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"Do I have your attention now?"
Whoa, baby.
The day George finds himself looking down the barrel of his own motherfucking gun at this gutsy, pint-sized woman who won't take no for an answer, he knows he's in trouble. He knows this girl is going to land him in some deep shit, with the faint gleam of desperation in her eyes and the pain tightening the corners of her mouth, but hell, it's part of the appeal, really. She's got him pegged - he's in it for the thrill. There aren't many people with balls big enough to show up without an invitation, pull a gun on him, and then psychoanalyze him while holding said gun to his head. Meet Teresa Mendoza.
Being richer-than-God and a damn fine smuggler to boot, he gets loads of people sniffing around his boat looking to get in bed with the notorious King George. Sometimes literally. Which is why it's not so much of a stretch to assume that this woman with her wild curly hair and split lip has been sent to sweeten a deal. Although usually his offerings are dressed a little more…seductively and less like they just rolled up from a Morissey concert or a barroom brawl. Or a brawl at a Morissey concert. Is that something that actually happens?
He wonders idly what color of King George bikini would best suit her complexion and how a pretty little thing like her ended up entangled with Camila Vargas.
Her companion looks surly as hell, like he just rolled out of bed and yet could also break both your legs at the slightest provocation. But it's a good look on him. They make an odd pair, all sharp edges and wordless communication without ever quite meeting the other's eyes. George figures they're suffering from a case of mutual loathing or some pretty intense unresolved sexual tension (or both). Consider him intrigued.
And then there’s Camila Vargas. From what he's heard through the news and the grapevine of the criminal underworld, her and Epifanio are seriously on the outs, so he could be getting himself into a whole fuck-ton of trouble. But George considers himself a keen observer of human nature - in his line of business, knowing how to read people keeps you alive. And he's managed to make it this far with all of his limbs (and other important bits) intact, which is no small feat.
So he trusts his gut when it tells him to take a chance on Teresa, this triple threat of brains, balls, and booty who came out of nowhere, firing off bullets and statistics with hell-bent determination. She's a firecracker alright.
Mr. Surly Jean Jacket, on the other hand, while easy on the eyes, seems less than impressed with the whole situation. George catches him side-eying his display of gold-plated pineapples and stifles a laugh. People are so quick to judge. Sure, George fills his life with expensive shit, but, again, he's richer than God, so why the hell not? Plus every self-respecting criminal needs their signature aesthetic.
And even if it's nothing but the finest champagne for Royal Target Practice™, he still understands the importance of having good people in your life like Bilal and the boys. Because what's the point otherwise? He just has a feeling that Teresa will fit right in - he needs a badass woman in his corner to be the Leia to his Han, to keep things interesting.
So he says yes, with a caveat, because why go through the hassle of kidnapping someone when you can outsource your dirty work? Call it a test, to see if they're willing to go the extra mile, and they don't disappoint. So he's in, and he's a honestly looking forward to seeing where this partnership goes and what other surprises Teresa Mendoza has up her sleeve.
***
When they come to him with their Bolivia mission, he nearly chokes on his mouthful of $600,000-a-bottle scotch.
"Are you out of your goddamn minds?" he screeches, causing Bilal to come charging into the room in alarm, gun at the ready. George waves him off impatiently. "El Santo is a fuckin' crazypants psycho cult freak. Y'all know what you're gettin' into here?"
Teresa shifts in her seat. "We have a connect in Bolivia."
George doesn't miss the way James suddenly tenses up and starts unconsciously cracking his knuckles.
"Oh really? And you're willin' to bet your lives on this person?"
If the expression on James' face is anything to go by, the answer is most definitely 'no.' Teresa looks uncomfortable and starts picking at a loose thread on one of his velvet monogrammed cushions - there's clearly some backstory here he's missing, probably filled intrigue and betrayal and unrequited lust. George has a nose for this sort of thing.
"Look, I'm all in as far as transpo is concerned, and I'll get you your papers, but you'd better be damned sure about all this."
Teresa and James stare at each other for a beat, having some sort of silent conversation, before James sighs and pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and tosses it on the table. "Photos for our passports. It'll be us and one other person."
They exchange another loaded look, and George is willing to bet his bottom dollar that this unidentified 'other person' is the source of the weird vibe he feels coming from the two of them. Sure enough, when he shakes out the contents of the envelope onto the table, a familiar face stares back at him. El Guero Davila. George has done his homework - Teresa may be a delightful little crumpet, but he always investigates any new associates thoroughly, so he knows that she was Guero's girlfriend before the idiot decided to steal from Epifanio and wound up dead. Or not, apparently. Got in bed with the feds instead, leaving Teresa to the wolves. Sounds like a real winner.
Suddenly, what feels like a small explosion detonates outside on the deck, sending a cloud of foul-smelling smoke and debris through the doorway. James launches himself out of his chair and pulls Teresa down to the floor with him, covering her body with his, which seems like an excessive reaction but also adorable. He ships it.
"What the shit, Bilal!" George coughs and waves away the dust.
Bilal pokes his head around the corner, covered in filth and grinning like an excited schoolboy. "My King! We are so close!"
He gives Bilal an exasperated thumbs-up and peers down at James and Teresa, who are awkwardly untangling themselves from each other on the floor. They haven't banged yet, he reckons, but it's only a matter of time, so he might as well try and help move things along. "What are y'all doin' down there? Do you need some privacy? I've got a couple of cabins if you need a minute."
"What was that?" asks Teresa, massaging her elbow. She deliberately ignores his comments, but a faint blush creeps up her neck to George's delight. He's going to have so much fun with these two.
