Given To The Wild

by couldsewyouastitchandsavenine

Summary:

"He knows her. Had seen her around—always with her head down, quiet, perhaps even tedious, and marked by an invisible link to Stechner—a connection that would normally kindle Javier's disdain effortlessly. However, this time, the sight of her distress unnerves him more than he cares to admit."

Notes:

three parts, three The Maccabees songs from their Given To The Wild album.

Chapter 1: Ayla

It’s late in the day when he decides to make his escape.

Just as the sun’s starting to think about dipping low, Javier steps out, only pausing to light up a cigarette. And then, tucking one hand into the pocket of his pressed trousers, he descends stairs. There are a few colleagues congregating at the landing. Faces he’d seen before but cannot, or simply isn’t bothered to attach names to. They offer greetings; he responds with polite nods, his stride unbroken and his mind elsewhere.

The embassy itself is a fortified compound with high walls,  rigorous security checks, and guards with an eye for detail so sharp, they'd notice a pin drop before it hit the ground—except, maybe, the small pathway that snakes its way around the building. The very same one that leads to a hidden corner.

Javier's little slice of nowhere.

The air there is stale, thick with the dust and stories of the city it overlooks—a stark contrast to the crisp, air-conditioned corridors he’s left behind. And most of all, it’s quiet.

Except, when he gets there, it isn’t.

Javier spots her before she can catch the sight of him as she is too busy fighting a silent battle against a ghost only she can see.

He knows her. Had seen her around—always with her head down, quiet, perhaps even tedious, and marked by an invisible link to Stechner—a connection that would normally kindle Javier's disdain effortlessly. However, this time, the sight of her distress unnerves him more than he cares to admit.

Curled into herself against the dusty wall, her breaths are coming in short sharp gasps as if each inhale is a hard-won triumph itself. Her hands are entwined in her hair, a silent scream that her head has grown too burdensome for her neck, and her shoes lay abandoned beside her as if they’re the last of her worries.

Javier pauses, torn between the urge to leave and a flicker of empathy that simmers inside of him at the sight.

“Hey,” he offers before he can talk himself out of it—the gravel under his shoes betraying his approach. “You alright?”

Her startled gaze meets his, a storm of surprise, perhaps embarrassment, swirling in her eyes.

“I… yeah, I’m fine. Just needed to… breathe, I guess?” Her attempt to articulate her thoughts stumbles, her fingers brushing back strands of hair, some of which cling stubbornly to her sweat-dampened forehead.

Offering advice feels clumsy on Javier's tongue. “Breathing’s good,” he remarks, internally chastising himself for the banality of his advice.

Yet, she seems to take no offence. “That much I know,” she responds with a strained smile. "I just can't... seem to catch enough of it,” her words falter, barely making it past her lips.

Javier feels an inexplicable tug, a pull towards... something. It's enough for him to drop his cigarette and crush it under his heel as he moves closer.

“Okay, listen to me. Just focus on the sound of my voice, alright? We're gonna breathe together. Nice and slow,” he instructs, taking deliberate breaths to set a pace for her. “Inhale... hold it... now exhale. There you go, just like that,” his tone is gentle, yet firm, encouraging.

After her breathing evens out, she's quiet. Time passes—a minute, maybe two—before she ventures, her voice tinged with vulnerability, “Why are you helping me?”

Javier, bemused, as if the answer is self-evident, replies lightly, “Why wouldn't I help?”

Her eyelids flutter open, revealing a pair of striking eyes that dart away, cautious, not quite meeting his, and Javier wonders if she’s actually not aloof or uptight as he had pegged her for.

Perhaps, she is just… shy?

Her answer is preceded by a shrug. “It’s just… I know all about the tension with Stechner… kinda makes this awkward, no?” she offers. “But, look—I'm not them. I have no interest in being them. All I'm trying to do is survive, really. Pay my bills, chase after a few dreams.”

It quickly dawns on him that she's trying to apologise for her situation.

Silly girl—he thinks to himself as he shifts a little, seeking a more comfortable position on the unforgiving concrete. He stretches out, the movement languid, and a soft sigh breaks free as he fishes another cigarette from the pack. He offers one to her, already anticipating her refusal, which comes as a gentle shake of her head.

He exhales a stream of smoke, the smirk never quite leaving his face. “If I judged everyone by their associations, I’d be a very lonely man. You're alright by me."

"That's good to hear."

He nods. She nods back.

“So…,” he starts again, his tone casual but probing, “what had you fighting for air?”

She is contemplating as she picks at a loose thread on her trousers, a colour that does no favours for anyone. “I don’t know… well, I kinda do—,” she starts, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, “but it's hard to imagine you'd actually want to listen.”

“You wound me,” Javier retorts, his voice tinged with mock offence.

Twisting her fingers in her lap, she looks up, focusing on nothing in particular. “It’s just… every day feels like walking a tightrope, y’know?” She pauses as if gathering her thoughts. "And it's not just the politics, which are a labyrinth in their own right. It's the people—colleagues who smile in your face while sharpening knives for your back. The constant second-guessing of allies and the pressure to stay one step ahead of... well, everyone." She shakes her head, the weariness evident. "And when you do find the lapse, when you patch up one leak, there's always another waiting. It's... exhausting.”

