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drabbles-mc · 1 year ago

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Fresh Start

Gabriela Castillo x Nacho Varga

For the loveliest @hausofmamadas as part of the Rare Pair Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, language, blood/injury, light angst

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: I just really really love that I got to write these two together. I love them. I adore them. No one can take them from us, Kay. The braincell is alive and well. 😌

Niche Crossover Taglist: @narcolini @garbinge @withmyteeth @justreblogginfics @cositapreciosa

He’d driven until the car gave out. Then he walked until his legs had done the same. He had no idea where he was—somewhere in California he was pretty sure based off all the license plates he’d seen while he was on the road. Where in California? He couldn’t even hope to guess. Everything looked the same in the dark anyway.

He hadn’t shown up to the diner because he was hungry, although underneath all the pain and exhaustion he was sure that hunger was there somewhere. But it was one of the only places that had lights on, one of the only places that seemed like it was open and also maybe even a little bit safe.

He collapsed before he got his hand on the door, crumpled right into a heap on the sidewalk. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, fighting even harder to try and say something, maybe even call for help. It was like his voice had stopped working, and he didn’t know if that was because everything in his body was shutting down, or if it was because he’d gone so long without speaking that he’d nearly forgotten how to.

When she appeared in his narrowing field of vision, he was certain that it meant he was dying. There was no way that she wasn’t an angel sent there to take him to whatever was next for him. He could just barely register the warmth of her hands on his face. He saw the way her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was actually saying. He tried to look at her for as long as he could before his body gave into the exhaustion and everything went black.

Gabriela knew better than to try and patch up a man who needed far more than just bandages and stitches from her. She knew so much better. That was the whole reason she found herself at the complete opposite end of California from where she’d started just a few short years ago. And yet, when she saw him go down outside the door of the diner, she couldn’t stop herself from rushing to his side. If she didn’t try, then what was the point of any of it?

Once she took in the sight of him, she knew that it was going to be more than just a caring act from a good Samaritan if she helped him. There was a familiar knot in her gut that told her that this man, whoever he was, whoever he ended up being, didn’t just turn up outside the diner because he got lost on a long drive.

Pressing her ear to his chest, she listened intently for a heartbeat, relief coursing through her when she heard it. She managed to get him back to consciousness, but barely. He was beyond out of it, not that she expected anything better than that.

“Come on,” she said, her voice quiet but strong, “we have to get you help.”

If she had still been the same woman she was a few years prior, she would’ve called 911. But she wasn’t so naïve anymore. Some things, she’d learned, you just don’t call the cops about. And even though she didn’t have all the details, or any details, really, she had the feeling deep in her gut that this was going to be one of those things.

Going through motions that felt far too familiar for comfort, she draped his arm over her shoulders before looping hers behind his back. He was able to contribute just enough to the efforts to get himself off the ground, but Gaby was doing most of the legwork once they were up. It wasn’t pretty, or graceful, but she managed to get him to her car and somehow into the passenger seat.

He was fading in and out the whole time, still half-convinced that the woman in the driver’s seat beside him was some manifestation of the grim reaper, there to usher him into the next life by speeding down backroads in her beat-up coup.

When she got him into her apartment and laid out on the couch, he passed out again. She expected that, just glad that she didn’t have to try and half-carry him anywhere else for the time being. He had one arm dangling off the edge of the sofa, the backs of his knuckles resting against the floor. Both his legs were on the cushions, but barely. She looked at him, trying to see past the dirt and dried blood. She was looking for anything fresh, anything that could actively be killing him.

Taking a deep breath, she ran her hands back through her hair before starting to carefully undo the buttons of his shirt. Most of the blood on it seemed dried, but she wanted to be sure. When the shirt fell open, she saw the white a-tank that he had on beneath. There was more blood staining that, but it still looked like most of it was dried. She lifted the bottom hem of the tank top, just enough to confirm that any injuries that he was dealing with, any cuts or gashes, were old enough to have begun to scab over.

She frowned as she looked him over, all the bruises that littered his abdomen. There was nothing fresh that she could see, so her assumption that what got to him was the exhaustion. Whatever blood he lost combined with the fact that he probably hadn’t stopped to rest or eat or drink much of anything in longer than any person should’ve.

