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604to647 · 1 month ago

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Dodge

2.9K / Vigilante AU Javier Peña x fem!reader

Summary: Javier Pena does in New York City what he could not in Columbia.

Warnings: AU set after canon events of Season 3. Maybe a wee bit dark but wasn’t Narcos hella dark sometimes? Mention of violence and weapons. Implied ambiguous powers. Established relationship, brief allusion to smut (1). No nicknames in this one! (So weird for me 😂)

A/N: Vigilante AU is the brainchild of the brilliant @almostfoxglove, who inspires constantly with her beautiful moodboards. Here’s the one for Vigilante!Javi and it’s the entire reason this fic exists - thank you, Freya my dearest 😘😘

Dividers by @saradika-graphics 😘

⬇️ Barely edited and mainly just vibes 🫣

Dodged a bullet. It was just a saying.

Or was it?

For a very long time, Javier thought he was just a very lucky man.

Though he did not realize it at the time, for the entirety of his career Javier had held his proverbial breath waiting for that luck to run out - but it never did. When he thinks back to all the Medellin fire fights he’s been caught in, his involvement with Los Pepes (that he’s still not sure he regrets completely), the tense relationship he struck up with Don Berna, and all the times Escobar’s scheming and machinations could have easily rendered him collateral damage, he can’t help but marvel at how many actual and metaphorical bullets he’s dodged.

And if he was to renumerate on it further, he might even count his political tangling with Stechner, his role in Elisa’s escape, and (if he was really honest about it) his almost marriage to Lorraine, as near misses.

While not unscathed and usually worst for the wear, Javier Pena has always landed on his feet.

He had never questioned it before.

But now he decides to test it.

When he miraculously evades any major consequences for his “alleged” partnership with Los Pepes, dodging the treason charges that Judy Moncada had almost gleefully laid at his doorstep before her exile, Javier cannot ignore the brushing feathers of some higher power looking out for him. By the time his deposition in the matter some how lands him a promotion as the DEA's US attaché to Columbia in charge of the fight against the Cali cartel, Javier is certain of its presence.

He heads the Cali operation with a boldness and confidence that pushes the limits of the diplomatic courtesy extended by his Columbian hosts. Running missions and chasing leads that leave no slack on the legal reins handed to him by the US government. He’s brash, brave, and reckless – ferocious in his pursuit of justice, almost daring the wings of Lady Luck who rides into battle with him to fail them both.

The way Agent Pena works is not without frustration or devastation; he wins some, he loses more - but at the end of it all, he remains standing.

Javier is almost afraid to put a name to it. To call it luck seems almost derivative of this protection that he’s inexplicably been afforded. Enhanced self preservation? An uncanny ability to evade major bodily harm or danger to his person and livelihood? It doesn’t matter - after Cali Javier knows that he is someone’s god’s favourite.

The price of this so-called gift appears to be guilt. Guilt that he was unable to extend this unmerited favour, that he could not invite others to join him under its umbrella of safety. That he wielded no additional power to protect those that needed protecting was a source of deep shame and anguish that Javier wrestles with on a daily basis.

While he remained relatively intact, Javier could not say the same for the more deserving fellow officers with whom he had the honour of serving alongside: brave Columbian policemen, incorruptible members of Search Bloc, his friends. Carrillo.

What was the point? Why him? Avoiding the direst of consequences for only himself, but unable to prevent the same suffering for others feels like a curse at times.

The months after the downfall of the Cali cartel that Javier spends at Chucho’s ranch is supposed to bring him peace in working the land, being with family. But he cannot find peace. Not when there had been so many causalities and lives destroyed back in Columbia, and he had learned from Stechner, of all people, that it had all been for naught.

Agent Pena had played fair and abided by Uncle Sam’s rules, and it hadn’t mattered at all. Unseen political powers were playing a different global game and with their long reaching arms of corruption, swept all of Javier and the DEA’s strategically placed game pieces off the board before the game had even started. And the worst part is, they had let him continue and go through the motions of putting the Rodriguez brothers behind bars, letting him think he had actually accomplished something when in reality, he had only played the role of clueless puppet in the ruin of innocent lives. It made Javier sick, and he left the DEA jaded and cynical.

How could he be at peace when those that made the rules didn’t have to play by them, and through hubris and indifference allowed the destructive cycle of the drug trade to rage on endlessly?

But Javier didn’t have to play by the rules, did he? He had something on his side that allowed him to push the boundaries of the rigged game - but he couldn’t push if he didn’t play.

So, to Chucho’s disappointment, Javier leaves for New York City to seek out his old boss; not for the first time, bureaucratic politics works in his favour and Messina hands Special Agent Pena a new title: Head of the DEA’s NYC field office.