"Bilal's tryin' to build a still. Must've exploded. He's not real science-minded, but he's determined to try, and who am I to deny him his heart's desire? You wanna be our first test subject, Jimmy Jams? I can't promise the moonshine won't make you go blind, but what's life without a little risk?"
James just stares at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed, which seems to be his default expression.
"You need to relax, brother," George says, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "Don't worry, we're all good with the plan, so I'll be seein' y'all soon in more tropical climes."
"Thank you, George," says Teresa, giving him a small smile, shepherding a mutinous-looking James towards the door. "We really appreciate your help."
There's something about her smile, however feeble, that gives him a little tingle. He can see how her quiet strength and determination inspires devotion from the people around her (Baby Chapo being case in point). The fact that she's drop dead gorgeous doesn't hurt either.
"Anything for you, Baby Doll."
***
The next time he sees them, their duo has become a trio, and the new dynamic is deliciously complex. He's a bit of a drama queen at heart, and he can practically taste the angst and mistrust rolling off of them in waves.
"Welcome to La Paz, bitches!" he screams in delight.
George already dislikes Guero on principle. He's done enough snooping to know the guy is snitch, a thief, and generally a poor judge of, well, everything (except maybe his taste in women). Plus his whiny voice and pouty face make him eminently punchable. James seems to have similar views, his expression dark and his fingers drumming an ominous beat against his leg, probably itching to wrap themselves around his gun (or maybe Guero's throat). When he's not glaring at Guero, he's shooting little concerned looks at Teresa, who seems outwardly as composed as ever in spite of the circumstances. George can't help pulling her aside for a few parting words of advice, though, as they'll need all the help they can get if half of what he's heard about El Santo is true.
Keep your wits about you girl. This ain't Culiacan. Spiders in this web…they ain't the kind that wait for the fly.
He yells out what he likes to think is a witty final farewell and waltzes away, hoping they can manage to chill the fuck out and that this isn't the last time he sees Teresa Mendoza.
**
He's more than a little disappointed when they don't show at the rendez-vous point, but business is business, and he has things to do, places to be. And loitering about unnecessarily when there are fanatical soldiers prowling the jungles seems like a less than stellar plan. Time to hit the ol' dusty trail.
So he rounds up his men and heads back to the boats, hoping Teresa hasn't gotten herself killed, because that would be such a waste. But they knew what they were getting into - he did try and warn them.
And yet his indifference to her fate lasts for all of five seconds when he hears her voice over the line. She's pleading with him in compelling tones and with that adorable little accent, and he just can't resist the chance to rescue a beautiful woman in distress. And, truth be told, he feels a connection with Teresa, even though he barely knows her. Like they are destined to be friends and have kickass adventures together, and he doesn't want to miss out. So with some requisite grumbling and cursing, he turns the jeep around and heads back to her, ignoring the amused looks from his men.
"You ain’t never seen a hero before?"
When they finally meet up, he's taken aback at her appearance. She's covered in blood and her eyes look flat and empty when she meets his gaze through the filthy windshield. Guero tries to help her down from the truck, but she pushes his hand away and tells him to leave her alone. James has clearly been shot, and they all look like they've been through the wringer, so George herds them onto one of the boats, instructing his men to start unloading and stowing the drugs.
He steers Teresa towards a cabin where she can wash, and she just stands there staring at the floor while he rummages in the closet in search of something for her to change into. Unfortunately, it's mostly an assortment of King George bikinis and skimpy nightwear (for his usual lady guests), but he does manage to find a soft robe and a some more modest pyjamas.
"Hey," he says gently, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. "You should get cleaned up. I'll have Bilal whip up some food for you when you're ready, alright? He makes a mean kebob. Holler if you need me."
She finally lifts her head, a single tear rolling down her cheek and leaving a sluggish pink trail through the smears of blood. "Thank you," she whispers, and shuffles slowly into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her. He can't help but wonder whose blood is sprayed across her skin and what it cost her in her soul to make it through the day alive.
He exits the cabin to find Guero lurking outside, and he's suddenly overcome by a powerful urge to toss his greasy ass overboard. When Guero makes a move towards the door, George physically blocks him from entering.
"What the hell, man," Guero says, throwing his hands in the air with childish petulance. "I just want to make sure she's alright."
"She's not alright," barks George. "Which is why she needs to clean up and rest without you pestering her. So get your ass back on deck."
Guero opens his mouth to protest, but George puts up a hand to silence him. No one is going to mess with Teresa on his watch.
"My boat, my rules."
Guero mutters mutinously under his breath but complies. Up on the main deck, one of his men is wrapping James' shoulder in a bandage, the offending bullet gleaming wetly in a makeshift medical tray (a serving platter covered in gilded pineapples, of course). George's crew has had their fair share of scrapes and bruises they can't take to an emergency room, so they've thankfully built up some collective expertise in sewing up bullet holes and the like. This is clearly not James' first rodeo either, based on his stoic expression and the patches of scar tissue scattered across his upper body.
James' eyes keep flicking to the hatch leading below decks, and George can't help but be amused by his lack of subtlety (though as far as this little love triangle goes, George is one hundred percent Team James). They play cards with Bilal for a while and bust out a bottle of rum to take the edge off. Guero refuses to join them, choosing instead to chain-smoke peevishly at the other end of the deck, which suits George just fine.
When Teresa resurfaces sometime later, all cleaned up but still with a haunted look in her eyes, a hush falls over the group. But she simply drops into the seat next to James and reaches for the rum.
"Deal me in."
He squeezes her shoulder gently. "Yes, ma'am."