Javier nods. Looks at the cigarette between his fingers, and then glances at her. “You ever think about walking away?”

She pauses, the question seeming to pull her from a sea of thoughts. With a sigh, she leans back slightly against the cool wall, the tension in her shoulders easing as she finds her words.

"Every day," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper, resonating with a mix of resignation and defiance. "But, you know, fear's got a tight grip. And hope…,” she trails off and then shrugs once more, as if she’s hoping that he’ll get the hint.

And he does. Moreover, he knows exactly what she means.

“Yes, I get it,” he admits at last.

"I'm sorry," she begins, her voice carrying a hint of regret, "It was silly of me to just... unload everything on you like that."

"You're fine. I asked for it, didn't I?" Javier's response comes with a reassuring ease, his tone gentle yet firm, dismissing her concern. He allows the silence that follows to stretch, using the time to savour the last of his cigarette. Then, slowly, rising to his feet, he offers her a hand. "Come on, let's get you up."

Hesitantly, she takes his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. There’s a moment of awkwardness as she steadies herself, brushing off the dust from her clothes. Ever so gentleman, Javier then bends down to collect her shoes, and offers his arm for support as she slips them on.

“Thanks again,” she mumbles. “But, I better get going.”

He nods in response, but says nothing, and it’s only after she rounds the corner and disappears from his view does he realise that he hadn’t asked her about her name.

---

Twelve days have passed and Javier still doesn’t know her name.

That’s not to say that she is a stranger. At least, not any longer. No, she’s a presence now. Fleeting and ephemeral.

Their exchanges are brief—a nod of his, a ghost of a smile of hers, the brush of their elbows in the corridor’s fleeting passings; two planets sharing an orbit, if only for a moment.

Except when they linger.

It's in those unguarded moments across from Stechner's office, under the guise of his own preoccupations with the damn copier, that he finds his gaze seeking out for her. That's when she becomes unmistakably vivid: seated behind the desk, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, fingers deftly dancing across her keyboard.

This newfound awareness of her is disorienting and unsettling, to say the least. And as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Javier finds himself searching for her, even though they never speak again, not really.

She never shows up at that spot where their paths first crossed, not that Javier's really keeping track. Or so he tells himself. It's just routine, or coincidence maybe, that he ends up back there more often than not. He’d deny it if asked—deny that he's looking for her, deny that part of him hopes to see her again. Because it's not like him to dwell on what's probably nothing more than a chance encounter, but there he is, making excuses to check that alley, as if he's expecting something to come of it.

Sixteen days in, and Javier’s mood is thunderous, a brooding storm of frustration fueled by Stoddard’s latest stunt. He’s all but stalking towards his usual solace at the back of the building, annoyance riding him hard. The last thing he expects—the last thing he thinks he needs—is company.

Yet, there she is, a quiet presence against the wall, her lunch abandoned, book in hand, shoes kicked off just like that first day.

“¡Ostia!” The curse slips out, raw and instinctive, before he can catch it, his hand coming up to shield his eyes.

A part of him—a damned stubborn part—wants to hold on to his anger, to remain unaffected by her presence. But there’s another part, quieter, more insistent, that recoils at the thought of her seeing him like this.

He breathes out a long breath through his nose and tugs on his tie in order to loosen it.

Why the fuck is he wearing a tie?

“Want me to leave?” she suddenly asks, and only then Javier realises that he hadn’t really made an effort to go back before she had a chance to spot him.

He struggles to form an answer—the anger, or rather annoyance at Stoddard, thickening his tongue. It's the sight of her gently marking her page with a thumb, the careful closing of her book, that jolts him back to reality.

“No,” he says, trying to lose his voice of its earlier edge. “I’m not… it’s not you,” he adds gruffly, struggling to navigate his words while fiddling with his cigarettes. “It’s just… Stoddard has been a real pain lately.”

She nods, but says nothing as he lights up one, and takes a deep drag, raking a hand through his hair. Then, she’s speaking again, gently. “Well, if you want to talk about it…”

Leaving the invitation hanging, she opens the door for Javier—the one he’s not obliged to walk through. So, he doesn’t. Instead, he shakes his head, releasing the cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

“Nah, it’s not worth the breath,” he dismisses, yet appreciates the gesture more than he wants to admit.

Then, with a grace that seems to contradict the setting, she is suddenly leaning over to the other side of her, reaching into a bag that Javier hadn’t noticed before. Wordlessly, she pulls out a flask, unscrews the cap, and offers it to him with a timid smile.

“Here, might take the edge off.”

Eyebrow raised, Javier accepts it. It’s heavier than it looks, cold against his palm.

“Now, this is a surprise,” he chuckles as he leans back against the wall, sniffing out a familiar aroma. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to carry whiskey around.”

“It's for emergencies,” she quips, the corners of her lips tilting up more noticeably now. “Consider this one. M'not good at breathing exercises, but this'll do.”

Javier smirks and takes a first sip.

It feels like a wordless communion as they pass the flask back and forth, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of the city beyond their secluded spot. And it’s not a surprise that that’s exactly what Javier had hoped for when he stormed out of the office, annoyed with Stoddard, the case, with himself.

He craved silence. No probing questions. No forced understanding. No digging deep.

After a few rounds, she breaks the silence, her voice tentative, betraying a hint of hesitance that hadn’t been there moments ago. “Are you...um, going to the bureau thing later this week?”