There wasn’t much more that she could give him at this point. She thought about getting a cloth with some warm water and soap to start at least cleaning off his face. As she looked at him, it crossed her mind that it probably wouldn’t wake him up. There wasn’t much that would cause him to stir at this point.

Her movements were gentle, the way that they always were. She dragged the washcloth across his forehead, his cheekbones. Each swipe took away another layer of dirt, of sweat and blood that had dried and tried to etch itself into his skin. The small snake earring dangling from his ear moved each time the cloth cleaned away another layer. The frown on her face softened the more she cleaned him up. She knew that she shouldn’t build out a life for him before she’d even heard him speak, but her mind couldn’t help but to wander.

When she’d cleaned off his face as best she could, she stood up and pried herself away from him. She tossed the rag straight into the trash, the sinking feeling that no matter how much bleach she used, she would never see it as clean again. She took a quick shower, just enough to feel like she’d rinsed off the day. She threw her clothes into her hamper, pulling on an old t-shirt and shorts to sleep in. Part of her knew that she could just sleep in her bed and that she would most likely wake up before the man passed out in her living room, but it felt wrong to try and do so. Grabbing a pillow and the blanket off her bed, she went back to the living room and curled up on the chair beside the couch, the one that was usually reserved just for reading.

The sun hadn’t fully crept up over the horizon when Gaby came to. The light coming through her apartment windows was minimal, gray. She didn’t even want to check the time, didn’t want to involuntarily do the math to see how little sleep she’d gotten.

Then she realized what had pulled her from slumber so soon. The events of the night before all came rushing back to her, her eyes widening slightly as she turned and looked over at her sofa. She was expecting to see the man still passed out, but he wasn’t. He was sitting upright, looking just about as confused and unsettled as she felt in that moment. His hands gripped tightly onto the edge of the couch cushion as he watched her.

“Hi,” she said, her voice soft from sleep, but it also had the caution someone would use when trying to soothe an injured animal. Anything to make sure that they didn’t get hurt if it tried to lash out.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t know where to bring you,” she started to explain. “You…you passed out at my job last night.” She twisted her fingers into her blanket as she nodded towards the bloodstains on his clothes. “I, um, I didn’t know what happened, so I didn’t call anyone.”

He looked down at himself, brows knitting when he took in his actual state. “Right. Um. Thank you.”

“I’m Gabriela.”

His eyes wandered back up to her face. “Nacho,” the name came out before he could think better of it.

As soon as he heard what he’d said, he closed his eyes, chin tucking down towards his chest. He knew better than that, but the name rolled off his tongue before he could think of it. It was hard to lie to someone who had a face and eyes as kind as Gaby did. It was too late to take it back now. Trying to fumble and recover somehow would only put himself deeper into the hole he’d just dug.

There was a tiny lift to the end of Gaby’s mouth as she looked at him. There was something vaguely familiar about him even though she knew for a fact that she hadn’t ever met him before. Maybe it was just the look in his eyes. Something that reminded her of a life that she’d left behind.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, a small air of amusement in her tone.

It was just enough for Nacho to be able to catch it, enough to get him to look back over at her. He wanted to make some remark to the effect of, “It might be too soon to be saying things like that,” but he was painfully aware that he wasn’t in the position to be shooting down any spare kindness that anyone was willing to give him.

“You too.”

Nacho kept meaning to leave. He knew that he should. Whoever this girl was, whatever life she’d had for herself before he came tumbling into it, he knew that he didn’t deserve to be any part of it. The hours ticked by and it turned into a day. One day turned into two. After four days he forgot to keep counting. But he meant to leave. He really did.

Gaby never did get around to asking him where he came from, what had happened to him that landed him in a heap on the sidewalk outside the diner. Sometimes she wanted to. When she would see him freeze up at headlights coming in through her apartment windows, when his head would snap towards the sound of someone knocking on the door of the other apartments that she shared a hallway with. People didn’t end up like that because things for them had gone well. Sometimes when things were quiet, and good, and he was helping her cook dinner at the end of a long day, she thought about asking him about all of it. But it just never felt right enough. Maybe that was the lingering strands of naivety that she hadn’t managed to grow out of.