The night wears on, and suddenly George finds himself alone on the deck, James having finally cleaned everyone out in their game. The guy has a deadly poker face. Everyone else has wandered off in defeat, and he could easily fall asleep right here in his lounge chair with the alcohol buzzing pleasantly through his veins. But his bunk awaits, so he sketches a brief salute to the sky and heads below. Clambering down through the hatch, the sound of quiet voices in the corridor below makes him pause. He peeks around the corner to see the shadowy forms of James and Teresa standing under one of the swinging lanterns.
"If you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me." James' voice almost cracks with sincerity, and George feels like he's intruding on something intensely private. But he can't make himself look away. Teresa grasps his hand briefly and murmurs a quiet "thank you, James" before vanishing into her room. James stands there for a few moments staring at the door in melancholy silence before rubbing his hands over his face and disappearing into one of the other cabins. George sighs. He isn't sure why he cares as much as he does, but he really wants them to be happy.
***
He keeps in touch with Teresa even when they're not actively on a job together, mostly sending her goofy pictures or silly internet links of llamas singing Elton John songs. She'll reply with cute little emojis or occasionally a photo of her own. One time she sends him a picture of James and Pote passed out on the couch together with a badly drawn MS Paint-style heart around them (he knew she had a sense of humor deep down somewhere), and he carries a warm squishy feeling around with him for the rest of the day.
Make no mistake, George is a ruthless criminal who's killed people for looking at him the wrong way, but at times he can also be a bit of a sentimental marshmallow, and Teresa seems to bring out that side of him.
He decides to invite her to celebrate Bilal's birthday with the gang, and she answers his video call curled up on a couch, no doubt in one of Camila's posh hidey-holes. She peers inquisitively into the camera, looking cozy in an oversize sweater and a pair of fuzzy socks.
"George. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"The pleasure is seeing your gorgeous face, principesa."
The corners of her mouth turn up slightly in the ghost of a smile. Teresa plays her cards close to the chest - her and James are both so reserved (or in James' case, he likes to use the phrase "emotionally constipated") - so it feels like a victory.
"Listen baby girl, I'm having me a shindig on the boat for Bilal's birthday next Saturday night, and I would be honored if you would grace us with your presence. You can bring J Crew and the Wookie too if they promise to let loose those inner party animals I know are hiding in there somewhere." George deliberately doesn’t mention Guero - he doesn't know if Camila's managed to dispose of him yet, but either way, he isn't particularly interested in spending time with the guy.
Teresa's mouth twitches, and her eyes flick off-screen briefly. Suddenly James drops onto the couch beside her, looking as he always does in George's presence (like he's waiting for a reason to snap him in half). He can't resist winding the guy up.
"Jimbo Slice! I was going to offer my girl T here one of those nice coconut bras to complete her outfit for our par-tay. I could hook you up, too. Maybe for the lower deck? Some Adam and Eve shit?"
James just blinks slowly, radiating intense displeasure. Teresa slides him a sideways look and then turns back to George. "I think we'll pass, but thank you."
George leans into the camera and pouts. "Girl, you're breakin' my heart."
Teresa huffs a laugh. "We'll come to your party, but we're not wearing coconuts."
"Fine, fine. But I'd pay good money to see Peachy Keen here in a Hawaiian shirt."
"I'll see what I can do."
James gives her look daring her to even try, and Teresa ends the call with a laugh. George leans back, satisfied.
Everything is perfect on the night of the party. George is a pirate, and pirates love boats and booze, so the liquor is flowing and the soft sea breeze washes over the deck. Bilal, who is usually on duty while George indulges in his various vices, is enjoying his night off, downing shots and dominating the DJ booth.
"George." He knows it's her before he turns around - the way her accent curls around the vowels gives her away. It's just her and James, who, disappointingly is wearing his usual all-black getup and aviators. But Teresa hasn't let him down. She's wearing a flowing floral sundress and has some white flowers tucked behind one ear that look striking against her dark hair.
"Lookin' hot, girlfriend!" he whoops, enveloping her in a giant bear hug, which she returns tentatively. She smells like gardenias and sunshine. He turns to James. "Dude, lose the shades. Don't be that guy who wears his sunglasses at night. You gotta loosen up, brother! And I've got just the thing for you!"
George grabs a pineapple cup off the counter of the makeshift tiki bar behind him and shoves it at James, who looks torn between amusement and disgust. "Drink up, boy! That's some quality shit in there."
When George next sees Teresa and James, they are sitting together at the bar, looking slightly more relaxed. James is nursing a beer, Teresa is playing with the little pink umbrella from James' abandoned pineapple cup, and their edges seem softer, somehow, knees bumping under the counter. She laughs at something he says, hair falling across her face, and James is looking at her like he's afraid she'll disappear.
God damn if these two haven't wormed their way into his cold pirate heart.
"Principesa!" he bellows, sashaying over to them. "Get up here and dance! Let's see you shake that booty!" After much protesting, Teresa allows him to drag her into the crowd of dancers. He pulls out his most ridiculous moves to make her smile and spins her in circles until she begs him to stop, dizzy and breathless with laughter. He sneaks a look at James over her shoulder, and he's watching them, his gaze colored with amusement and something else. George waltzes them over to where James is leaning against the bar and propels Teresa into his arms.
"You're up, Baby Chapo! I need to go take a piss."
Teresa wrinkles her nose at him, and he ducks through the crowd and out into the corridor. Peeking through a porthole, he sees them swaying gently together, James with one hand lightly resting in the small of Teresa's back and the other holding her hand to his chest. They are determinedly not looking at each other, but they are at least dancing, so George feels his work is done for the night.
"Your Majesty!"
He turns to see two gorgeous creatures wearing nothing but a few strategically placed coconut shells shimmying their way across the deck towards him.
"Helloooo ladies! Let's get this party started, shall we?"