Her question tumbles out awkwardly, as if she's navigating through it in real-time, her eyes not quite meeting his.

Javier's response is immediate, a touch of sarcasm lacing his tone as he takes another sip before passing the flask back to her. “Probably not. Mixing private and professional?” He lets out a short, humourless laugh to a joke only he understands. “Ain’t really my style.”

“Fair enough.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unasked questions and unsaid words. Then, almost against his better judgement, Javier finds himself speaking, curiosity edging out his initial reluctance. “You going to be there?”

She hesitates, her fingers tracing the edge of the flask. “I usually skip these things,” she confesses, a slight shrug accompanying her words. “But lately, I've felt...on the edge, thinking maybe it's time to stop being such a...hermit. Plus, Katie’s been kind to me.”

Under his breath, Javier mutters a curse, more to himself than to her. The words are bitter, carrying the weight of a regret he doesn't care to examine too closely—the aftermath of a one-night stand with Katie that had complicated things more than he'd like to admit.

“It's her birthday,” she adds as if she's trying to clear up the fog that sits on Javier's understanding. Then, abruptly, her calm shatters. “Oh, fuck—” she exclaims, eyes widening as they catch the time on her watch while she's gathering her things. “I've got a meeting in ten minutes.”

Reflexively Javier reaches out his hand, and this time, she doesn't hesitate to take him up on his offer to help her up. Her hand is cold against his. Tiny, too.

As she begins to hurry away, she pauses—a moment of hesitation—then turns back to him. With a small, decisive motion, she retrieves the flask, extending it towards him once more.

“Wait, why—?” Javier starts, confusion threading his voice.

“You can refill it and give it back some other time."

Javier doesn't know what to say so he nods, and with that, she's turning around and hurrying away, cradling her belongings to her chest as she yet again disappears behind the building.

“¡Mierda!” he finds himself hissing as he looks down at the flask in his palm, realisation burning his chest.

He still doesn't know her name.

Chapter 2: Go

Summary:

"Outside, they navigate around the chaos of the city, alive on Friday night. There are street vendors shouting for attention, and there is music leaking out of every crack and crevice. There’s laughter and there’s singing, and whistling, and yet, the two of them are quiet. "

Notes:

Second part! Thanks for everyone who's read the first one... and also, I've got to say, seeing @IceKalisto in kudos list made me very happy because I am a big fan of The Lessons We Learn, anyway... love you xx

P.S.

Happy Ides of March <3

Katie looks all but thrilled to see him. And she looks even less impressed with him when she looks at the bottle of red that Javier had pushed into her grasp only moments earlier. 

It’s a good vintage, he’s almost certain, and it had looked sophisticated and expensive enough when he discovered it in one of the less-used cabinets in his office, earlier that day. Why he even owned a bottle of such wine lying around in his office, Javier can’t tell. He reckons that it must have been a gift from some diplomat, back when he first arrived in Bogotá. 

His congratulations are murmured, devoid of any real warmth and barely cutting through the giggles and chatter of Katie’s acquaintances—women whose faces Javier vaguely recognises but struggles to place their names or even the department they hail from. Which is fair. They all look the same to him, anyway. 

Katie’s nod is brief and her glance at the wine label fleeting. “Fancy,” she states, her tone devoid of any real interest. “Can’t say I expected to see you here, Peña.” 

Javier just shrugs, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Didn't have anything better to do,” he replies, his frankness drawing a sharp intake of breath from one of Katie's friends—a clear indicator he's just stepped further into territory he ought to have avoided, his attendance a faux pas in itself.

“Well… thanks , I guess,” Kate answers, her words loaded with sarcasm so thick, one could cut through it with a knife. 

What ensues is silence. Awkward, expected, and so charged that Javier can almost hear and feel the collective anticipation for him to retreat. 

So, he does exactly that. 

Muttering a half-hearted ‘ ladies ’, Javier tips an invisible hat in their direction before pivoting around, leaving the whispers in his wake to fade into background noise. 

Once at the bar, Javier slouches against it, idly wiping away the condensation on the beer bottle with his thumb as he looks around. Truth to be told, the mental list of places he’d rather be and activities he’d rather be doing, is embarrassingly long and certainly doesn’t include rubbing elbows with people he could care less about. And yet, despite all the racing, grappling, seeking and digging for a solid reason for why he’s here, Javier can’t come up with a single one. 

But, Javier is no fool to his own heart. 

Only, he’s far from being ready to admit to anyone—especially himself—that beneath the indifference and feigned confusion, he’s painfully aware of his actions and motivations. 

He’s painfully aware why he had spent an absurd amount of time, looking for the right shirt and then fretting over whether the damn tie matched; why he nearly stopped to get his hair trimmed on his way to work.  

He’s painfully aware how many times this week he’s had to restrain himself from going to the back of the compound, or how often he’d found himself lingering by the copier just so he could catch a glimpse—or three—of her. 

He’s painfully aware of his pulse quickening when he’d heard Stechner barking out a name—her name—as he ordered her to follow him down the corridor as if he was leading some sort of ceremonial procession. 

Javier nearly gave himself a whiplash after craning his neck to make sure it was her Stechner had addressed. 

Above all, he's painfully aware of the weight and rightness with which her name held on his tongue the first time he dared to utter it, quietly and in his own company.