There was never a conversation about him leaving. There was never one about him staying, either. He just did. That first night after they’d introduced themselves, Gaby made a comment about the fact that the couch pulled out into a bed, and that was the end of it. She’d come out in the morning and it would be restored to its former glory, blanket and pillows stacked at the very end of it. Neat as they’d ever been. But they never talked about it.

Most of those first couple weeks were just them existing together in surprisingly comfortable silence together. That, or Nacho would listen to her talk about what happened at work. She’d get home late from her shifts at the diner, but he was almost always still up.

“I had to give him stitches,” she said with a shake of her head, wrapping up a story about one of the cooks slicing his finger open.

“Stitches?” Nacho repeated back. “You know how to do that?”

She chuckled softly as she got a glass of water for herself. “Of course I do.” She walked over, taking a seat next to him on the couch. “I used to be a nurse.”

The explanation didn’t do anything to sate his curiosity. “Used to be?”

That was the first time he saw real sadness cross Gaby’s face. It felt like it sent a real, physical pang of hurt through him to see her like that. He wanted to take the question back, tell her to forget that he ever asked. But it was too late—she was already telling him what happened. Honest in a way that he could never even hope to be.

“I used to live on the border,” she said, looking down at the glass of water in her hands, “and then I moved to Lodi for nursing school. I worked there for a little while after I graduated. Things got…bad, dangerous. The person I cared about the most wasn’t who I thought he was.” She shook her head as she thought back on it all, memories she tried so hard to push from her mind. “So I left. Moved again. Started over again.”

“I’m—”

“It’s okay,” she cut him off. “I’m used to it.” She laughed softly but it was more of a sad sound than anything else. “I’m good at it now.”

“Would you ever go back?” He paused. “To nursing, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Taking a sip of her water, she finally forced herself to look Nacho in the eyes again. A tiny smile worked its way back onto her face. “Lucky for you though, hm?”

He chuckled, nodding. “Very lucky.”

“If you’d gotten to me sooner you might not have scarred so much,” she said, nodding towards his torso, the scar running across his stomach covered by the t-shirt that he was wearing.

“Too bad I didn’t know where I was going.”

It was the perfect time for him to finally say something, tell her at least the good parts of his life before all of this. He knew now that she wasn’t ever going to bring herself to ask him. Whether it was out of respect or something else entirely, he didn’t know. He wanted to tell her. Part of him wanted to tell her everything, lay it all out on the table. Each night went by and he tried to figure out if the risk was worth the reward—telling her everything and having her accept him regardless would send him clean over the moon. But telling her everything only for her to decide that she wasn’t going to let him be the reason that she would have to start over again wasn’t something that he was ready for, wasn’t something that he thought he could handle.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. “Really think the scar is that bad?” he asked, humor in his voice as he lifted his shirt up enough to expose it.

She let out a real laugh at that. Shaking her head as she playfully swatted his hand, causing his shirt to drop again. “Cállate.” She finished off what was left in the glass before standing up to put it in the sink. “Plenty of girls love it. You’ll be fine, hermoso, don’t worry.”

The smile that spread across Nacho’s face was involuntary, as was the warmth that went through his chest at her words. He found himself shaking his head, just as much at Gaby as at himself. He was still on the brink of chuckling to himself when she turned back around to face him.

“What?” she asked, still smiling.

“Nothing,” he replied, not sure how to answer with the truth of what he was thinking in that moment.

She raked her fingers back through her hair, pushing it all behind her shoulders. “I’m going to bed.” Walking through the living room to get to the door to her bedroom, she rested her hand on Nacho’s shoulder for a moment as she went by. “Goodnight, Nacho.”

He almost lifted his hand to place it on hers, but he stopped himself. “Goodnight.”

He watched her disappear into her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. The warmth that lingered in his chest was battling it out with the pervasive thought that he didn’t want to be another person who made her start over. He couldn’t be the next man who cost her something like that.

It was a few days later when Gaby walked out into the living room, her phone pinned to her shoulder as she spoke to Nacho. “Do you think you could help my cousin at his shop today?”

Confusion flooded Nacho’s features. “What?”

