.

"It sounded right in the moment. Doing anything else actually feels wrong in a way, I can't explain it. I don't know if I'm supposed to be searching for something or simply putting a pause on my life here. I've made up my mind, though. I put in for a temporary leave this morning so that I could have time to fill out the paperwork for an extended sabbatical. My flight's in three hours."

Everything's moving too fast for her and she seeks out for the stability he's always provided for her. She moves to sit on the coffee table and grasps his shoulder.

"OK, but that doesn't mean we have to break up. It's not like you're gonna be gone forever."

Her voice weakens towards the end of her statement and she wonders if it sounds as unsure as she heard it in her head.

"I don't know how long I'm gonna be gone. I don't even know if I'm gonna want to come back to the same life as before. My mind feels like it's floating and nothing feels certain anymore, Gem. And that’s not fair to you to have to wait by the sidelines until I figure all of that out."

She's crying in earnest now and OA can feel his own tears begging for release. He kisses her forehead as she curls into him, clutching onto his shirt.

"I'm so sorry."

***

"I humbly request forgiveness for underestimating how entertaining American card games can be."

Mikail Salahuddin has to slightly stand and raise his voice in order for Tiff to hear his goofy banter. There's too much joyful glee and good-natured ruckus on the restaurant's outdoor patio for moderately-leveled conversation to be heard.

"We humbly accept!" Clarke Dulles, who's sitting next to Tiffany, shouts back at him.

Dinner has long been over, but the drinks continued and somewhere, along the way, a deck of Uno cards hits the table. As the only two familiar with the game, Clarke and Tiffany take initiative in teaching the rest of the group how to play and chaos ensued from there.

"This game is lethal all on its own, I'd never think to incorporate alcohol into the mix," Tiffany says to Clarke as the first round ramps up.

"Yeah… I'd be worried about breaking up long-time friendships tonight if everyone here weren't practically strangers," Clarke jokes.

Maybe strangers wasn't the most accurate depiction, but everyone here was acquaintances at most.

A full-out cards tournament has found itself underway and as the rounds continue, the final round is between Clarke and Firdus, the youngest and meekest of the group, but apparently not someone to be messed with when it comes to color/number strategy and swift hand movements. She beat Tiff out in the last round, who's still salty about that damn "Draw 4+ card" that fucked up her chances of winning it all.

Firdus is fast but Clarke has experience on her side and she throws down the "Uno! Uno Out" combo in the fraction of a second.

Tiff and Clarke give each other two-handed high fives that forms into a hug with Clarke slightly lifting Tiff off the ground. They're both tall women yet their embrace is by no means clumsy.

The rest of their table also celebrates Clarke's win, complete with good-humored digs about her having the advantage. Somewhere amongst the mayhem, Tiffany hears her name being called. She looks away from her group, searching for the source. Almost immediately, she finds herself looking at a face she hasn't seen in well over a year.

"OA?"

He walks closer to her as Tiffany veers further from the group.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, astonished at being face to face with someone she'd never thought she'd see again.

OA's face mirrors the same. He chuckles, "I could ask you same thing. I thought you moved back to Georgia."

"Well, I did, kinda. I went back to school, and well…"

Another round of Uno had started at her table and loud cheers once again sprang from their eclectic party.

"You want to-?"

"Should we-?"

They intercept each other's questions and stop. Their laughter intermingles.

OA speaks again, "I have a table over in the corner."

***

Tiffany made eye contact with Clarke and mouthed a "be back later" before following OA to a cozier corner on the outdoor patio. They sit face to face at the small rounded dining table.

"This is a such a surprise," Tiff remarks. "I never thought I'd run into you, here of all places. Which I guess is kinda weird since you're Egyptian, but still."

OA chuckles, "No, it's fine. I didn't really expect to turn up here anytime soon either. I'm super curious about you ended up here, though."

"Yeah, like I said, I went back to school. I'm in a grad program studying archeology."

"Archeology.." He muses. "Wow."

This time, it's Tiffany who snickers. "A surprise, I know. I went through a phase of being obsessed with tombs and artifacts, as a kid. This is me fulfilling a childhood dream of mine, I guess. I go to UGA, but a spot opened up for a study abroad program last minute, and I applied."

She throws her hands up as if to "and here I am."

"Wow." OA says again, still stunned. "I mean, you look happy."

He also wants to add "beautiful" to the end of his assessment. She's always been attractive, but he watched how the toll of Trevor's death and the aftermath that followed stole some of her light. She had stopped cracking jokes in between their work assignments on those mundane desk days. She came in to work with bags under her eyes that even coffee couldn't lift. She always had an excuse to dip out of her social gatherings after work. The glow of who she was had lessened, and even though he was distraught when she announced that she was leaving the FBI and moving out of NYC, he had hoped that she would find it again. The spark of radiance that made people gravitate to her.