It’s the same kind of sense or rightness that envelops him when he says it out loud, sensing her presence next to him. As if he had found and tried a key to a cabinet he thought he’d never unlock—unexpected, yet fitting perfectly. 

"I don’t recall ever telling you my name," she points out, having wedged herself between Javier and a colleague he recognises from PAS, craning on her tiptoes to catch the bartender's attention.

“That’s because you didn’t,” Javier admits, taking an unhurried sip of his beer as she places her order. "Guess it’s a DEA thing. We’re pretty adept at... digging stuff up."

She’s smiling now, the rim of her bottle poised against her lower lip, dragging it out slightly. He knows it’s an unconscious action on her part, devoid of any deliberate intent, yet it catches his attention far longer than it is appropriate. Longer than he cares to admit.

"You could've just asked, y’know?" she chides gently—beer in hand—before turning around in order to lean casually against the bar.

She’s wearing the same trousers he’d seen her wear so many times, but the blouse from earlier that day had been replaced by a soft-coloured, long-sleeved tee that sits tucked in her waistline. He notices some dainty jewellery, too; a small brooch in a shape of sun at her collarbone and tiny pearl earrings. 

Before she can catch him staring, Javier decides to shift to mirror her, seeking whatever has caught her attention, and it comes as no surprise that it’s Feistl, attempting to teach Van Ness what can only be described as a dance routine gone wrong. And it’s even less of a surprise that seeing Van Ness fail to mimic Feistl is what coaxes a genuine giggle out of her. 

“So…,’ she draws out—eyes still following his men, making fools out of themselves across the room. “If I were to ask how you're holding up, would you give me an honest answer, or should we save our breaths?”

“ Honestly ,” he begins, a light chuckle escaping him. “Given everything that’s been going on, I’m not even sure I know how to answer that question truthfully. But ask me anyway. Might just surprise you—and myself.”

She gives a nod, and takes a sip of her beer— fingers idly scratching her jawline, right below her ear, in what might be a moment of contemplation or a brief display of vulnerability. Javier can’t tell, so he allows himself to wonder.

“How have you been?”

With the question out in the open, Javier retrieves a cigarette and lights it up—the dimple in his right cheek making an appearance at the absurdity of the interaction they’re about to have. Still, he takes his time before answering. Sifts through the week’s events with calloused hands, deliberately hiding away a detail he wants to keep for himself—not quite ready to confess how many moments he'd caught himself watching her, whether by chance or choice.

At last, Javier is leaning over, tapping the ash into a nearby ashtray as he answers, “I’ve been good.”

"Wow, you really are a man of few words," she notes, a pause in her motion as the bottle hovers near her lips.

"I prefer the term ' mysterious ' but sure," Javier replies, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "Everything okay on your end? All quiet on Stechner's front?"

She nods, her eyes darting to meet his for what feels like a fraction of a second. “As quiet as it gets. Tough... the other day, I spent hours searching for my flask. Nearly drove myself mad. And then I remembered…”

“Was meaning to return it,” Javier chuckles, “but I didn’t see you around.”

The white lie that falls off of his lips is effortless, and is met with a quiet that lingers for a moment or two before she ventures again. This time, her voice is curious; even hesitant. “I’m surprised that you actually came to this thing. Especially after you and Katie… after everything, y’know?” 

Javier doesn’t answer straight away but simply clicks his tongue and turns around, signalling the bartender for another round. The beer is cold when he wraps his hands around the bottle, and so is his response, “Ah, of course. I should've known you’d bring that up.”

“I’m sorry,” she hurries, busy with nervously peeling the label on her bottle. 

“Don’t be,” he reassures, watching as her shoulders slump with relief. “You’re just saying what’s on everyone’s mind.”

She falls silent, her lips pressed to the damn bottle again, a barrier of sorts. And Javier finds himself fighting the urge to let his gaze linger once again. 

"But, y’know, it didn’t come as a surprise," she ventures once more, her shoulders lifting in a shrug that carries a weight her smile fails to mask. There's a hint of melancholy, a touch of sadness perhaps, as she adds, "Katie's… well, Katie. And I must admit, I do wonder sometimes what it is like to be on everyone’s radar.”

It's a quiet confession, one she punctuates with a glance towards Katie before taking a long drink from her beer, seemingly searching for distraction.

"You're probably on more radars than you realise."

Javier doesn’t expect her to laugh, but she does. And it’s nothing sort of ladylike, but a snort so vigorous and erupting with such a force that it causes her beer to tragically make its escape through her nostrils. She’s mortified, amused and embarrassed at the same time as she brings her sleeve up and against her nose. 

“Javier—,” she attempts once more, clearly amused by his statement. “The only radar I've managed to blip on is Stechner's, especially when I’m lagging behind on typing up his ‘ genius ’.”

“¡ Tonterías !” Javier's grin is involuntary, sparked by her self-deprecating humour. “Bet it’s just your shyness. Throwing off your frequency or something.”

"I'm not shy," she protests, albeit with a smile that suggests she's partly in agreement.

Javier, busy with lighting up another cigarette, looks at her. “Of course you’re not.”

As he rearranges the ashtray around his bottle, sliding it closer, she makes another attempt. “Seriously, I’m not. It’s just—” Her words trail off, and she makes a vague gesture with her hand, as if physically grappling with her thoughts, trying to pluck the right words. “It’s a tactical silence.”

