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A woman in the DEA. Not in the intel service, not a glorified secretary or whatever office job - invaluable - but nestled behind a desk; no, a woman in the field. What the fuck did they think they were doing, back in DC?
Hell, his infuriated gaze was so intensely focused on you, you almost could hear him thinking. That, added to the discomfort caused by the suffocating humidity of Bogota, and exacerbated by the adrenaline pumping in your veins… You were reduced to the basicest of your instincts: put a foot in front of the other, looking right toward Murphy - he’s still there, he’s still alive - looking left toward Peña - also there, also alive - looking in front of you, no sicario. Rewind, replay.
Intelligence services had been crystal clear, they had heard it from the man himself: la garduña would be en el Mercado Paloquemao today. A really good place to blend in and carry on with one’s business undetected. Clever bastard. Too bad he had felt the need to brag about his brightness to his friend on the phone. Too bad for him, anyway.
There.
You start to run, hoping the lack of shouting on your part helps to not alert the gangster you’re after. Nice try, you can hear Peña screaming your name - of course he would be the one to ruin it - but you have several seconds ahead and la garduña is shocked. He’s only starting to run now; afraid, angry and desperate. But not as much as you are. He may know the market like the back of his hand but your ire fuels your senses; there’s nothing you can’t see, nowhere you can’t run or jump. It’s you or him.
Peña is still shouting after you, his voice cracking in the middle of the cry. If you didn’t know better… But you do know better. To Hell with Javier Peña, his big, bright puppy dog eyes, his charming pout, the fluffy nest of curls on his head and his colorful shirts. To Hell with his velvety voice, his wit, his grumpiness, his stubbornness, his implacable will to do right.
To Hell with you and your stupid, goddamn heart.
***
Someone is going to die. You or la garduña, Javi just doesn’t know yet. If he had time for sarcasm right now, he would wish for the sicario to be the one to pass away; if you die and the man is still breathing, Javi’s going to take care of him. Gonna ask Carrillo to tend to him. Gonna steal a flame-thrower in the barracks armory and put an end to the drug trafficking by himself - can’t cook coke up with their ass on fire, can they? Gonna hunt each and any asshole vaguely suspected to be in touch with fucking Escobar, gonna beat the fuck out of them all, gonna - gonna…
Gunshots. Shouts, you’re screaming - but you’re not the only one - grunts and then an agonizing cry.
Javi would swear his heart has stopped, if he weren’t running like he never has, only to find you - sprawled on the ground - and the sicario, clutching his knee, writhing in a pool of his own blood.
Like in a movie set in slow-motion, Javier watches you laboriously sitting, then touching your face and eventually your chest to assess the damages. There are several bruises forming on your arms, one on your throat - the fucker tried to strangle you - and another on your cheek. Your nose is bleeding, so is your mouth. There’s a bullet in your tac-vest.
There’s a bullet in your tac-vest.
As Javi warily comes by, you throw him a glare through the hair that has fallen in your face, still enraged. He reaches for your chin to check on the evidence of the fight by himself; delicately thumbing away the streak of blood by your mouth. Your breaths come crashing in pants on the skin of the palm of his hand.
When Javi lifts his gaze to look at you dead in the eyes, your heart skips a beat; his voice is quiet, almost soft, but tense, boiling with barely restrained fury, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
There’s an instant of shock, a momentary lapse, during which your mouth and your eyes open wide, “What… What the…”, then you snap, just like a dark, heavy sky would suddenly open up and let its rain pour and drown everything, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Peña? I was doing my fucking job!”.
Usually, when you start to yell at him, Javi takes a step back, like he knows you’re seconds away to throw a fist at his sculpted nose; right now, he doesn’t. His nostrils are flaring, however, and if looks could kill, you wouldn’t be part of this world anymore.
“I know you can’t stand me, OK? You have made it pretty clear since the beginning, but for fuck’s sake, Peña, I swear to God, if you don’t pull your own head out of your ass and start to treat me like a collegue and not like a goddamn moron, I-”.
All the strength you still have in you is redirected from forming venomous sentences to be spat at your partner in order to stop the surprised moan doing his damndest to evade your throat to escape. Javi is kissing you. It’s not sweet - obviously - but it’s not a desperate kiss either. It’s… Angry, yes, fierce - just like the man - it’s… Feral. Javier Peña is kissing you like a madman, like a beast, and it takes every ounce of willpower for you to not throw everything out the window and just do the same. So you bite him, hard, and start shouting all over again.
“You son of a b-”
“Will you, just for once in your life, shut the FUCK UP!”
You’re, indeed, stunned into silence. It’s gonna be a year since you joined the DEA office of Bogota on its war against Escobar, and Peña, if he seemed to be disinclined to trust you - always asking questions, looking over your shoulders, sweet talking Carillo into leaving you behind - never ever lashed out on you.
“You think I can’t stand you, eh? I would very much like to know how you put this idea in that pretty head of yours, cariño, really”, Javi in seething, almost spitting the words into your mouth. “When you came by, I didn’t think much of it, another set of hands, maybe a brain able to think - for once - you what they say, don’t ya? ‘Two heads are better than one’, but then - what? Four, maybe five days after you pushed your desk against Murphy’s and mine, you took down El Aconcagua all by yourself? For fuck’s sake, tigresa, I didn’t know if I should be more impressed or more terrified! And it gets me hard every single time I think about it!”