As OA pored over her, he knew that she found it again. That passion and aura that rubbed off on anyone in her closeness. She also seemed more at peace. Relaxed.

Her face dazzled with felicity. Her skin had a lustrous sheen that accentuated the soft features of her. Her slinky blouse and flowy pants gave off comfy and casual vibes and the incoming sunset behind her served as the perfect backdrop for the perfect picture of contentment.

"I am happy," she muses. Then her head tilts, almost like she's assessing him. If she can tell that he is by all means not content, she doesn't say anything. She merely asks, "So what brings you to Egypt? Visiting family?"

OA nods. "Yes, actually." He doesn't want to confide in his own problems, especially when she seems at such bliss, but she's always been disarming. "I needed to take some time away from work. Get away from all the noise and just… think."

Her eyes are sympathetic, like she has a glimpse into his suffering. He supposes she has considering her reasons for her own departure. Still, she doesn't push.

"How long are you here for?" She inquires.

OA shrugs, "Not really sure, yet. I landed yesterday. Not the best timing, though, because today's my aunt and uncle's anniversary. I'm staying with them, but I felt bad about encroaching so I've just been exploring the city all evening. Stumbled upon this place and had dinner inside."

Tiff looks back to her table. Clarke has her back turned while on the phone, while the rest are finishing yet another Uno game.

"Well, if you don't mind a bunch of rambunctious archeology and anthropology students, you're more than welcome to come join our table. I think we were about to order basbousa for dessert."

OA's eyes widen. "Wowww. You're in Egypt, for who knows how long, and you're laying claim to my favorite dessert."

Tiffany bursts out into laughter. "If it makes you feel any better, I will say that I have yet to eat any as good as that Egyptian restaurant you took me to in Queens."

"That's because they probably mass produce and freeze theirs at a busy restaurant like this. That place in Queens was a mom and pops. Sister Hamdi probably made it fresh every single day."

"Mmm, so what you're saying is I need to find someone who can make it on the spot." Tiffany jokes.

OA throws his hands up, "Come by my aunt's one day and I'm sure she'll be whipping it up in the kitchen by the time I open the front door."

They both laugh together and OA looks on at Tiffany with wonder.

What were the chances he would ever see her again after she left the city? And yet, here she is again. He knew that she had her own thing going on here. She was probably focused on her study abroad program and finding joy in a new field. Still, he didn't want this to be the last time they saw each other again. Just when he's about to suggest, seriously, that she come over for dinner one evening, one of her friends pops up.

Tiffany looks back and notices Clarke standing over her. She looks like she's just seen a ghost, her heart beating fast and her steps slightly off tilt.

Tiff immediately stands up to steady her. "Clarke, what is it?"

"Our professor.. She's dead."

𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭. 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐙𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐙𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐢𝐟𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨 <𝟑

𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭.

𝐓𝐚𝐠: @narcosfandomdiscord

[drabbles-mc]

Flying In (3)

Mayans MC & Narcos Crossover

For @narcosfandomdiscord’s Book of Genesis: Fanwork inspired by someone else’s fanwork (be sure to tag the creator of the OG work!)

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, smoking, arguing/light angst

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: The crossover lives! As always, shout-out to @garbinge for letting me borrow her oc Lara Losa! I'm so obsessed with these guys it's ridiculous.

Chapter Index

When Lara woke up the next morning, it was with a throbbing headache that had her not wanting to open her eyes despite the fact that the hotel room curtains were still pulled closed and the room was still shrouded in relative darkness. Slowly blinking her eyes open, Lara immediately regretted doing so.

She sat upright, blanket falling down so that it pooled in her lap, still covering her legs on the pull-out couch that she and Chepe had transformed into a bed the night before. Through squinted eyes, she looked around the room to find Chepe still fast asleep in his bed as well, snoring with one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress. She allowed herself a small chuckle at that before getting up and starting to accumulate all of her things.

If she hadn’t still felt so exhausted, or if the throbbing in her head had been a little less intense, she would’ve at least done Chepe the courtesy of collapsing the bed back down into a sofa. As it stood, though, she really just wanted to put on her shoes and head back to her apartment so that she could stand underneath the hot water until it ran out. She knew better than to wake Chepe, so she scribbled a note instead on the back of a napkin before taking off.

Her trip back to her apartment had been a quick one, as much as she just wanted to collapse down into her own bed and fall right back to sleep again. A handful of aspirin and a scalding hot shower later, she was off and running once more, making her way back towards the clubhouse.