It’s Javier’s turn to chuckle, though it’s more of a gruff laugh, and not nearly as unrestrained as her earlier display. “Tactical silence, huh? Sounds like some fancy term for avoiding trouble. Stechner teach you that?” 

When she laughs, Javier finds himself glancing at her. Lingering. But then, she is answering, and he is looking away yet again. “Occupational hazard, I’d say. Dodging his ego is a full-time job.”

His smile is wry before he’s leaning in slightly. “You know, there ain’t nothing wrong with being shy.”

“Are you saying that just because I shared my whiskey with you, or…,’ she trails off, suddenly crawling back into that place where she is avoiding his gaze. 

"I was going for a compliment, actually.”

A pair of striking eyes is what he focuses on when she gives him a bashful smile. “Really now?”

Javier doesn’t know what to say, so he simply holds her gaze, not really surprised when her own falters, darting away as she murmurs a quiet ‘ thanks ’. 

Not shy —he thinks, bringing his bottle to his lips for a slow sip, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye for a reason he can’t quite place. Yeah right.

When he zones back, after he's almost gone through his entire beer, she’s not facing him, but instead setting her bottle down on the bar with a finality that suggests departure. 

“I should probably head home. Don’t like walking when it’s too late.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” he offers impulsively, the words escaping him before he can weigh them.

She pauses, her wallet in hand as she tucks a few bills beneath the now empty bottle. “It’ll take you longer to start your car than for me to walk back home.”

That indescribable feeling, stubborn and persistent, refuses to loosen its grip on him. So, when he speaks again, the resolve in his voice surprises her, but not him. “Let me walk you home then.”

Outside, they navigate around the chaos of the city, alive on Friday night. There are street vendors shouting for attention, and there is music leaking out of every crack and crevice. There’s laughter and there’s singing, and whistling, and yet, the two of them are quiet. 

Javier can't help but try to rationalise what he's doing. He's been down this road of justification more times than he cares to admit, each attempt leaving him questioning his own sanity. Because this fixation on her, this pull he feels whenever she's near—it doesn't make sense. There's something about her that kicks up a storm inside him, a mix of feelings and gut reactions he can't quite name.

He wonders, not for the first time, if putting some distance between them might break the spell. Maybe if he stays away for a while, this obsession will fade, dissipate like the morning fog under the sun. But as he navigates the crowded streets of Bogotá with her by his side, Javier is far from convinced.

The walk to her place messes with Javier's sense of time, stretching and compressing the moments between their synchronised steps and the beating of his heart. Before he knows it, they're standing in front of her apartment building, the night's magic fading as they're confronted by the cold, hard reality of concrete and steel.

And then she’s speaking, asking one question Javier had hoped she wouldn’t. “Do you want to come in?” 

Despite every warning bell in his head, Javier finds the word slipping out, almost against his will. “Yes.”

Her smile is tentative but genuine, and leads the way. 

And there is something both disconcerting as it is compelling to be in her home, Javier thinks. To occupy her place—her sanctuary—feels both entirely right and unsettlingly wrong at the same time. Feels like stepping onto a stage where he's unsure of his role, caught in a script he hasn't read.

"I'll make us some coffee,” she offers, kicking off her shoes and putting her bag away, “make yourself comfortable.”

And he does. He sits down on the couch—his eyes tracking her figure that moves around the small kitchen.

In that quiet moment as he watches her, a realisation tingles at his fingertips and seeps from every pore: his resistance is fading fast. The struggle against his own denial grows weaker with each moment spent in her proximity, with him here and her there.

Perhaps that's why he lets his guard down, and doesn't question the unravelling of his denial. Why he doesn't immediately reach for the mug she offers. Instead, he looks up at her, eyes wide and searching.

“Is something wrong? Do you prefer tea? Whiskey?” she inquires, her smile gentle.

Ignoring every internal warning, Javier wraps his hand around her wrist, pulling himself to his feet. Suddenly, he's there, right in her space, so close that the minute details of her face become a landscape he could navigate—if only he dared. 

There is a moment that puts the world on pause where his gaze drifts to her lips—those soft curves that promise whispers and secrets and everything that he yearns to hear. But as quickly as it comes, the impulse retreats.

This isn't him. Or rather, it's not the him he allows the world—and women like her—to see.

Javier steps back, his hand instinctively going to his hair, a gesture of frustration and confusion. “We shouldn’t—I… I can’t. This isn't—” He struggles, the words as tangled as his thoughts. 

“I understand…” she whispers, the vulnerability in her voice striking a chord he wishes it didn’t. “Silly of me to think I fit the bill, no?”

Javier says nothing. His silence is heavy, laden with words he can't—or won't—speak. Instead, he lets his departure do the talking.

Notes:

i am on tumblr too: couldsewyouastitchandsavenine

come talk to me!

Chapter 3: Free To Follow

Summary:

three parts, three The Maccabees songs from their Given To The Wild album.

woops, it'll be four parts.

There is a woman on Javier’s lap tonight. 

But, Javier is hardly aware of her being there. Even as she straddles him; puts her mouth to his neck. 

She is attractive. Skin kissed by the sun, soft and silken. Feels like a dream. 