She shook her head. “It’s just him and one other guy right now and he called out.” She saw the way that he was still very clearly lost. “Cars. He’s a mechanic.”

“Gaby, I don’t—”

“You got my car running last week.”

“I’m not a mechanic. I know a little bit, but—”

“I’ll owe you,” she said, clearly desperate to help her family.

Nacho sighed, knowing that there was no way the conversation was going to end with him not helping. Nodding, he gave in. “Okay. Yea. I can try to help.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”

Nacho watched and listened as she got back onto the phone with her cousin. There was something comforting about listening to the two of them converse. He could only hear one half of the conversation, but even so, the sound of her laughing, of her going back and forth with him in Spanish, it was heartwarming and heavy all at once. He thought about his dad. He could only imagine what the man would think about the situation Nacho was in now, what he’d have to say about it.

Trying not to get lost in the thoughts of it, he pushed himself up off the couch so he could grab his boots and get ready to leave. He didn’t get far before Gabriela came back over to him, throwing her arms around him in a hug.

“Thank you,” she said, speaking more into his chest than anything else.

It took some doing, but he finally let himself hug her back. “It’s fine.”

Pulling back, she beamed up at him. “He’s excited to meet you. I’ve told him all about you.” She laughed when she saw the panic flash across Nacho’s face. “Don’t worry, hermoso—I only told him the good things.”

It became another one of those things that they never really talked about. One day never seemed to stay just one day with them. His whole adult life Nacho seemed to constantly find himself getting in over his head, landing himself in situations that snowballed no matter how much he tried to fight it. This was the first time it felt good, though. For once the spiral felt like it was going upwards instead of down. Instead of accidentally landing himself in a mess that he couldn’t get out of, it almost felt like he was starting to build something resembling a life for himself. One that had a very pivotal centerpiece to it.

He got home one evening and she had beaten him there. She had her music on loud as she moved effortlessly around the kitchen, pulling something together for dinner. Her hips swayed and even though he couldn’t hear her, Nacho was almost certain that she was singing along with the words that played.

When she turned around and saw him standing just inside the door, she gasped. The shock on her face quickly faded, nerves dissipating as she laughed and turned the volume down just slightly.

“I tried to say hello when I walked in,” he came to his own defense, a smirk on his face as he toed off his boots.

She chuckled, the lid to a pot in one hand and the other on her hip. “I’m sure.”

Walking over, he scanned over everything that she had on the stove and the countertops. “Can I help?”

She gave him a once-over. “You can go clean yourself up,” she suggested with a laugh. “I don’t want motor oil getting into my tamales.”

Nacho chuckled and shook his head, but he didn’t put up any real fight about it. “I’ll be right back.”

She hummed in acknowledgment. “I’ll be here.”

He only got a few steps out of the kitchen before she turned the music back up. Looking back over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but to watch her for a few more seconds as she went right back to dancing and cooking.

The air of intimacy between them was unlike anything Nacho had ever experienced before. And he didn’t even think that Gaby was even going out of her way to create it. That’s just how she was—soft, inviting. The closest he’d ever physically been to her was when she hugged him. Once. He’d spent years weaving in and out of relationships and situationships with other women, but none of them had ever felt so comfortable. All of that and he was still spending every night on the couch.

“Here,” he offered with a quiet chuckle as he reached over Gaby for plates on a shelf that was nearly out of her reach, “I got it.”

She laughed, letting her head drop in mock shame as Nacho reached over her. “Thank you.”

They navigated their shared space so easily. Brushing hands and arms, soft laughs crossing in the air between them. He wondered if Gaby felt it too. Wondered if she was like him, not saying anything about it for fear of shattering the fragile bubble around them.

“Thank you,” Nacho said as he was cleaning the dishes after dinner.

Gaby tilted her head slightly a smile on her face. There was a hint of confusion in her expression as she said, “I should be thanking you.” She laughed. “It’s nice not always having to be the one to do dishes all the time anymore.”

One end of Nacho’s mouth tugged up into a smile for half a second. “No, I mean, thank you. For,” he took a deep breath, “all of it.”