By the time she got there, morning had already begun its shift into the afternoon. That fact didn’t really hit her until she saw just how many bikes were parked outside the clubhouse—none of the guys with the exception of maybe EZ were really what she’d describe as early birds. That was something that they all had in common. So, if they were already there and reporting for duty, it was later than she’d bargained for.

The only bike she had really been looking for was Bishop’s and the effort to find it wasn’t born out of doubt that it would be there, but more of a hope that it wouldn’t be. She didn’t read all of them, but she saw how many missed texts she’d accumulated from him the night before. It didn’t take a genius for her to figure out what had him so bent out of shape, and if she could put off having that conversation with him for a couple hours she definitely would, but the singular headlight of his bike staring back at her let her know that there was no point in hoping for that.

She kept her sunglasses on even after she entered the clubhouse, not that they were really doing much to save her in the already dark bar space. It didn’t take her very long to locate Angel, who was sitting at one of the small tables scrolling on his phone. A few of the other club members were scattered around, but it was evident that everyone was waiting for something, or for someone. Lara figured that it had to do with her uncles, with Galindo, but no one said that in so many words.

When she plopped down in the chair across from Angel at the table, that’s when she finally took her sunglasses off. She tossed them unceremoniously onto the tabletop as she slouched back in her chair.

“Shit,” Angel said with a laugh as he took in the sight of her.

Lara wanted to feign being annoyed but a laugh came out first. “Real way with words, you know that?”

He shrugged before leaning forward, bracing his forearms along the edge of the table. “Got a lot of things goin’ for me, I know.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed her hair back behind her shoulders. “Yeah, you’re a real—”

“Lara,” Bishop’s voice drowned out whatever the rest of her retort was going to be as he came all but stomping out of Templo. He wasn’t yelling, but the harsh edge to his voice made up for that.

Turning to look at him, she managed a smile that almost could’ve passed for innocent if it weren’t for the mild look of dread in her eyes. “Good morning. Well,” she chuckled, “afternoon. Same thing, right?”

Bishop wasn’t having any of it. “Outside. Now.”

If he had been speaking to anyone besides Lara, he would’ve been yoking them up out of the chair by their collar and dragging them out to the clubhouse porch. But it was Lara, so all he could do was storm right by her with an alarming amount of tension held in his jaw.

She watched him go, wincing slightly as the door swung and slammed shut behind him. It would’ve been easy enough to blame her flinching at the sound on the lingering traces of her hangover, but luckily enough no one asked.

Angel leaned back in his chair. “Have fun with that.”

She was shaking her head at him as she stood up from her seat, making the time to give him the finger before turning to follow where her father had just gone. She didn’t justify his comment with a verbal response, something that had him chuckling to himself as he watched her get up and walk out. The door shut much more quietly when she was the one closing it.

Bishop was sparking up a cigarette as she walked out. If he’d seemed a little less pissed off she would’ve made a joke of asking him for one. But, even with as far as she enjoyed pushing her luck sometimes, she knew that now wasn’t the time for it. She didn’t get enough hours of sleep the night before to be in fighting shape like that.

“Where the fuck were you last night?” he asked, smoke pouring out of his mouth with each word.

“I told you,” she said, half-innocent, half-defensive, “Chepe and I—”

“You didn’t fucking call,” he said, harshly cutting off her explanation. “And you didn’t pick up when I called.”

Her frustration quickly started to bubble up beneath her skin. “Yeah, I know, but—”

“No!” he snapped. “You can’t keep fuckin’ doing this to me.”

She scoffed. “Doing what? What could I possibly be doing to you?”

It was a miracle that Bishop’s body wasn’t visibly trembling with the amount of anger that was brewing within his chest in that moment. It wasn’t even truly anger, really. It was worry. It was hurt. It was the protective drive he’d been getting pushed by ever since he got a frantic phone call from her months before begging him for help because of the blood-soaked mess she'd landed herself in. He knew how quickly things could go so horribly—he’d lived it and so had she. He didn’t understand how she could start acting like none of it had ever happened, like he was so ridiculous for worrying about her.

“You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about,” he said bitterly.

“I’m not a child!”

“But you’re still my kid!”

The way he shouted the words seemed to shock the both of them into silence for a moment. The two of them locked eyes, unable to move from where they were standing, unable to try and continue the argument or even resolve it now. Both too stubborn for their own good, as always.

It was only the sound of another car pulling into the lot in front of the clubhouse that broke their stalemate. They both turned to see the luxury SUV that Gilberto had gotten for their trip rolling to a stop right beside Lara’s car. The two of them being parked next to each other seemed to highlight the best and worst of each vehicle respectively—they both probably would’ve laughed about it if the situation itself had been anything other than what it was.