Coy when she had approached him, her laughter had been light and her touches fleeting. Now, her demeanour has shifted; coyness replaced by boldness as her fake nails trace a path through the neglected hair at his nape. Whispers and words are tumbling from her lips into his ear. Into his space. Uninvited. 

His hands, though engaged, seem to move without any direction, wandering beneath the thin fabric of her skirt, now gathered at her waist. Her own are restless, moving down his neck, skimming the collar of his shirt, putting her dainty fingers around the first fastened button—her breaths laden with requests of what she wants; what she needs. 

She is there, body close, tangible in her warmth and weight upon him. 

She is there, but in Javier’s mind, she might well be miles away. 

“Espérate…,” Javier breathes out. “No va—”

The woman stops in order to respond, not with words but with a purr: a sound that replaces her question. 

She waits. Expects.

But all Javier can do is look at her. Swallow a lump that sits uncomfortably in his throat. 

She's a pretty thing. Lips full and inviting. A painting; a masterpiece that breathes and smiles, and yet, he cannot bring himself to admire. To explore. 

When he doesn’t elaborate, she gives him a smile. It’s not innocent or bashful. It’s wicked, carrying a tone that Javier fails to enjoy. Some other night, perhaps, yes, but tonight, not so much. 

"¿De verdad?” she asks. Tilts her head a little. “¿Necesitas una mano?” 

Her hand is quick, determined as it slides down his torso in order to palm him through the coarse denim of his jeans. But Javier’s answer to her directness is as resolute as his hands when he grabs her by her waist and lifts her up with ease and away from him. She yelps a little, out of surprise than anything else. 

The woman is now on her feet, trying to figure him out, but Javier doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t even try to give her an explanation. What he does, though, is give her a resolute instruction to leave.

Watching him busy himself with lighting up a cigarette, she waits for a moment. Probably thinks that he’s joking, that he isn’t being serious. Then, she’s grabbing her shoes—irritation simmering as she hastily pulls them on and collects her purse, doing as she is asked to.

Only when she slams the door, Javier hears the echo of her farewell, ringing out in the hallway: 

“¡Pendejo!”

---

It isn’t the first time Javier feels it. 

Sure, it’s been a long time, but he recognises the feeling. That heart-sinking, self-loathing, restless nights and second-guessing feeling of regret. Familiar as an old enemy. It creeps back into his heart with a vengeance. Only this time, Javier doesn’t even try to ignore it or fight it. 

Instead, he welcomes it; gives it space. 

He gives it enough room to turn into a raw, burning frustration. The kind that makes him angry with everything and everyone a little more with each passing moment. With Stoddard, and Feistl; Van Ness, too. And that frigid fossil of a woman that guards the archives and denies him the documents he needs. And his old man, for not answering his damn calls, and Stechner, for merely breathing. And whoever leaves the coffee pot empty in the kitchenette. And jammed traffic. The tepid air and the sudden storms over Bogotá. The wrinkle on his shirt; the stain on his boots.

But most of this anger, Javier reserves for himself. At his own actions, his own failings, and the maddening gap in his knowledge on how to mend what's broken. 

And he isn’t blind. He sees the avoidance, the quickened pace in corridors, the averted gaze at the mere chance of eye contact. He doesn’t fault her, though it hurts more than anticipated. So, the same way he accommodates his regret, he extends the same courtesy to her—he gives her space. Convincing himself it’s better this way. Thinking that the distance will ease the tension. Make it somehow less frustrating. 

It doesn’t. 

Left with no other choice, Javier lets his days blend together, fills them with voluntary stakeouts, paperwork and chasing leads—some successful, others best left unmentioned. And it’s good, sort of… at least, at work he has plenty of ways to distract himself. But, when he walks through the doors of his apartment in the evening, he feels odd. Numb, even. He barely sleeps and every night's a date with a bottle. He steers clear from going out, too, and keeps to himself with no desires to bring anyone home or seek out company. 

He tries, and it just doesn't feel right. Especially when he finds himself looking for someone who looks like her. 

Sometimes he pretends to be watching a telenovela, or whatever crap they’re pushing on the cable that the tax-payers’ money pays for him. Other times, he just stares at the kitchen counter, forking over leftovers, cold and straight from the fridge. 

Most of the time, though, Javier just sits there. He thinks and he overthinks. 

But nothing changes. 

She still keeps her distance, and his sleep still won't come. Whiskey becomes a crutch, and the merry-go-round of thinking and overthinking persists. 

So, he pours another one, trying to drown whatever’s clawing at him, but deep down, he knows no amount of whiskey is gonna wash away the truth.

He’s got it bad for her.

---

Javier wouldn't call it hate, this feeling he's got for his profession; but calling it love would be stretching it too thin. 

It’s somewhere in the grey, he’d answer, if anyone bothered to ask. 

Sure, he enjoys the thrill of it. The adrenaline. The kind of excitement that makes dodging bullets and tailing suspects feel like the most alive he's ever been. But then there are those other moments when the same thrill plunges him into deep, dark waters of sorrow, guilt, and the kind of despair that’s hard to shake off.

And tonight, he’s right there, in those waters, and by gods, he’s sinking fast. 