Recognition flooded her face. Walking over, she leaned back against the counter that was beside the sink. Even if Nacho was having trouble looking her in the eyes, she didn’t share the same hesitation. “You’re welcome.” There was a long pause between them, Gaby waiting for Nacho to finally say whatever was on the tip of his tongue, Nacho waiting for her to switch topics or walk away so he wouldn’t have to say it all. Then Gaby continued. “I’ve never asked, because I know what it’s like to try and leave everything behind. It’s not easy.”

Nacho chuckled before he could stop himself. “No, it’s not.”

She waited for him to look over at her for a moment before saying, “Maybe it’s too late for me to ask. Maybe I should have asked weeks ago. But do I need to be worried?”

He shook head. “No.”

She studied his face closely as he said that. That was a promise that she’d heard before and she still had to watch her whole life crumble down around her. “You promise?”

“Promise.” He meant it. He felt like he was as safe as he was ever going to be existing in the little universe they’d created for themselves. But he also knew that if he even heard so much as a murmur, felt even the slightest change in the wind, he’d leave. He owed her at least that much.

She let the word hang between them for a moment before nodding. “Okay.” Reaching over, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for the dishes.”

The smile on his face was small, almost shy after all of that. “You’re welcome.” He let her get a couple steps away before he spoke up again, mouth acting independently from his brain. “That first night…”

The silence that took over the apartment was suffocating. It lasted for a few agonizingly long seconds before Gaby’s soft footfalls could be heard, slowly making her way back over to him. She didn’t say anything, just finding her place against the counter once more. Her eyebrows lifted, a silent invitation for him to keep talking.

“That first night,” he started again, hoping to get the full sentence out this time, “when I saw you, I thought I was dying.” He couldn’t stop the bit of a chuckle that found its way into his voice as he ended the sentence.

Gaby, despite herself, had to smile a little at that too. “I thought so too.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a nod. “But, when I thought I was dying,” his eyes were focused intensely on the plate that he was washing, “and I saw you, I swear I thought you were an angel or something.”

Gaby laughed. It wasn’t the first time that she’d heard something like that. When she worked at the hospital, tending to people who were in crisis, fading in and out of consciousness and some of them very much on the brink of dying completely, there had been more than one patient who said something to that effect. She always took it in stride, and she did this time too, but it felt different hearing it from Nacho. Maybe because it was the first time that either of them spoke about that night at all.

“Not quite,” she told him, her voice soft.

“I don’t know,” Nacho shrugged as he set the dishes in the drying rack, “I think I had it right.”

She rolled her eyes but she was still smiling. “You’re sweet.”

“You saved my life.”

“I don’t think you were dying,” she countered, her voice still light. “I think you were exhausted and dehydrated.”

“No, I mean,” he shut the sink off and dried his hands, “the rest of it, too.”

She smiled, not quite sure how to respond to what he was saying. So many times over the previous weeks she thought about bringing it up, but it never went quite like this when she played it out in her head. She watched him closely as he leaned back against the counter right beside her.

“I’m glad that you found me,” she said, giving him credit where he truly felt that none was due. He turned his head to look at her and she added, “And I’m glad that you stayed.”

The only way that Nacho could explain what he felt at the sound of her words was saying it was as though his heart had tripped over its own feet. The beat got knocked off-kilter, nearly tumbling down a flight of stairs as he let himself feel the weight of what she’d said.

“I’m glad too,” he finally forced himself to speak, his voice coming out as barely a whisper.

They stood there beside each other for a moment. The outsides of their arms pressed against the other’s, contact running all the way down to where the outsides of their feet were just barely touching. There was something in the way that Gaby hardly ever seemed to shy away from looking him, or anyone really, in the eyes. Sometimes Nacho thought it was because she had nothing in the way of shame resting on her shoulders, nothing that would make her feel like she shouldn’t meet someone’s gaze. He wondered what that was like.

His eyes averted from hers, but just for the briefest moment as they wandered to her lips. She had a soft smile on, something that seemed so constant and natural for her. It was far from the first time that Nacho looked at her when she was like that and thought about kissing her, wondering what it would be like to be able to taste that kind of softness and comfort.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, but it was the first time he made a move to do something about it. Reaching over, he cupped the side of her face before he could make himself stop. His thumb grazed along her cheek, eyes studying every aspect of her face, like he was admiring but also looking for any sign that he should quit while he might’ve still been ahead.