***
Things get more complicated after that when Teresa decides to split from Camila and wants him to come along for the ride. The offer is tempting, but it requires some sober second thought - he has to look out for number one, and joining forces with someone as green as her has its risks. Just because he's grown fond of her and she's badass and beautiful doesn't mean he should take that gamble and piss off Camila Vargas in the bargain.
And there's the part of him that wants her to get out and away before this business consumes her and spits her out like it has so many others. But she's got gumption and has stayed alive all this time through sheer force of will, which counts for something. He’s got no love for Camila Vargas, but with Teresa…there's something there. Friendship and trust. And she's got a moral code that makes him think she'd think twice before turning on an ally. So he takes the leap.
He wonders what James has to say about Teresa jumping ship. He had high hopes for those two and had become weirdly invested in their non-relationship, trying to help them get their heads out of their asses whenever he could. But now it seems like things are spiraling out of control, and even his wittiest commentary and most heavy-handed innuendo won't make a difference now. He asks her if she's bringing along anyone else (Pote is a given at this point), but she simply shakes her head and changes the subject.
He visits her in Malta, and they spend a happy day drinking wine in the sunshine and poking around the waterfront before getting down to business. Teresa is starting small but building the foundations for something big, and it's impressive. The girl is clearly going places. She seems happy and certainly more carefree out from under Camila's thumb, but he catches her in the odd melancholy moment, gazing out to sea with a wistful expression on her face.
Months pass, and George keeps busy with work and play. He goes snorkelling with Bilal off the coast of Spain, leads the authorities on a merry chase across the Mediterranean Sea, and has a bronze statue cast of himself just for the hell of it. He tries to learn to fence with limited success, getting his ass kicked by Bilal pretty much constantly.
Then he gets the call from Teresa. She's stubbornly set on a course of action that will at best get her chased out of Malta and at worst end with her six feet under. But he knows that once she's made up her mind she's impossible to stop, like a runaway train, so all he can do is climb aboard and hope to hell they don't all go plummeting to their deaths together.
"I have to help them," she says to him over the phone, her voice breaking a little bit with the cruelty of the present and the weight of her own past. "I just have to. But Pote and James won't approve."
George nearly falls off his chair in surprise. "Did I hear you right, principesa? Has the Giant Peach returned to the fold?"
There is silence on the line for a beat. "Yes," she says finally. "He's here in Malta."
George cheers internally. Hope is restored! He wonders what prompted this sudden turn of events.
"Where the hell did he come from? I thought he was still Team Camila."
"Apparently not. He wants to work with us now."
"Well isn't that interestin’. I wonder what made him fly halfway across the world and show up on your doorstep."
"I don't know, George." Teresa sounds grumpy now. "You can ask him all about it when you get here."
"Will do, darlin'. Now don't you go and do anythin’ crazy in the meantime, you hear? You'll need more than good intentions to get this operation off the ground."
Teresa ends the call and George cracks his knuckles in anticipation. This is shaping up to be a doozy of an adventure. "Bilal! Set a course for Malta. We've got some ladies that need savin' and time's a wastin'."
Sure enough, James is there in the flesh when he shows up at Teresa's Malta digs, looking unfairly handsome as usual but somehow a little different. George knows James could still kill him in ten different ways without a weapon or breaking a sweat, but he looks less overtly intimidating somehow without the usual black leather jacket and chip on his shoulder. George still can't resist poking fun at him, though.
"Baby Chapo! Welcome back from being a dipstick."
James still gives him a look, but it's without malice, and George senses progress is being made. Though Pote seems to remain unconvinced that James' intentions are good, hounding his step and never leaving him alone with Teresa if he can help it. George isn't sure what worries the man more - that James will reveal some dark and murderous purpose for rejoining their team or that his interest lies in a more intimate direction. It's comedy gold, and George is ready to sit back and enjoy.
Their rescue op is no laughing matter, though, and he feels compelled to take Teresa aside and give her some words of warning, knowing full well it won't change her mind. But she deserves all the intel he can give her. His heart swells a little at her refusal to back down, and he knows that he made the right call all those months ago when she first showed up at his boat. She's got brains, balls, and booty…and heart, and he feels proud to stand with her in this, however ill-fated it may turn out to be.
They save the girls in the end, but it's at great cost to Teresa's prospects in Malta. So she flees back to the States with James and Pote, setting up shop in James' conveniently situated compound, and George is back to his usual routine of clandestine arms dealing and living large. Teresa texts him to let him know they've arrived safely, and he messages back send pics. She sends him a few snaps, and the place is nice, though the décor is far too subdued for George's admittedly garish tastes. Looks cozy, he sends back. Give my regards to the GP. Maybe a little domestic bliss will get things back on track with these two crazy kids.
***
Something has shifted again the next time he sees them. A whole bunch of shit has gone down - Teresa getting kidnapped (again), Devon Finch showing up at the winery, Guero dying - things are generally pretty fucked up. He leaves them alone for a goddamn second and this is what happens. Teresa and James in particular seem on edge; there's an uneasiness and a different kind of tension that wasn't there before.
"What's up with those two?" he asks Pote, watching James and Teresa dance around each other trying to get into the refrigerator. Pote just rolls his eyes and grunts, muttering something unintelligible about a wine cellar before making a hasty exit. By the time he turns around, James has also somehow vanished (the guy moves like a ninja), and Teresa is staring at the coffee pot like she hopes it holds the answer to all her problems.
"Need some help there, principesa?" he asks, moseying into the kitchen. "Or maybe a little…." He pulls a flask out of his pocket and shakes it invitingly. Teresa laughs quietly and then surprises him by taking the proffered flask and pouring a generous splash into her cup of coffee.