He’s been hiding in his office ever since disembarking the service van earlier—whether it’s been an hour, two, or the entire afternoon, Javier can’t tell. Not that it matters. On days like today, time morphs into a cruel joke, slipping through his grasp, both heavy and utterly meaningless.

Yet, Javier knows that it’s late. It’s in the quiet that had taken over some time ago; the way the noise had died behind the walls. Typing had stopped. Printers went silent. There are no more footsteps. No doors slamming. There are no laughs or fiery discussions. Just him. Perhaps a cleaner or two haunting the upstairs corridor. And the rain, hammering against the windows. Silence inside. Storm outside. 

The weight of his tactical vest presses unforgivingly against his torso, yet, the thought of removing it feels like too much effort. Feels like moving mountains when all his body screams for is stillness. 

And Javier is aware that he should shed it, just as he ought to wash away the day’s grime from his hands. Perhaps change into the clean set of clothes he keeps at the office for times like these. But the flecks of blood, stark against the grey of his shirt, almost feel like they’ve earned the right to stick around — a bleak trophy of the day’s shitshow.

Yet what presses down on him with even greater force are the looks from his men—or rather, the looks he’s been avoiding. Because, today’s raid was supposed to be by the book. Routine. Something in their wheelhouse so familiar it should’ve been second nature. A simple in and out. No complications. No unexpected twists. 

Except it was anything but. 

For missteps were made, plans went awry, and what should have been routine turned into a debacle. 

Javier closes his eyes for a second, allowing the colours to blaze too brightly and sounds to cut too sharply. The shouting, the harrowing screams, the crackling of radios cutting through the air, the chaos and the noise, and amidst it all, his own breath, desperate and ragged as they fought to make it out alive. 

Not everyone did, though. 

Exhausted, Javier lets himself sink deeper into the couch. He rubs his hands over his face, trying to find something solid to hold onto. He tries to remind himself of the life that pulses stubbornly within him. Tries to be grateful. 

As though gratitude could untangle the knots of guilt tightening around his heart.

His fingers, sore and shaking, clutch at his hair in a vain effort to pull out the remorse embedded in his mind. Then, with a deep, shaky inhale, he reaches for the flask—her flask—resting on the side table, ready to wash away what's left of his conscience.

He doesn’t make it that far.

Instead, he’s forced to pause as the sharp knocks against the window pane slice through the silence. And for a moment, Javier wants to ignore it. Wants to sink back into the comfort of pretending he’s not there. However, another row of knocks follow shortly after, breaking through his feigned ignorance. And these ones are different. They are quicker. More insistent. More demanding. 

Dragging the weight of the day's failures, Javier stands. Each step feels like wading through mud, his hand firm on the doorknob as he swings the door open.

Javier doesn’t mean to hesitate. He sure as hell doesn’t want to, but it’s as though every cog of his mind stutters and stalls at the mere sight of her. It's like his mind hits a wall, an unexpected stop he didn't see coming and sure doesn't welcome.

"Hey," she says gently, shifting where she stands. "You alright? I didn't see you head out, and your car's still out front—" She cuts herself off, swallowing the rest of her words, gearing up to keep going. "Heard about what happened today..."

He looks away. Finds a spot somewhere off in the distance to stare at. A bunch of wilting flowers on one of the secretary's desks. And after what feels like eternity, a rough, noncommittal sound is all he manages to push out, mumbling, "M'fine."

It’s a lie. As transparent to her as it is to him. 

She nods. Offers him another silent pause. A moment perhaps; ample space for him to retract his dismissal, to offer more. But he doesn’t take it. Instead, the silence just gets thicker, and Javier notices the way the grip on her leather satchel tightens. As if that’s the only thing that’s holding her together. 

“Should I go?”

Her question is soft. Careful. Thoughtful. And everything that Javier doesn’t deserve. Yet he takes it. Allows it to ignite a flicker of warmth within him; a tight feeling in his chest that has nothing to do with the gear pressed against his torso.

Javier says nothing. Rather, he takes a step aside and gestures slightly. Extends her the possibility to step inside; to join him. And it takes a beat or two of uncertainty on her part and silent hope on his, before she crosses the threshold, maintaining a cautious distance as though afraid of even the slightest contact. 

And it stings. More than he’s willing to admit.

Javier walks back to the couch, sinking in its familiarity. Breathes out. Lets his eyes linger on her silhouette, leaning casually yet somehow reserved between the door and the filing cabinet he seldom bothers to open.

 "Sit." The word comes out more as a plea than a command

Silence hangs heavy, stretching into what feels like forever before she finally nods. Then, with a deliberate scrape of the chair against the floor, she places it right in front of him. She won’t meet his eyes as she settles down, fussing with her satchel between her feet, as if it's a makeshift barrier in this awkward space they’ve created.

Javier’s caught in his own battle of words. The smooth lines he’d rehearsed, turned over in his mind until they were second nature, now scatter like dry leaves caught in a sudden gust. His brain, tired as it is, offers no help in gathering them back.

Yet, the quiet doesn't hold. She's the one to break it, her voice cutting through the stiffness, despite the noticeable shyness. “I’d share some whiskey if I hadn’t already passed my flask along.”

He finds a small chuckle, the tension easing just a fraction. “Well, guess I should return this, then.. Refilled—hope it’s to your liking.” Javier’s voice is steadier than he feels as he hands over the flask.

