Work Text:
1993
Javier Peña knew pain, knew it so well that he could not imagine ever not having felt hurt. He had resigned to the feeling and had made it a part of himself. Javier had trust issues running so deep that any psychologist would have been happy to call him their steady customer. He rarely went to see them. Trust issues, he would say. Running shit-deep. Six feet, he would joke if anyone asked how deep. More often than not, his counterparts wouldn’t understand. And he didn’t blame them. There was no one to blame. Back in Laredo, people sometimes told him how much he had changed, and the comment stung more than he would show. He knew, of course. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw the impact that Colombia had had on him. He was 41, and he looked like 55. The past five years had aged him. The worry lines that hadn’t been there before Colombia were now carved into his forehead like a permanent scowl. They would smoothen out when he smiled, but he didn’t do that as much as he used to. With Joe for example, or with Steve. Steve Murphy had been his partner in Colombia, and he had become his most trusted friend. Maybe because he knew the secret that Javier had successfully kept from everyone else. Maybe because he kept it. Sometimes people told him how he hadn’t changed at all, and Javier felt a sharp pang at that comment too because it made him realise how little of the shit was obvious to the eye and how much was buried inside him. If people knew what he had seen and done, they would avoid him. And he didn’t blame them. He had seen death in more ways than a sane mind could imagine, and he had witnessed torture and the aftermath of rape in shapes that would still make him sick. He had blundered, and pretended, and lied, and he had killed. He had sided with criminals to fight other criminals. He had trusted some of them more than he had trusted his own government. Instinct had kept Javier alive all those years, and instinct had told him to hide parts of himself. The man that had left for Colombia five years ago had been gentle and kind. He had been nice and polite, shy about his looks and his name and his accent despite his degrees and years of work experience. He had been hurt and shaken, and he had chosen to go to Colombia to heal. That hadn’t played out well. He had been so naive. His agreement with Lorraine had been a compromise of sorts. He had trusted her, and he had genuinely believed in that white picket fence. He had always been good at playing pretend, but he had settled for that outlook: they would have got married if she had fallen pregnant. They would have made things work somehow. Instead, she had betrayed him, had tried to trick him into a marriage that he could have foregone, and he had bolted. And he had suffered for it.
Javier Peña knew disappointment. People had let him down regularly, and he had been kicked in the guts so often that, had the blows not been proverbial, he would have died of internal bleeding. He had cried a lot when he was younger. It had been easy then. Whenever life had treated him unfairly, the tears had come. Life hadn’t been kind on him over the past five years, and the tears had dried up. These days, he would try and drown his sorrow in whiskey. Steve had noticed and had tried to stop him. The blond had realised that Javier didn’t give a shit about his life. He had listened and he had caught the subtext that Javier wouldn’t divulge. He had mastered his gringo act, bringing out Javier‘s protective streak, and it had worked.
Javier Peña knew fear. Before Colombia, he had been afraid of big things like war or the dark or death. Colombia had changed that. The assignment had effectively been a war, and he had fought it so relentlessly that sometimes the lines between the two sides had blurred. It had been confusing and dangerous, and the only person he had truly been able to rely on had been himself. Until the drinking had got out of hand. He had always been very much in control. He had successfully managed his anger and his pain, but in Colombia, he had reached his breaking point. He had had a lot of sex over the first years, craving the moment everything would turn white and his mind would go blank if only for a couple of minutes. At first, he had just fucked his hand when things had got too much. He had never gone to prostitutes. In Colombia, they had become his addiction. Until the sex had got out of hand, too. He had sensed it, but one night, a hooker had downright told him that he had changed, had turned violent. She hadn’t said that she hadn’t liked it, but he had caught her meaning anyway. So he had given up sex. He was afraid of hurting people, and that was what relentless pounding into another body would do. Javier wasn’t like that, and he hated the fact that he had obviously not been able to control his anger. He felt ashamed, corrupted and broken, and he hated himself. He hated himself so much that he had stopped caring if he lived or died, he wasn’t afraid of death. He wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore either. After a weekend of torture that he had endured, blindfolded, he could handle darkness. He feared whatever he would see when he opened his eyes. He wasn’t dealing with the fear. He just drank and avoided sleep to avoid waking up.