"One of those days, huh?"
"One of those days."
She perches on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, and he follows suit, taking a gulp of whiskey himself before sitting back and gazing around the room, hands behind his head.
"Nice place," he offers into the silence. "The Peach has good taste. And not just in home furnishings."
He waggles his eyebrows at her, fishing for something, anything, but Teresa sees right through him, narrowing her eyes as she sips slowly from her cup.
"George, you never stop, do you?"
"Hey, you could do a lot worse than G.I. James. He's handy in a gunfight and looks damn good in leather."
"Sounds like you're the one that should jump on that."
"Can't say I haven't been tempted, but he's only got eyes for you, baby doll.
Teresa looks away, colouring slightly. "George, this is none of your business."
"Your happiness is my business. Isn't that what friends are for?"
Teresa is silent for a moment, her thumbs rubbing anxious circles on her coffee mug. "Do any of us really deserve to be happy after what we've done?"
"Well this is takin' a turn for the maudlin," he says, scratching his beard. "Is this about Guero? Because that was not on you, and you shouldn't torture yourself about it." He wisely refrains from expressing his true feelings about the man in question, which are neither complimentary nor appropriate for the moment.
"Look," he says finally, sensing Teresa isn't in a sharing mood. "If you want to focus on business that's fine, but you're only as strong as the people you have around you. Just think about it."
Teresa looks at him for a moment before sighing and reaching for the flask.
"Atta girl."
***
George and James take a merry little road trip together to Mexco, and it unfortunately does not provide much insight into the enigma that is James Valdez. George wasn't expecting them to be instant besties or have soul-searching conversations about their hopes and dreams. But he was hoping the guy would throw him a bone and save him from hours of monotony.
Alas, James is not at all a chatty fellow and hides behind his sunglasses even at night, cranking the volume on his playlist of aggressive hip hop music to the point where George feels like his teeth are going to fall out. They stop for burgers and shakes on their way back, and it's impossible to get anything from the guy other than a surly grunt.
"Well this is fun," George grumbles, squirting an unexpectedly large amount of ketchup onto his tray of fries and accidentally spraying some on James in the process. James of course makes a big production out of taking off and cleaning his sunglasses, sending him a look that would turn lesser men into jelly.
"You need to chillax, brother." George takes a big gulp of his milkshake, belching softly in satisfaction. The look of disgust on James' face intensifies. "Are you always such a cranky sonofabitch, or are you bustin' out the royal treatment just for me?"
James gives him a smarmy smile and takes another bite of his burger. "Are there pickles in this?" he asks with an exaggerated grimace, pulling back the bun and poking through the garnishes with a finger. "I hate pickles."
George rolls his eyes and steals some of James' fries (since his now resemble the Texas Ketchup Massacre). "Right, this is all about pickles. You know what I think? I think you need to get laid, my man."
Something flickers briefly across his face - the slightest of twitches in the muscles of his neck, but George pounces on it.
"Aha!" he crows, slamming his palms down on the table in glee. "You did get some, you sly dog. So what's the problem?"
James gets up abruptly and tosses some money on the table. "We need to get moving. Let's go."
The music on the final leg of their trip is even more deafening than before, but George doesn't mind.
***
The day had started out so well, George thinks, wincing as his shoulder slams into the side of the van. His wrists ache from the zipties, and his stomach is churning with anxiety about Bilal. The goons that had waylaid them by the side of the road had chucked him into the back of their shady abduction wagon and he prays to whatever gods will listen that Bilal is safe in another one of the vehicles.
He finds that he's not really suited to captivity, being a man accustomed to luxury and creature comforts, but he would gladly give up everything he has to save Bilal from whatever terrible fate no doubt awaits them. He knows Teresa won’t stop looking for them - he only hopes they can last long enough to be rescued. Because when you have lunatics like Cortez involved, the odds are definitely not in your favour (and he's heard some pretty fucked up rumours about the man's backyard barbecuing). Not a very dignified way to go.
Time seems to lose meaning, but eventually the day comes where his number's up. They drag him from his cell and throw him into the back of a jeep, probably to dispose of him discretely in the desert somewhere. By this point he hardly even cares anymore. His mind is numb with the pain of what they have done to his dear friend, knowing that the man who had been his loyal companion for so long had been reduced to a mere shell of his former self. He withdraws into a fog of grief, grey and all-consuming.
But then he sees her, and it's like a beam of sunlight splitting the clouds. For a moment he thinks he's hallucinating, but it's really her, standing there like some sort of avenging angel, backlit by the desert glare. His salvation in a green sweater.
In the end, the darker part of him wishes they had killed him after all. But he wants revenge more, and that's what keeps him going through the days that follow. That and Teresa. She's a bulwark of strength and compassion, a true friend, and she's there for him when he feels like he's barely keeping his head above water. They endure together.
***
All hail the Queen.
Teresa is victorious. George loses himself in the heady mix of alcohol and success, carving up their new kingdom with Boaz and their merry band of allies. He drinks more than he should, and he eventually excuses himself, staggering a little on his way inside. The door cuts off their raucous laughter as it slides shut behind him. Thank Christ. The throbbing in his head recedes somewhat. Weaving his way in the direction of the bathroom, he stops abruptly when he hears voices.
The golden light slanting through the windows makes them appear like something out of a painting, heads bent together, cheek to cheek, hands caressing with a sad sort of reverence. The emotion in the room is palpable, and James doesn’t even notice him when he breaks their embrace and strides from the room, pain casting a shadow over his handsome features. Teresa stares after him, and he can see the moment where she swallows her grief and locks it up somewhere deep inside her, her expression serene yet determined. George's heart breaks for her.