Chepe and Gilberto both got out of the SUV. Their expressions were vastly different but even so neither of them could hide the fact that they were intensely focused on whatever was or wasn’t unfolding between Bishop and his daughter. Gilberto at least had the good grace to try and hide his interest—there was a pleasant smile on his face as he adjusted his suit jacket and crossed the strip of sandy dirt to the clubhouse. Chepe, however, had his brows knit and mouth flattened into a straight line.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Bishop muttered under his breath as the two of them approached the clubhouse.

Lara usually would’ve had no trouble coming up with a snarky quip for the moment, but she still felt slightly off-kilter from before. Rather than trying to force herself through the discomfort of formally tabling her conversation with Bishop for another time, she simply jumped ship and turned her attention to her uncles instead.

“Morning, Tío,” she said as she stepped in and gave Gilberto a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Buenos días, mija,” he greeted her with a grin, his hand resting on the outside of her arm for a moment as he stepped back.

Gilberto wasn't actually any less nosey than Bishop or Chepe was, he just had a better understanding of when it would serve him to pry and when it wouldn't. Judging by the tightness in the air, he figured that it wasn't the time.

While Gilberto and Bishop were greeting each other, Lara made it halfway down the porch steps to Chepe, who greeted her as usual with an enthusiastic hug and a kiss to the side of her head. “Lalita,” he said it with a softness that let her know he knew that whatever was going on with her and Bishop, it wasn’t fun.

“Chepe,” she said in return, her exhaustion shining through.

Even after she pulled out of the hug, he left his arm draped across her shoulders so that he could pull her and tuck her into his side. Some of the levity returned to his voice as he said, “Like a thief in the night, you took right off.” They made their way up the few steps onto the porch. “Note left behind and everything.”

Bishop skipped over whatever pleasantries he was going to try and force himself through when he heard what Chepe had said. He butt right into the conversation, not even bothering with a hello before laying right in with, “Yeah, and if taking off is—”

Chepe cut him off, clearly not fazed by the anger simmering in Bishop’s tone. “Obispo.”

“What?” Bishop made the singular word carry so much with it.

Gesturing to Lara with his arm not slung around her shoulders, he said, “Look at her.” He paused and waited for Bishop to do what he said, which surprisingly enough he did. “She’s fine. Showed up in one piece—showed up before us!” he added on, nodding towards Gilberto. “You don’t have to wor—”

“You don’t know shit about any of this, Chepe,” he stated firmly. “So do us all a favor and stay the fuck out of it.”

Chepe’s eyebrows raised just slightly. So few people in the world could get away with speaking to him like that at all, let alone in front of others. If Bishop had any sense of humility at all he’d consider himself lucky to be on that shortlist of people, but it would never happen.

There was the barest hint of a smile on Chepe’s face as he started to reply. “I know enough—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the door to the clubhouse opening. Angel stepped halfway out onto the porch, halfway through addressing Bishop when he realized that he’d just landed himself in far larger of a mess than he had bargained for. He had been ready to stumble upon the scene of Lara and Bishop in the midst of a spat, something that most people around the clubhouse had been witness to on an occasion or two, but he wasn’t ready to see both of her uncles standing out there as well.

The sight of all four of them almost made him want to backpedal into the clubhouse again, maybe even send someone else out there to break up whatever it was that the four of them were in the midst of. That seemed like it could be the type of work a prospect could do.

He forced himself not to hide behind the shelter of the door. “Pres, uh, sorry. I just…guys were wondering if we were still meeting for Templo. But,” he made a lame gesture towards Chepe and Gilberto, “obviously—yeah I’ll just tell them—”

“Fucking go, Angel,” Bishop put him out of his misery with three little words.

“Got it,” Angel said with a tight nod before happily disappearing back into the clubhouse.

When the door shut behind him, Bishop returned his attention back to Lara and Chepe. He was speaking to both of them even though he was only looking at Lara. “We’ll finish this later.”

Eager not only for the current conversation to stop, but also for them to move onto the business that they had shown up to conduct in the first place, Gilberto all but ushered Bishop into the clubhouse. “Let’s get started.”

Chepe let his arm drop back to his side as he and Lara stepped towards the clubhouse door that Gilberto was holding open for them. Bishop led the way, Chepe finding himself nearly sandwiched between his business partner and his niece.

He chuckled quietly, leaning over to Lara to speak to her in a voice that was too loud to pass for a whisper, but still quieter than his usual talking voice. “Would this be a bad time to tell him I changed the reservation for our dinner with Galindo?”