She didn’t pull away. There was no doubt or hesitation present in the way that she gently leaned into the contact, pressing cheek to palm. Her eyes shut, a little too long to be a blink. When she opened them again, looking up at Nacho through her eyelashes, he thought that he was going to sink clean through the floor beneath them.

His voice trembled slightly, sounding like a man that he didn’t even recognize as he whispered a soft, “Gaby…”

She reached up, threading her fingers with his. “Mhm?” she hummed.

He didn’t know if he actually had words ready to say in response, but if he did they all fell to the wayside. Leaning in, he carefully pressed his lips to hers. It was soft, tentative, nervous in a way that he hadn’t been around a woman in a long time. Part of him was still expecting her to pull away, but she didn’t. She leaned into him, her hand moving to rest flat against his chest. The erratic beating of his heart thrummed against her palm, and he could feel that same warm smile curl her lips as she continued to kiss him.

It was everything he could’ve ever wanted it to be and more.

He was keenly aware of everything about her, the way her hands slid to interlock behind his neck, the way she gently pulled him so that he was in front of her, putting her between him and the counter behind her. Nacho’s hands dropped to her waist for a moment before sliding up, fingers splaying across her back as he fought the urge to grip onto her shirt and pull her tighter, like she was at risk of slipping away from him.

She felt it, too, the tension that was beginning to rear its head as his lips moved against hers. She pulled away, not far, just enough so that she could look him in the eyes and make him look at her.

“Hey,” she brought her hand to his cheek, “you’re okay.”

His shoulders sagged in relief as she voice washed over him. He let his forehead drop to rest against hers, eyes drifting shut for a moment as he tried to soak it in, not just feel what she was saying but actually believe it too. Her fingertips were so soft as they trailed down the side of his face, pads of her fingers as they roamed over the stubble that was beginning to grow in again.

Tilting her chin up just slightly, she kissed him again, tender and quick. Nacho smiled, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d started to hold. He pulled her closer, not out of fear, but because it just felt like the small span of space between them was too much. Gaby melted into him, hands on the sides of his neck, the tips of her fingers just barely interlocking behind.

“Come on, hermoso,” there was gentle laughter in her voice as she pushed against him, separating herself from the counter so she could start pulling him out of the kitchen, “let’s go to bed.”

It was a strange moment when Nacho realized that the couch wasn’t going to be bed. His eyes only drifted away from Gaby for a moment, looking back at where his blankets and pillows were all still stacked so neatly at the end of the sofa. But then he felt the way her fingers trailed against his palm and all of his attention went back to her.

He let her pull him across the threshold and into her room. He didn’t even have it in him to look around, his eyes fixed on her and her alone. As she flicked on the lights of her bedroom, the only thing Nacho could think was that he hoped that, just like everything else about them, this wasn’t going to be just one night.

#nacho varga #gaby castillo #gabriela castillo #ignacio varga #better call saul #bcs #mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans au #better call saul au #nacho varga x gabriela castillo #gabriela castillo x nacho varga #rare pair exchange #rare pair #rare pair exchange 2023 #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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hausofmamadas · 7 months ago

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🥺🥺🥺YOU ARE TOO KIND TO ME🥺🥺🥺 also fuxkinfjsjshshw cackling at the Spider-Man meme bc that was so us, fr and it’s made even more absurd by the fact that it’s the most random-ass pairing I can think of from two pretty small/somewhat obscure fandoms SJSJSJS like ofc only us could do that

| What’s waiting down Zuni Road |

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

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

Word count: ≈5k

TW: Canon-typical violence, descriptions of violence

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

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

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

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

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

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

𖤓

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𖤓

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

𖤓

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

6611 Zuni Rd SE,

Albuquerque, NM

ask 4 grumpyass mf named Varga

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm? Pardon?”

“You said chest. You meant vest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coming? Coming where?”

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

“Do I like—?”

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

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

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

“Wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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taglist: @narcolini

#reblogged reblog #YOURE TOO GOOD TO ME AGAINNNNNN #gaby castillo #gabriela castillo #nacho varga #gabrielle castillo x ignacio “nacho” varga #better call saul #mayans mc

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