They gravitate to each other in the months that follow, taking comfort in their shared sorrow. They're both walking around with giant holes in their hearts that they try and hide under a veneer of bravado and bluster, respectively, but he knows loss and he knows her, and he can tell it’s eating at her inside. He watches her coolly rebuff Javier's relentless flirtation, and Javier takes it all in stride. The man flirts with pretty much everything that moves, including George, all effortless charm and seductive eyes, but George is in no mood for games these days.
Teresa hasn't told him much about her relationship with James - he's had to cobble the story together from the few crumbs they've thrown him and his own observations. But one night, when they were sharing a bottle of tequila out on the deck, he had asked and she had spoken of him briefly in a moment of weakness.
"He deserved much more than I could give him.”
And that's all she would say about it. George had sensed there was much more to the story than that, but he had known better than to pry.
***
Six months pass, and their business is thriving. Teresa spends her time travelling around, forging relationships and solidifying her newly expanding empire, but she spends a decent chunk of time in his neck of the woods, and George is always happy to see her. Sometimes they go flying together or spend hours in out by the pool talking about everything and nothing.
One morning he's trudging down to the kitchen in search of coffee when he hears raised voices. He stops short, unable to resist the urge to eavesdrop.
"I told you to drop it."
"But Teresita, it's been six months and no one has seen or heard from him. What if something happened to him?"
"Pote, stop. He has no reason to contact us. He made it very clear he was done, and we need to respect that. I don't want to hear about this again."
He waits until the sound of Teresa's shoes clicking angrily across the floor has faded away before entering the kitchen. Pote is sitting at the counter glowering into a bowl of fruit.
"Now what did those bananas ever do to you?"
Pote's head snaps up, reaching reflexively for his gun and relaxing when he sees it's George. His scowl intensifies. "How much of that did you overhear?"
"Enough to know you're worried about James, and Teresa isn't havin' any of it." He doesn't have the heart to use any of the nicknames he took such pleasure in coming up with anymore, which is a shame, because they were pretty great.
Pote grunts and waves his hand at the coffee pot. George takes that as an invitation and pour himself a cup, settling in across the breakfast bar from the other man.
"I don't like it," growls Pote. "He may have left, but he's still one of us. I've been asking around, and it's like he's vanished. Not a single person I've talked to has any idea where he is or what he's doing. Something doesn't feel right."
"I can put out some feelers," offers George. "But you might want to get your little techno gremlin to do some diggin' and see if he can't pick up James' trail. Then at least we can know whether he's safe."
Pote nods in approval. "I knew Teresa kept you around for a reason."
"I'm more than just a pretty face. But speakin' of la princesa, I think we'd best leave her out of this until we find out what's goin' on."
They clink their coffee mugs together in agreement, unlikely allies in their new mission.
Ivan is the best in the business, so it isn't too long before he hits on something. Or the possibility of a something. Pote and George decide to start golfing together as a cover for their clandestine meetings, and while Teresa may find their sudden interest in spending time together strange, she doesn't comment on it. Plus she hates golf, so there's never any fear of her asking to join them. In the end it's less actual golfing and more drinking at the golf club, but it does the trick.
"So Chewie, what's the good word?" he asks as Pote settles into the seat opposite. A few patrons give them suspicious looks - they are an odd couple, Pote with his leather jacket and fierce demeanour and George with his Hawaiian shirt and bedazzled sunglasses - but George blows them a kiss and they hastily turn back to their overpriced chicken dishes.
Pote reaches into his jacket and drops a folder on the table. George flips it open and shuffles through the papers.
"A storage locker? That's our lead?"
"Rented with one of James' aliases. Victor Espinoza."
With a pang, George recognizes the name from the Chilean passport he'd had made up for James for their Bolivian adventure.
"How do we know it's him, though? That's not an unusual name."
Pote points to the date of the rental. "The rental was made the day he left. It can't be a coincidence."
A waiter appears at George's elbow. "Would you like your bill, sir?" he asks, clearly hoping the answer is yes.
"No, my good man, bring us another round. We might be here a while."
***
It’s not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, even with all of the resources at their disposal. And the answers they do find raise even more questions.
“The CIA?” Pote growls angrily, slamming his meaty fists on the table and releasing a string of expletives so foul even George is impressed. They’ve abandoned the golf club in favor of an out-of-the-way coffee shop where the staff are more tolerant of their antics, and the waitress doesn’t even look up from her magazine.
“Now hold your horses,” says George. “We don’t have the full picture here.”
“He’s betrayed us, hijo de puta, that’s the only picture I see.”
George sighs. As much as he’s fond of Pote, the man is often quick to anger and quicker to leap to worst-case scenarios. “What if he’s being coerced or blackmailed, huh? I don’t think that’s off the table.”
“Well, what do we do about it?”
“That, my friend, is the million dollar question.”
In the end, through a combination of cunning, stealth, and some sort of techno-wizardry that leaves George cross-eyed, they devise a way to get out a signal. Which is how they end up at a shopping mall downtown, surrounded by frenzied mobs of people who have descended on the place to attend the opening of a new high-end clothing store.
“This is hell,” mutters Pote as he shoves his way through a herd of 20-somethings shrieking about purses.
“It may be indeed, but our chances of being detected are pretty slim in this madhouse.”
And suddenly he’s there, materializing in front of them like some sort of specter, hood up and sunglasses on. His hair is a little longer and his face a little more haggard, but it’s unmistakably James.
“I can’t stay long,” he says is a low voice, hunching in on himself, hands jammed in his pockets. “What do you want?”
“What do we want?” snarls Pote. “What we want is to know what you’re doing working with the fucking CIA, that’s what.”