It got a genuine laugh out of Lara, her amusement causing Bishop to glance quickly back over his shoulder at them. She couldn’t get her expression under control in time, and as Bishop looked forward once more, she found her obstinate streak returning.

“I think it’s the perfect time, actually,” she said with another quiet laugh.

She stopped walking with them a few strides before the Templo door. Stepping off to the side, she watched as her father, her uncles, and then the rest of the men in the club disappeared into the room and slid the door shut behind them.

When the club was meeting in Templo, it was one of the only times that the clubhouse seemed quiet. There was always a certain level of din, and even with the guys locked away in Templo, there was still music playing quietly to cut through the silence. Other times there was still the sounds of machinery running in the scrapyard.

Not wanting to just stand there and stare at the door the entire time they were meeting, Lara turned away and made her way towards the bar where EZ was cleaning and stacking glasses, an endless and thankless task if ever there was one.

“Just you and me then, Prospect.” She laughed humorlessly as she plopped down on the stool. “As usual.”

He cracked a small grin. “C’mon, my company isn’t that bad.”

“You saying you’d rather be out here with me than in there with them?” she asked, jerking her thumb back over her shoulder towards the closed door.

He laughed and shook his head. “No, I’m saying you should rather be out here with me than in there with them.”

She rolled her eyes but there was no malice in it. “Shut up and get me a beer, Prospect.”

He was shaking his head but he still did as she asked. “See? Feels like we’re in there already.”

Lara wouldn’t have been able to say with any real certainty how long they all met in Templo for. She stayed put at the bar, her and EZ making small snippets of conversation here and there but nothing overly drawn out. That was such an interesting difference between him and his brother that Lara had noticed during her time spent with each of them. EZ knew how to let a conversation die gracefully, a skill that Angel lacked. Both could be infuriating in their own rites, she was sure, but it was interesting nonetheless.

“How long until you get promoted?” she asked, even though she was looking at the Templo door.

EZ chuckled, setting the last of the glasses on the top of the bar. “Too long.”

“Hm,” Lara said, before finishing off the beer EZ had given her. “Rough.”

The two of them were laughing when the door to Templo slid open and the men started to pour back onto the main floor of the clubhouse. Whatever happened within those walls always showed, for a little while at least, on the faces of the men as they exited and gathered back their phones.

No one seemed too deeply upset this time. A few of them were murmuring amongst themselves but no one was storming off in a huff. That was a good sign. When it came to business with Galindo, Lara had noticed that things had a tendency of getting very tense very quickly. Maybe having Gilberto and Chepe in the room helped to ease that tension a little bit. What she would’ve given to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, if for no other reason than to see what the men thought of her uncles, and more specifically Chepe.

Bishop, Taza, Hank, and their partners from Colombia didn’t come out right away. That wasn’t really surprising in and of itself, but Lara’s nosiness was getting the better of her. At least Angel was out, and making a beeline for her and EZ at the bar.

“So,” Angel said, his hand resting on her shoulder for hardly a second as he took the stool right next to hers, “I guess you’re catering the big boss meeting tomorrow?”

Lara laughed, head dropping back in exasperation. “Fuck me.”

“I think we should all book tables. Pack the fuckin’ house,” Angel joked.

She was still laughing while trying to seem annoyed. “I’ll get you all thrown out. Leave you to be Chepe’s fuckin’ problem.”

“Who’s going to be my problem?” Chepe asked as he materialized between Lara and Angel.

Lara didn’t miss the way that Angel sat up a little straighter with her uncle right next to him. She was kind enough not to comment on it. “The club, if they try to crash in at the restaurant while you guys are there meeting with Galindo.”

“Hah,” Chepe laughed, exaggeratedly so. He clapped a hand down on Angel’s shoulder. “That’d be an easy problem to solve, wouldn’t it?”

Angel swallowed hard, tension in his shoulders like Chepe’s hand was physically burning him. Lara could see that he wanted to have the right thing to say in that moment but he didn’t have the slightest clue what it was.

She jumped in to save him. “They wouldn’t make you do extra work like that on a trip like this, though. So I’m sure they’ll all be on their best fucking behavior.”

Chepe chuckled, pulling his hand off of Angel and giving the man a bit of a reprieve. “You will be too, Lalo.”

She laughed. “I know—you won’t even recognize me.”

Chepe cracked a grin as he started to head after Gilberto, who was making his way towards the clubhouse door. “Can’t wait.”