Javier will never know what strings Messina pulled to get him back in, but he never had any doubt of her success - confident now that when it really matters, fortune will favour Javier Pena. He’s back to doing what he needs to: hunting down the remnants of the Cali mafia that had entrenched themselves in New York City and carrying out the government’s stated directive against all drugs - marijuana, heroin, steroids. It’s not easy work by any means, but somehow, he feels at more at home weeding out stateside trafficking networks and shutting down home grown labs in the five boroughs than he did those months he spent in Laredo.

By day, Agent Pena hunts the scourge of the city with the aid of his team of talented agents, all eager to make a difference and brimming with strong moral fibre. He can’t quite bring himself to destroy their faith in the system that he now knows actively works against them and their efforts. He allows them to fight the good fight so that they can go home and sleep at night in a way that Javier almost doesn’t remember anymore. Wiretaps, stakeouts, informant deals, raids and busts – all done by the book, slow going and above board.

By night, Javier hunts alone. Armed with the intel collected via those same formal and official channels of his government day job, he sets out to informally and unofficially deal with cartel and drug trade players under the cover of dark. Hats off to you, Uncle Sam.

The judgment and retribution Javier dispenses is fearsome and precise. Choosing targets that he knows will inflict immeasurable damage during the time it will take the DEA to bring them to justice (if ever), he methodically crosses off the names on a too-long list one by one.

They never know he’s coming for them until it’s too late. They don’t know that this vigilante leverages intel painstakingly gathered and vetted by DEA resources in the only way it will ever be truly effective; that he’s more than acquainted with their whereabouts and routine movements. Their executioner has memorized all of their weaknesses and vulnerabilities before they even know they’re on his chopping block. They don’t know that the masked avenger stalks through the night and scales building without fear or hesitation, imbued with a confidence that can only come with doing the right thing, and something else that all but guarantees his success.

The investigative and strategic mind that serves Javier as an officer of the law remains his most trusted weapon when he’s off the clock. He tirelessly pours over surveillance data, building and city plans – identifying single point entrances and exits, quick escape routes, and areas where there will be no witnesses… or civilian casualties. Never again will Javier Pena allow the pursuit of a criminal to hurt another innocent.

He finds that he’s partial to knives and blades, avoiding firearms completely for his nighttime pursuits. From Javier’s experience, guns are too easy traced unless he were to engage with the illegal arms trade, and there are some lines he’s still unwilling to cross. Guns are the weapons of the loud and arrogant, the sometimes ignorant – knives obey only skill and discretion.

But his preference is to use his hands. Every time Javier feels the crush of bones or the splitting of flesh beneath his fists, his chest fills with pride and accomplishment. The splattering of blood and the swollen, mangled bodies of his targets after he’s through with them become like therapeutic art; his hands are his chosen instrument and he paints his canvas for the evening with bloodshed and barbarism, expressing his bottled-up fury at his past failures and the grief he still keeps buried deep for those he’s lost.

Even the squelching of the red sticky liquid that pools out from where his blades land true and the gurgling of blood-filled mouths become welcomed melodies to his ears. The final desperate gasping for air and the crunch of shattering bones act as the percussion section of a violent orchestra – one that Javier that conducts with the passion of a musician who’s finally found his muse.

He almost likes it when they fight back – giving him permission to discard any restraint he might have been exercising over his savagery in the name of efficiency. With every blow he lands and every vital organ he guts, Javier feels like he’s fighting for them all: Carrillo, President Gaviria, Helena, Christina, sweet little Olivia’s mother, freaking Puff the cat. Fighting for them now like he should have fought for them back in Columbia.

His actions do not go wholly unnoticed. The DEA picks up chatter about a masked vigilante who seems to only target drug lords and narcotics organizations, one who seemingly appears out of nowhere to strike deadly and crippling blows to the cartels before disappearing without a trace. It sounds like something straight out of a comic book. A few news outlets run a couple of pieces on him, but the NYPD and federal agencies are all too overwhelmed by this War on Drugs™ that Javier knows they’ll never win, to look a gift horse in the mouth. For now, the hunter does not become the hunted. Once again, luck favours Javier Pena.

Though he is satisfied with his ongoing results, Javier is nowhere near immortal or indestructible. He bleeds and bruises, his ribs crack and his knuckles split. He’s constantly dog-tired and concussed, every part of him is scraped and achy, but he heals. He’s alive.

Each poorly set bone break and new scar carved onto Javier’s body is worn with pride – collected like trophies that fuel the fire of his resolve and righteousness.

He doesn’t feel the guilt anymore.

The only time self reproach creeps up on him is when Javi lies to you. He feels the low stir of something uncomfortable in his chest when he claims to be going on a DEA nighttime raid and your sweet response is to tell him to be careful and wish him back to you soon. It feels even worse when he slips out of your warm, safe bed while you remain unaware and asleep like an innocent angel, and it surges hot and shameful when he slips back under the covers while it’s still dark and you welcome him, soft and inviting, oblivious to the violence and brutality that now clings to his naked skin.