George puts out a restraining arm. “Calm down, Chewie. Jesus."
He turns to James. “Look, alarm bells went off when you vanished without a trace, so we just want to make sure you’re alright. And no, before you ask, Teresa does not know that we are here or what you are up to.”
James shifts on the balls of his feet. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.”
“Look,” he says after a beat. “You’re in no danger from me or from the CIA, ok? Let’s just leave it at that. Don’t contact me again.”
And before they can say another word, he’s melted back into the crowd, leaving them, once again, with more questions than answers.
***
Later that evening, they reconvene over a bottle of tequila.
“They must be holdin’ something over him,” George muses, building a pyramid out of shot glasses. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Even if that’s true, what can we do about it? You can’t fight the CIA.”
“Who’s fighting the CIA?”
George freezes and then curses internally. Of course Teresa would wander in at this precise moment.
“Jason Bourne?” he tries feebly. “There was a marathon on TV. Chewie here has a thing for Matt Damon.”
Teresa walks around to the other side of the kitchen island, eyeing them coolly. She’s looking particularly imposing in a crisp white pantsuit and spiky heels, arms crossed over her chest. She reminds him of an ice queen, needle-sharp gaze cutting through all their bullshit.
“For someone in your line of work, you are a terrible liar.”
George scratches the back of his neck ruefully. “Not one of my better efforts, that’s for sure.”
“What’s going on? Tell me.”
So he does. And watches that icy mask crack imperceptibly before she turns on her heel and strides hurriedly from the room. He gives her a minute and then follows her into the hallway. She’s staring bleakly into the mirror, hands white-knuckled where they are clutching the edge of the side table.
“If what you are telling me is true,” she says, her voice carefully controlled, “then he gave himself over to them for me. To keep me safe. Even after everything I did.”
He hurries over to her side, not touching her but offering himself for whatever support she might need. She grips his arm with one hand, perfectly manicured nails digging into his bicep.
“He loves you, Teresa. I called it the day I met you.”
Teresa lets out a watery half-laugh and allows herself a brief moment of indulgence, leaning into the crook of his arm.
“Don’t say that.”
He pulls her into an embrace, feeling that hard-as-nails exterior melting just a little bit more, a telltale damp patch spreading on his t-shirt. But then she wipes her eyes, squares her shoulders, and the steely glint in her eyes tell him that Devon Finch is in for a world of pain. Because this girl will burn down everything to protect the people she cares about. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose man is taken from her and forced to be a hitman for the CIA.
The journey to recover James takes Teresa to darker places than she's ever been. Nothing is off limits, and she’s ruthless in her exploitation of any weakness she finds. He can only hope that having James back will help soften her razor-sharp edges somewhat because this Teresa is starting to scare him just a little bit.
***
George is elated when the day finally comes. James is standing in the living room, looking like he doesn't know what to do with himself, but he gives George a grudging smile, and George allows himself to hope. Hope that they can finally take a breath and enjoy some measure of peace and normalcy, as much as that's ever possible in their business.
James tenses as Teresa glides into the room, looking every inch the queen she is now. It's certainly a far cry from the day they met on his boat. She smiles neutrally at him, but George can tell she's nervous.
“You have no obligation to stay. Or to me,” she says, bravely meeting James' gaze. “But I hope you understand that I couldn’t just leave you in danger. You are welcome as long as you want, and you are of course free to leave whenever you want.”
James nods, relaxing slightly. Baby steps.
The next day George sees them out in the backyard, dark heads bent together, and he hopes to hell that they are finally having a long-overdue conversation about everything that’s gone down. They're like puzzle pieces that have been handled roughly and the edges don’t quite line up perfectly anymore. But they might, with time, honesty, and a little TLC (and maybe some subtle encouragement from yours truly).
She’d promised him Texas once upon a time and decides to let him relearn the ropes while she jets off to handle her other business dealings. Some distance is probably a good thing. Teresa has changed in many ways from the woman she was even six months ago, emerging from a chrysalis of pain and self-discipline as a beautiful yet deadly creature, and so has James. The things he’s done have no doubt left their mark on his soul, and he hopes they can reconcile the people they’ve become with the feelings he knows are still there.
It’s a delicate dance, stop-and-go and painfully polite. George, with his taste for the dramatic, wants nothing more than for them to throw themselves into each other's arms and declare their love, but he resigns himself to a bit of a wait. Patience is, unfortunately, not one of his virtues.
He gets his wish at Christmas, when Teresa hosts a holiday party for all their friends and associates. It's been a profitable year, and Teresa has pulled out all the stops to show her appreciation (George wholeheartedly supports the open bar). Everything is glamorous yet tasteful, spirits are high, and he even catches Pote humming off-key Christmas carols when he thinks no one is listening.
As the night wears on, things get a little crazy. Boaz takes over the bar and starts whipping up an assortment of flaming shots, which ends with him setting his suit jacket on fire. A couple of the guys throw him into the pool, but George worries that won't stop him for long. So he sets off in search of Teresa. He doubts she wants to ring in the new year with a call to the fire department.
There's no sign of her in the crowds outside, so he searches through the various nooks and crannies of the house, accidentally getting an eyeful of Javier getting busy with someone or possibly multiple someones. He starts to feel mildly panicked when he can't find her - with the number of times Teresa's been kidnapped since he's known her, you just never know. He's checking the basement when he hears some muffled sounds coming from the laundry room. Fearing the worst, he peeks around the corner and whoa, that's not at all what he was expecting.
All he sees is a tangle of limbs. His hand up her skirt, her fingers clawing at his back. They're fused together in a frantic embrace, backed up against the wall and he really needs to leave right now. He trips over a vacuum cleaner in his speedy retreat, and it's a testament to how far gone they are that James doesn't even notice.