(Divider by @silkholland 💞)

Flying In Taglist (if you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!): @garbinge @justreblogginfics @ashlingnarcos @hausofmamadas @narcolini

@proceduralpassion @artemiseamoon

[our-future-is-up-to-us-2]

One Good Thing

My first fic for Narcovember is here >:D @narcosfandomdiscord

Enjoy <3

Prompt #24, Book Of Revelation: Fanwork where 2(+) characters are stranded in the desert and in a sick twist, must decide which one of them to leave behind in order for the other(s) to be saved.

Word Count: 1.1K

Relationships: Tess/Joel, Joel & Ellie & Tess

Warnings: None

~ Read the fic under the cut ~

“I’m a kid in a fucked up world… Wherever the hell we are, I don’t know… But I’m the one.” 

Ellie’s eyes lock themselves upon Joel and Tess in turn.  

The arid landscape has all but turned into desert, bitter, barren, lonely. 

They all know the mission at hand, they all know what is at stake, and yet… Something gnaws at the core of each of them. 

Joel pants for breath and shakes his head, “Ellie, no. We’re all in a fucked up world. We’ve got to keep goin’ on.” 

“In a desert?!” The teen yells, knowing that no one is around for miles, “There’s nothing here for any of us! Some wasteland of a space is all it is!” 

The trio have come so far together. And yes, Ellie’s observation only solidifies their reality. 

Because something has to give. 

***

Tess bites her lip, tasting the blood that spills forth. Beneath her shirt lies a myriad of scars, and she knows, more than any of them, how they kill you.  

Since it’s not just the smuggling, the trials of the Boston QZ. It’s not just those curfews with FEDRA hot on her heels. It’s not just the travel, from lush forest to suburbia, to this. 

Cordyceps is a deadly infection, and Ellie would well be dead by now if the virus had its way. 

The woman clutches a hand to her neck, watching as the pair fight it out, letting her fade into the background. The man she loves is stronger than she’ll ever be, and the girl… She’s got a bite to her, some real balls, she remembers saying. 

So long ago, it feels like they were traversing that border together, denying all accusations of being infected. 

And yet, here she is, weary, rattled, practically on the brink. She traces out the scars, the long tendrils of Cordyceps that have embedded themselves inside her, and sighs. 

If there’s one good thing she can give Joel, it’s this. 

He’s already given her plenty, if she says so herself. Underneath the gruff and beaten exterior is a man with a heart beyond her own, a desperation inside him fuelled by love, and care, and desire. The way he’s treated her in the Boston QZ, soothing her every wound and giving her something to cling onto has only done wonders. 

And this is how she repays him? In sacrifice? 

The woman knows it now. 

She couldn’t stand seeing Ellie there, alone and forsaken, hearing her cry out for them as they trek away from her, through the sinking sands, all the while, the sun beats its rays upon her. 

She couldn’t stand Joel being in her place, realising that his mission has all come to an end… That he’d do this and abandon his only family! 

Tess shudders and wipes back a sudden tear, one that barely emerges from her eyes. 

It’s just her luck that it catches both of their attention. 

***

“Tess?” Joel murmurs, drawing closer, “Hey, Tessa…” A calloused hand cups her cheek, and the simple action manages to placate her. 

But only for a moment. She can only hold back for a moment. 

“Joel,” She whispers in reply, her green eyes meeting his, “Stop… Stop fighting. We’re stuck here, we’re stranded… But I have a solution.” 

“Yeah? And what’ll that be?” That uncontrollable temper of his finds no reason for restraint, “No. It can’t be you.” His thumb strokes across her cheek, “It can’t .” 

“Well,” Tess smiles wryly, shrugging, “I want it to be. Because I don’t want you to die out here, not having completed either one of your missions. And do you expect me to believe for one second that you’ll let her die?” She hisses. 

Ellie waves a hand, “I’m right here, y’know?!” 

Joel turns to her and nods, “Yeah, we know, Ellie. Let the adults figure this out.” 

The pair manage to laugh at that, soft, careful, as though savouring sounds that may never be heard again. In the distance, they hear the girl kicking at the sand repeatedly, gritting her teeth. “ Fucking adults… ” She complains, but there’s not much else she can do about it. 

“It will be me,” The woman repeats, “And I won’t have it any other way.” 

***

He kisses her gently, closing his eyes. Long, slow, and careful, he tastes her lips for the last time. 

She’s so determined to have her way, and for what? What doesn’t he know about? What guilt is she hiding that makes her worthy of struggling here, hell, dying here, all alone? 

He threads his hands through her greying hair in an attempt to bury himself in this reality. 

He will stay. She will stay. The child will stay. 

Together, together, please… His mind pleads with his heart, pleading with Tess, too. We have to stay together. We’ll keep goin’, I’ll keep you safe, I promise…  

It turns out that he’s already broken the rule. 