He should leave you be, let the goodness you radiant remain unsullied by his darkness, but he can’t. He fell for you hard and fast, head over heels since the day he saw you buying a hotdog from the vendor outside the DEA’s downtown office. Chain-smoking away the stress induced by the bureaucratic red tape he had waiting for him upstairs, Javi watched in slow motion as a mugger took advantage of your attempts to balance your belongings with your lunch – violently grabbing your purse off your arm. His fists clenched instinctively and he was about to leap into action when you rendered him unnecessary - karate chopping the perp with your briefcase without a drop of mustard falling from your hotdog. He’s amazed, amused, tickled – a litany of light and joyous emotions Javi had forgotten were possible. He comes over to ensure the would-be mugger doesn’t retaliate and asks if you’re okay; he swears the smile you give him is more dangerous than Escobar himself ever was.

You’re the most perfect thing in Javi’s life and the only thing he has just for himself. You play no role in his quest to snuff out the insidiousness that sinks its teeth deeper and deeper into this city everyday, and unlike the women of his past, you aren’t an atonement for his previous complacency and deep seeded regrets. You just let him be – and he’s just Javi to you, not Agent Pena or even Javier. Just Javi with whom you happily wile away hours talking about nothing and everything, who holds you when you cry to sappy movies, who you convince to try every ramen joint on the island of Manhattan, who pulls the most stomach caving, soul shaking orgasms from you. In return, you give him a new peace – one where his nightmares end with soft and loving arms hugging him awake, where the confessions of his past misdeeds and failures in Columbia aren’t met with pity or judgment but with compassion and tenderness; a peace that seems to know no end - entangling and weaving its delicate and ever-growing tendrils with something that reminds Javi of hope. You give him a peace he didn’t know was possible for someone like him, and one that he’s not sure he deserves. Javi loves you. But he lies to you.

He thinks, no, he knows, that one day it will all come to a head - the people he hunts as DEA, the vigilante justice he dispenses at night, and the life he’s come to treasure in the home he’s built with you. And when that time inevitably comes, Javi hopes – prays - that whatever grace has deigned to keep him from succumbing to fates suffered by many better men than he, will once again come to his aid and prevent him from losing what’s truly important, what makes his life worth living.

That time might be tonight.

The evening has been wonderfully typical, bellies full, you and Javi are on your way to try a new ice cream place for dessert when you hear two gunshots ring out. Then more shots in rapid succession as sirens approach. Javi pushes you down behind some parked cars - finding a safe line a sight from which he assesses the situation to ensure that the two of you are a safe distance away before properly reading the scene.

With some weariness, Javi realizes he’s played a role in what’s happening in front of him. Two nights ago, he took out the numbers man and head of security for the remnant of one of Pacho’s old distribution networks. It seems a local gang has decided to take advantage of the sudden power vacuum and take the territory by force. But with the NYPD now arrived on scene, the rival gangs unite against their common enemy, and Javi counts four, five, police officers currently being pinned down behind their patrol cars by round after round of gunfire.

He should help. But he doesn’t have a firearm on him and his DEA badge alone isn’t going to do any good. He could pretend he’s a citizen, but that would never fly – for all the same reasons he wears a mask during his nightly crusades, Javi knows he would be identified sooner or later, and without some flexibility to do what’s needed, he would likely find himself pinned under a hail of bullets like his brothers in blue.

And you. How could he leave you? You must be so scared right now. He looks over to you and to his shock, not only do you look calm and determined, you’re holding out the black cashmere scarf that you’ve unwound from your neck, offering it to him in your open hands.

Javi looks at down the scarf, then up at you – confused, stunned.

Pushing your scarf towards him, you give your brave boyfriend a wise and reassuring smile, “Take it, Javi. You need to cover your face, don’t you?”

It takes Javi more time than the situation affords him to comprehend what you’re saying. How long have you known? His world is simultaneously eerily still yet wildly spinning, with you at its calm centre. Wordlessly, Javi takes your scarf and wraps it swiftly around his head until only his eyes remain exposed, securing the ends with a tight knot against the back of his head so his makeshift mask doesn’t slip.

Your eyes now wide and worried, you nonetheless press a confident kiss to Javi’s lips through the luxurious fabric, “I’ll be fine, I promise. Go and be careful, my love.”

Feeling Javi return your affections and the air of something like ‘thank you’ puff through the soft wool against your lips, you hold steady the look of adoration and devotion in his chocolate brown eyes with one of your own before you see them turn towards the ongoing cacophony of bullets with a steely resolve.

Holding your breath, you watch your Javi slip into the night. “Come back to me,” you whisper, unaware that you’ve already been gifted the promise of his safe return.

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