You must look like a fish out of water, with your mouth open in a perfect “O” and your eyes round like saucers. Peña? Impressed? Scared? And hard? All because of you?
“Not a day goes by that you don’t dazzle me in a way or another, but I can’t stand you running like crazy in the streets of Bogota because I fucking adore you, ok? I probably would burn the whole Colombia to the ground should something happen to you, do you understand that?!”
Out of breath, Javi pauses in his soliloquy; his gaze, molten chocolate irises, dips to your mouth, then reaches back up to your eyes. He doesn’t move, this time; doesn’t have to, you’re on him in a blink.
There is no battle for dominance; you yield, because you want to. This kiss is no less devastating, rough to the point of aggression. All teeth and tongue, the will to merge and never be parted again. There is blood on Javi’s lips, on the skin on his throat and even on his shirt, and you praise whatever force bigger than you for it not being the pink one - if it has been soiled beyond repair, you would have cried. One of Javi’s hands is tangled in your hair, cradling your head, and its tenderness contrasts gorgeously with the roughness of his lips; the other has found his home on your lower back, keeping you pressed against his chest. You gleefully run both your hands in his fluffy curls and - God above… Have you dreamed about doing that… And yet, it’s better than in any of your fantasies, you couldn’t have dreamed a sound as luscious, ravenous as Javi made when you tugged softly on the short bangs nestled on the nape of his neck.
“Shit, sis, did you slash his tendon?!”
Murphy’s bewildered cry pops your little bubble, and everything comes rushing by you: the roar of the city, soldiers and policemen calling for each other, the whining of the gangster Steve’s trying to get to stand, the heat, the taste of copper in your mouth, the growing pain - especially in your abdomen - but Javi… Javi’s looking at you like he’s going to eat you alive.
“Did you?”, his voice doesn’t go past a murmur.
“Yeah, he - he tried to strangle me”, you lift your hand to your throat, lightly poking at the tender flesh there, before Javier takes your hand in his and away from your sore skin, his expression torn between concern and anger, “he had my head stuck under his arm, and his knife almost poked me in the eye, so…”. You had slashed la garduña’s tendon behind the knee with his own knife.
You’re graced with another spirited kiss and fervent look from Javi before he stands up, just as Steve comes by, hauling the sicario in cuffs, blocking their way. You see it before it happens, you see the tornado of anger rampaging inside Javier’s mind, you see his hands balling into fists and a good man thirsty for justice turning into a violent hoodlum. But he’s so much better than that.
“Javi!”, his punch freezes in the air and he quickly glances your way; your eyes are bright, inviting, “I need help to tend to my injuries”, he knows Murphy won’t stop him - not immediately, anyway - and he’s also sure you wouldn’t be that mad - the fucker did a good number on you, after all.
“Please”.
Javi lowers his fist and just stares down at the man clutching his still bleeding knee, but also looking at you like you had sprouted a second head, “Don’t look her way! Pendejos like you aren’t worthy to even think about looking her way!”
Then, as Steve shoves the sicario toward a police van, Javier turns around and barks “Que estas esperando? No ves que està herida? Tràeme un botiquín de primeros auxilios! Rapido, vamos!”. You suppose he asked someone to bring something to patch you up, because, less than two minutes later, a soldier is rushing your way with a first aid kit.
Javi gets back on his knees to the ground in front of you and starts to take care of your wounds. And he’s irresistible. While he works, you can’t help kissing whatever part of him you can reach - his fingertips, his wrist, his forearm, the back of his hand when he tries to assess if the gash in your lips needs stitches or not, his knuckles when the soft, wet feeling startles him back in the moment, and his palm when he playfully tries to stop your shenanigans - then he resorts to giving just as good as he gets, kissing your forehead when you hiss from the prickling feeling of the sanitizer, your cheek when you slightly turn your head to ease his way to the bruise on your throat, your nose and your lips, just because he can; all the while whispering endearments in a charming mix of English and Spanish. He can’t stop fussing.
“You’re sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, I’m alright; look! As good as new!” You smile at him, you’re being sincere, it hurts like a bitch, but nothing serious. You know, however, that he’s nowhere near done with worrying about you and honest enough to admit - to yourself - that having all his attention focused on you is… pleasant. Very pleasant. “But… Hum - maybe someone should keep an eye on me overnight? To be sure everything is alright?” You purr, winking at him, a little, devilish smile on your bruised lips.
You’re gonna be the death of him.
“You’re right, you know. Do you want to come back home with me? You can sleep with Connie in the bed, and I’ll take the couch, if you want.” Once again, Murphy bursts the little bubble Javi and you have caught yourselves in. But it’s intentional, this time, and the smug little smirk he’s displaying under his mustache each time he’s endorsing the role of your “chosen big brother” would confirm it if you had any doubts.
“Fuck off, Murphy! She’s not going to sleep in any bed but mine, tonight!”
And Javi’s disgruntled face doesn’t fool you, you will definitely need to have a power nap in the car when going back to the Embassy if you want to have some eyes-shut time anytime soon.