She indulges him in the kiss, cherishing it as much as she’ll allow herself too, only to step back and pull down her shirt, revealing the mass that Cordyceps has left her. 

Ellie’s eyes widen in an instant. “You’re… You’re Infected.” 

Tess clicks her tongue, “Been so for a long time now. Unlike you, kid, I’m not immune.” 

“So, that’s it, then. That’s the solution. You’re telling us to run. Leave you behind.” 

A sliver of a smile spreads across her face. 

There’s not much to be happy about, but if Joel and Ellie can make it this far, then they’ll make it on their own. 

She’s a liability, anyway. 

“Tess, why didn’t you tell me?!” Joel erupts, “I could’ve helped you, all this time–” “There’s no cure for the dead!” Tess fights back, letting go of the shirt exposing her skin. She presses a finger to his chest, “You help Ellie get to the end. Turn back in the direction we came, call for help, you do anything for that little girl, you understand?” 

He nods imperceptibly, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

Because, at the end of the day, Tess is right. 

He’s already lost one little girl. His own little girl. 

It’s no good if he loses another, all for the sake of… Love.  

The word burns in his throat as he turns away and takes Ellie’s hand. 

“Don’t look back, kiddo.” He mumbles, gripping her hand tighter than ever before. “ Don’t look back. ”

[proceduralpassion]

𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞

𝐅𝐨𝐫 @𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 (𝐞.𝐠. 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥, 𝐛𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥, 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥, 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫, 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐠𝐞, 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐫, 𝐞𝐭𝐜)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏.𝟔𝐤

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐈𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐥 😭𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞! 𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈'𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜 "𝐈𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐞 𝐒𝐨 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞." 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲'𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫!

The coffee shop is deserted as per usual. Horacio is sure he's one of only a handful of people who keep the business running. It's why he makes sure to always leave his change in the tip jar and doesn't berate himself for ordering an extra pastry every now and then. He gets his coffee and is almost startled when he looks over at the corner and spots Kiara.

The two haven't had much interaction since his injury that he had treated at her hospital. He's seen her in passing a few times in his visits to a fellow soldier who was injured more severely in that explosion, but that had easily been over a month ago.

She glances up and the smile she gives him is ethereal. She lights up in a way he's not sure he deserves. Still, it gives his heart a flutter and he can't deny that he aches for the sensation.

"Fancy seeing you here," she says.

"I could say the same. This was starting to become my café, after all," he sits across from her, sipping his cortado.

"Oh, wow, mighty possessive of you." She clutches her hand to her chest in mock insult. "This place has the best iced coffees so I'm unapologetic at encroaching upon your territory."

His shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"How's your ribs?"

He makes a show of stretching to show that he's fully healed. "Good as new. The breathing exercises that you recommended did the trick."

Kiara flounces her hair sassily. "Well, what'd you expect from the world's best nurse to be?"

"Nothing but the excellent care you provided. If you're this good as a student, you're going to be an outstanding nurse."

Her smile is infectious and Horacio does nothing to stop himself from matching it with one of his own.

Flattered, she gives a meek "thank you."

The older lady who owns the coffee shop walks over to the front door and turns the "open" sign to "closed." When she looks over at the duo, she sends them a wink and tells them they can stay as long as they want before she retires to the upstairs unit that she's fashioned as her home.

Kiara takes another sip of her drink before asking, "How are things going with your job? No more explosions or stepping on to land mines, I hope?"

Horacio smugly shrugs as if to say, "hazard of the job."

"I'm afraid you met me at a time that might've mischaracterized my average day. Rare action moments aside, the job of a soldier is actually not all that interesting."

"So bore me." Kiara sits back in her seat. "Seriously, tell me about what you do."

He indulges her and the conversation flows naturally. He tells her his family background, how he hails from three generations of soldiers and how his enlistment stemmed from a sense of duty and not passion. "I'm content," he says. He tells her how his career started right after he finished high school and how his main responsibilities were that of a foot soldier. It's been several years since and now he has people under him that he commands but his job is mostly the same.

"I follow orders. I'm given tasks and I carry them out. Sometimes, I delegate, but my main challenge entails of following through on the action plans that have been set before me."

"Is that enough for you, though?"

Horacio pauses.

"Not that there's anything wrong with being the one to deliver action." She placates her statement gently, expressing herself with her hands. "I mean, you're the one serving the deliverables. You're literally at the front lines tangibly doing something to solve problems. Protecting people. Defusing danger. But can you see yourself doing that for the rest of your life? Could you ever see yourself being the person to create the plan? Being the person who acts on intel and makes the decisions?"

He ponders for a minute. Truly considers the challenge she's set before him because it's never occurred to him that this could fall in the realm of being a good soldier.