Javier Peña knew loneliness. When he was lying awake at night, he sometimes wished himself in the arms of someone – just cuddling and caressing. He would have loved to hold someone, feel some other body’s breath and pulse against his skin, share a bed. Just to sleep. He wasn’t after sex these days. He had had enough of that in Colombia where he had slept around, at first to keep up appearances, then to gather intel. Penis Peña had been impressively resourceful. Maybe it was his orientation that had been obvious to his informants. Maybe it was the fact that he had been brought up to treat women with respect. He had been really coy at first, bashful even. But he had learned the trade, and he had enjoyed it, still he didn’t really miss the sex. He had just had enough of the wrong kind. Steve’s words. Steve knew. At some office do, a very drunk Steve had pressed a very wet kiss to his temple, and Javier could still feel the sensation of those chapped lips on his face. He hadn’t seen the kiss coming, and he had been frozen to the spot. Steve had sobered up instantly and had been all flustered and apologetic. He had seen Javier’s discomfort, and he had thought that Javier would hate him for overstepping when, effectively, Javier had felt his heart break at the conversation that had followed. I’m not gay, Steve had made that unmistakably clear. But I am, Javier had replied in a voice that had been barely a whisper. Nobody had heard, well, nobody but Steve. Javier had no idea why he had said it. He had been drunk, and he had also wanted to warn Steve to stay away because he liked Steve. The kiss had twisted something in his stomach, and Steve had later told him that he had thought Javier had had a crush on him. Javier had denied that firmly, but he had in fact been crushing on the other man. He had envied his looks, and he had envied his stance. Steve was honest. He was a tough nut, and Javier was soft. No matter how hard he was laying on that macho act, Steve would always see through him. Javier wasn’t gay, he didn’t think of himself as gay, but he saw attraction in all sexes. He had disclaimed that he liked men for a long time, but of course, there had been guys that had caught his eye. He had never acted on it, well, hadn’t on US soil. He had had encounters across the border, nothing explicit, just testing the water. The first time he had kissed a man he had felt deeply ashamed. It wasn’t something he had been brought up to accept as normal. It had felt wrong, sinful, and dirty, but it had also felt so good. He had been scared of his bosses finding out, so he had suppressed his desires and had started going out with Lorraine.
In Colombia, he had stopped caring about what others thought. He had built his reputation as a fuckworthy manwhore, and when he had hooked up with men, nobody had cared because they had thought him unsavoury anyway. And then he had met Joaquin. His secret boyfriend. Joe was DEA, too, and he had lived in the same building. They had met at the pool, and the tall blond had caught Javier’s eye. They had bumped into one another regularly after that, in the market-place mostly, buying fruit. When Joaquin had introduced himself, Javier had flinched at his touch. Joaquin had got the message straightaway and had respected the boundaries Javier had set. He hadn't been pushy, he had just quietly made his interest very clear, and Javier had been flattered. Joaquin was handsome and clever and charming, and he had not tried to change him. Quickly, they had taken turns doing the shopping or putting beers in the fridge. They had spent long and hot summer nights smoking and drinking, and one night, Joe had kissed him. They hadn’t spoken, but after that gentle touch that had been over too soon Joaquin had held his hand, well, had wrapped his hand around Javier’s wrist reassuringly, and that had been it. Javier's heart had melted. It had taken him months to allow the other one in, but he had gradually opened up, and the more time they had spent together, the deeper he had fallen in love.
He would transfer to Mexico next, and he knew that Bruce Stock had Joaquin in for a transfer as well. Bruce knew, too. He had known Javier for ages and had been aware of his experimental journeys to Mexico. He had been around when Lorraine had happened, and he was discreetly pulling some strings. Until then, Javí and Joe would speak on the phone. Javier had no idea if they would last, if thirty years from now, they would still be together, but he knew that he wouldn’t mind.
Javier Peña didn't know love, but he had caught a glimpse of it. It scared him, but it made him feel happy at the same time. When he had told Steve that Joe confused the hell out of him, Steve had grinned wistfully and had pointed out that that was what love would do to you. Javier had gaped at him dumbfounded. Love? Sure, he would spend a lot of time with Joe. They would go out for drinks, cook simple but incredibly delicious meals, ate them quietly on that old couch of his, watch TV, have more drinks and fall asleep. They would wake up leaning into one another. Javier would miss Joe when he had gone to Medellín, and his face would light up when he had returned. "We don't do stuff," Javier had told Steve, and his partner had laughed and said that that was none of his business. "We kiss ... sometimes," Javier had offered nonetheless. They cuddled, too. These days, they would share the bed rather than the couch. "Do you think of him?" Steve had asked, and Javier had nodded, "Same as you'd think of me?" Pendejo, Javier had huffed and had elbowed Steve. Joe didn't annoy him - ever. Javier had accepted Joe's over-precision and his horror of chaos as much as Joe had come to terms with Javier's horror of messes and stains. Javier had got used to Joaquin's ridiculous strawberry soap that didn't smell half as bad when it mixed with his aftershave, and Joaquin tolerated the smell of whiskey and cigarettes on all of Javier's clothes, even his sweatpants and T-shirts (Javier had no idea why those would smell). They weren't perfect, but somehow they were perfect for one another. Javier still slept with women occasionally, but he thought of Joe as Home. Love, Steve had shrugged, and Javier had frowned. Sitting on his dad's porch, smoking, Javier realised that he missed Joe and that he was looking forward to seeing him again. He was missing his company, his voice, his smile. He was missing his dry sense of humor, his smell, his touch. He thought of the last kiss they had shared. It had been long and deep, and it had felt like goodbye. He would see Joe in Mexico. They would be set up at the same building. Javier felt an odd tingling in his stomach. His cheeks, he found, were glowing too, and he was sure that his eyes would show a dreamy look. Love then, he thought, and blew a cloud of smoke into the afternoon air.