Of course they don’t ride off into the sunset on Javier's motorcycle, leaving all their cares behind (which is how George would have written the ending had he been consulted). There are drugs to sell, people to kill, minions to keep in line, and all those things are liable to throw a monkey wrench or two into any budding relationship.
They fight and they reconcile. She does something ruthless and he can't handle it. He puts himself in danger and she shuts down. Rinse repeat. It's a fucking rollercoaster, and George loves them, God help him, but it's exhausting being so emotionally invested in their relationship. A relationship that is both personal and professional, the two blurring and bleeding into each other with varying degrees of success.
And yet they manage to make it work. George, the vain creature that he is, likes to think he has a small hand in it. Over time she's really become his best friend, and he's one of the few people she can be vulnerable with, especially when it comes to James. Granted, getting her to talk to him is still a bit like prying open a particularly stubborn clamshell, but what's important is that she does in the end, and it helps her hold on to her humanity. It's in those moments that he still sees shades of the old Teresa, and he's so glad she's still in there.
They're out on one of his yachts, just the two of them. He's managed to lure her away from business for one glorious summer’s afternoon, and it's the most relaxed he's seen her in ages. She's ditched the power suit for a red-and-white striped shirt and capris, her curls blowing free in the breeze. Ginger beer, sandwiches, the open sea, and a beautiful woman. It just can't be beat.
As Teresa leans over to grab another bottle, her necklace falls free of where it was tucked into her shirt. George's keen eye is drawn to the diamond set in a gleaming gold band before Teresa hastily stuffs it back out of sight.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up there a minute," he says, looking at her with wide eyes. "Is that what I think it is? Am I looking at the future Mrs. Giant Peach right here?"
Teresa looks pained, despite the pink stain spreading across her cheeks. Queenpin or no, he can still make her blush. "Please don't say anything," she whispers. "I'm already putting him in so much danger."
George shifts closer to her on the bench and takes her hands in his. "Look darlin', I know what you're feelin', but makin' it official doesn't change anythin'. James has never exactly been subtle when it comes to how he feels about you - hell, he might as well have 'I love Teresa Mendoza and would gladly throw myself into a volcano strapped to a nuclear warhead if she asked me to' tattooed across his forehead."
Tears gather in her eyes, though she blinks them back in typical Teresa fashion, and he wishes more than anything that he could help her. That he could promise her that everything would be fine and that they'd live to a ripe old age with an army of adorable dark-haired children frolicking in the front yard. But all he can do is wrap an arm around her and slip his flask into her hand.
"Look," he says, trying to lighten the mood. "You know, as captain of this boat, I can marry you two right here whenever you want! No muss, no fuss. International waters, baby."
Teresa laughs through her tears and kisses him on the cheek. "You're so full of shit."
***
"We're leaving," she says, and deep down he had known this was coming ever since the day she'd emptied her stomach over the railing of his boat. Not as if that made it any easier. He pulls her into an embrace, burying his face in her hair and wrapping his arms around her, as if holding her tightly enough would keep her by his side.
"What will I do without you?" he whispers, embarrassingly close to tears. Pirates don't cry, and neither do kings, but it feels a little bit like the end of everything. He pulls away, and Teresa's face is damp.
"I wish it didn't have to be like this," she says, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, "but it's the only way."
George sinks heavily onto the couch, and Teresa folds herself gracefully down next to him. "Who's gonna teach Baby Peach to cheat at cards and hustle at pool, then?"
Teresa takes his hand in hers and squeezes it gently. "Don't worry, we will tell them all about their Uncle George, the most fearsome pirate ever to sail the seven seas."
***
Two weeks later, Teresa Mendoza and James Valdez are killed in a car bombing, and the criminal underworld is buzzing with the news. The bodies were burnt beyond recognition, but Teresa's distinctive ring was found in the wreckage along with the couple's wedding bands, and three different rival druglords claim responsibility. News anchors on the television eagerly discuss what the death of "alleged Queenpin Teresa Mendoza" means for the balance of power amongst the various cartels, and George is hounded by their various associates for all the gory details.
Pote Galvez has disappeared, no doubt in fear of his own life or perhaps in fear of persecution for his failure to protect his patrona at the last. No one gives it too much thought.
***
Life goes on, as it must, but it’s a little less bright, as if the days are being filtered through dark glass. He sees a man in a leather jacket and a woman with long dark curls and his heart stops, but then she turns, and it’s not the face he loves and misses. He gets a pet parrot and names it El Chapo, teaches it to screech out curse words in five different languages, but all he can think about is how much it would have irritated James.
Then one day an envelope mysteriously appears in the galley of his boat, propped up against one of those gold-plated pineapples James had once turned his nose up at, and he just knows. He’s received his fair share of strange and unsavory things in the mail, but this envelope is addressed to him in a spidery cursive that is achingly familiar, and he nearly trips over himself in his haste to open it.
Inside is a single photograph. Tears well in his eyes as he traces the perfect curve of a rosy, chubby cheek with his finger, and he chokes out a laugh when he sees the soft orangey-pink knitted hat with a little leaf attached to the top. On the back of the photo, she’s simply written “Baby Peach.” His heart swells. Tucking the photo in his breast pocket, he wanders out on deck to enjoy the sunset, taking comfort in the fact that somewhere out there she's happy, living her life with the people she loves.
He vows that they will meet again, come hell or high water, because there is so much he wants to teach that kid. Important life skills like throwing a punch without fucking up your hand, bluffing your way out of any sticky situation, or mixing the perfect whiskey sour.
He's not crying, goddamn it. It’s just the sun in his eyes.