"I like having my boots on the ground-" he starts.

"Who says you have to give up one to have the other?"

He nods silently, thinking. He's never been questioned before on his aspirations. Challenged on what his definition of duty was and what it could be.

She shrugs her shoulders. "But, hey, what do I know? I'm just yapping. I've been scolded quite enough about sounding 'too idealistic.'"

Horacio shakes his head. "No. It's good to have varying perspectives. A person can't be well-rounded if they're unable to withstand their viewpoints being challenged."

A silence covers them without the unease that normally blankets two people who don't know each other very well.

"What about you?" Horacio asks.

"What about me?"

"Why nurse? Why not doctor? Why not be the person who makes the treatment plans and does the procedures?"

Kiara chuckles.

"What?"

"You're gonna think I'm a hypocrite," she admits.

He doesn't say anything at first. He waits for her insight.

"I mean, I'm kind of like you. I like having my boots on the ground. When a patient comes in, whether it's pneumonia or a stab wound, we're usually the first one that sees the patient. Triages them and assesses the damage. And even after the doctor has done their job, we're still the ones checking on the patients. Monitoring their progress. Catching the things that the doctors don't see because they're not the ones who has their eyes on them constantly."

"I can understand that. And it doesn’t make you a hypocrite, by the way. Truth be told, I think you just sold me on the route of nursing if I were medically inclined."

"Even when that includes giving sponge baths to bedridden old men who pretend like they're still virile enough to flirt with you?"

At that, Horacio grimaces. Kiara's laughter bounces off the walls of the empty café.

"This is nice," she sighs happily, sitting back in her seat.

Horacio raises his eyebrows.

"Making a friend. Getting to know someone," she supplies.

"I agree." He nods, relaxing his chair also.

After a moment, with only the slightest of hesitations, he later says, "I have a dilemma."

When the words first leave his mouth, he wonders if he should've spoken them. However, he can't deny the dose of happiness that hits him at how quickly she tunes in.

"Hit me," she says, her full attention on him.

"Earlier this week, I witnessed a fellow soldier doing something he shouldn't have. Technically, we work in different units so our paths don't cross that often. But we were conducting field work, and as a junior lieutenant, I'm expected to write detailed reports on the happenings during field work and include any and all of my observations. I feel at odds with whether I should let things be given that there were no major repercussions or whether I should say something, given the soldier's actions were irresponsible at best and potentially illegal at worst."

In an extra moment of vulnerability, Horacio adds softly, "I don't like feeling at odds."

Kiara gives him a soft, sympathetic smile and reaches her hand over to cover his.

"I don't like feeling at odds either," she says. "And you're right, you definitely do have a dilemma."

She takes a pause to gather her thoughts and his eyes peer into hers intensely, curious at the inner workings of her mind.

"I can't tell you what I'd do," she starts. "But I can tell you all the things that'd float through my mind as I try to find the answers."

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

"Well, I'd think about the gravity of the action. As a nurse, was this something that could've killed a patient? Is this something likely to happen again if I don't speak up? Is this a person that has integrity and trustworthiness? Someone that might've fucked up in the moment but the type of person to make things right and take responsibility for their actions? And then.. Well, I'd think about my own integrity, too. Am I hurting someone by saying something? Am I hurting someone if I don't say something? At the end of the day, the truth always finds the light of the day. How would the people around me feel if they found out I had been hiding something when I had the chance to use my voice? Shit… I know we haven't known each other for long, but.. I mean, your opinion of me matters to me. I'd think about how you'd feel if I did something that put my character into question."

Horacio's mind crawls out of its daze. Not only had his thoughts been centered on the pearls of her perspective, but it also had momentarily short-circuited as she told him just how much she valued his own character.

It's like there's a thick sludge that keeps his words at the back of his throat, and he has to fight through it to be able to speak again.

"And then, I would know," she finishes. "I'd think about you and then I'd know what the right decision is."

He clears his throat. Drinks the last sips of his now room temperature coffee and clears his throat again.

"I can't imagine you've ever been known to make a bad decision. Your mind works with a pristine sense of clarity."

Kiara shrugs. "I could make a joke and say that you would think that since I just said I value your opinion, but I'm gonna take the compliment like a champ because I say we're both pretty wise people."

Horacio shoots back. "I could make a toast right now to "wise people" but I'm afraid Senorita Rosales would not be too happy if I summoned her back down here to refill our cups."

Their laughs intermingle and cover the café's four walls with dulcet tones of a growing bond.

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐲.

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬-𝐦𝐜 @𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 @𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐮𝐧-𝐧-𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 @𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