Taking it, her eyes linger on the metal container, a softness crossing her features. Then, with a slight smile, she offers it back to him. “Whiskey? Might smooth things over?”

Javier manages a smile, albeit a weary one, as he takes the flask back, and takes a sip. Offers it back to her, but she just shakes her head. Leans back and looks away. 

After that, they stay quiet, even though he knows he needs to say something. Anything. So he does—his gruff voice piercing the quiet. "Today was a mess."

Her fingers cease their nervous dance in her lap, pausing perhaps to iron out the wrinkles of her thoughts as much as her trousers. "I’ve gathered, and I know you might not want to," she starts, halting as if words were a terrain too treacherous to navigate hastily, "but if you want to talk about it…"

His response is a mere click of his tongue; a gesture of dismissal. "Talking won't change what happened. And I don't want you tangled up in this mess," he says firmly, making it clear he's not up for discussion. "That's the last thing I want for you."

She nods, darting her eyes around his spacious office. Then, she sighs, but doesn’t look back at him.

"Look, I know this is all kinds of awkward," she begins again, her gesture drawing a line through the air between them. As if she’s trying to acknowledge the invisible divide they're both painfully aware of. "And this time, it's not something we can pin on Stechner."

"One can always find a way to blame Stechner," Javier offers, a flicker of humour lighting up the dense air, drawing a fleeting lift of her lips. It’s bashful and beautiful. And Javier wants to capture it. Lock it away somewhere safe within him for those days when everything else feels like it's sinking.

"You know what I'm trying to say, Javi."

Yes, he knows. Understands it all too well. 

In an attempt to fill the space between them with something, Javier awkwardly reaches for a cigarette from the worn pack on the table, pulling one out with surprisingly steady fingers. Lighting it, the first drag is a small solace. 

“I didn’t think you’d come by,” he confesses, gazing at the cigarette, smouldering between his fingers.

Her response is soft and it comes in the shape of his name wrapped in a sigh. “Why wouldn’t I? I care about you.”

I care about you. I care about you. I care about you.

“Because I don’t deserve it,” Javier spats. Feels the frustration simmering. And then, in a sudden move he abruptly stands, brushing past her and nudging her legs aside as he strides towards the desk. "Fuck," he hisses, the word rough and heavy with frustration and anger he harbours for himself. "Why aren’t you furious with me? For Christ's sake, you should be."

"I am," she says, her voice carrying a weight, a sort of acceptance. "But what’s the point?" She tries to shift away from the heaviness of their conversation before her gaze catches on something. "Why are you still wearing that?"

For a second, Javier is lost, then realises she’s pointing to his vest. 

"I don't know," he responds with a shrug as he perches himself at the edge of the desk, pressing a hand against his temple hard enough to hurt.

"It doesn’t look comfortable," she comments, standing up and moving towards him. Cautious yet filled with a resolve as if he’s a cornered, injured creature.

"It’s fine," he says through a veil of smoke, his voice barely more than a murmur.

Then, with a courage that seems to gather around her like a cloak, she reaches out. Finds the first buckle of his vest. 

Javier's eyes snap shut, the heat enveloping him—a sweltering, oppressive wave that threatens to suffocate. It's too much, too intense, and he finds himself caught in a tide too powerful to swim against.

And then he remembers. The pain he’s caused. The sting of words he can't take back. The ghost of her touch against his skin, soft and inviting, clashing with the harshness of his own actions. 

As if she was anything less than everything he needs. 

As if the real issue wasn't him—his fears, his damned inability to accept something good when it's staring him right in the face.

When his eyes flutter open, she's still there. Still wrestling with the damn buckles. Still frowning at it, her brow furrowed in concentration. It's the same furrow he yearns to smooth out with his thumb, the same close distance he aches to close with a kiss—a kiss heavy with the weight of unsaid things and a desperate need to bridge the chasm he's created. Yet, he remains frozen, a prisoner of his own doubts and insecurities.

Her voice breaks through his reverie. "You know, I was talking to one of your guys earlier. The one who can’t dance," she mentions, her gaze lifting to his for just a fleeting moment.

"Van Ness," he offers, the name rolling off his tongue as he turns to pull from a cigarette he'd all but forgotten was burning between his fingers.

"They don’t blame you, you know..." she continues, her voice a gentle whisper in the heavy air. "They don’t think you are a bad guy.”

“And what do you think?” he asks, leaning back to reach for an ashtray, pressing the glowing tip against the heavy glass. 

She pauses and takes a step back. “You know what I think,” is her response. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

He isn’t sure why, but he nods. It’s instinctive, maybe, as he starts pulling at the velcro of his vest, peeling off the day’s weight breath by breath. The vest hits the couch, and suddenly, it’s like the room’s air shifts, heavy with everything he’s been trying to outrun—his mess, her being here seeing him like this, and all these tangled feelings with nowhere to go.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he slumps against the desk, pressing the ball of his palm against his eyes. He feels like laughing, or maybe crying; he’s not really sure.

"Are you okay, Javi?"

Her question hits him harder than expected. He pauses, then shakes his head, no pretences left.

"No, I’m not, hermosa. Not at all.”

Then she’s talking, and her words are like something he didn’t even let himself wish for. Quiet, almost too quiet, but they cut through the noise in his head.

“Oh, Javi… come here.”

Before he knows it, she's closed the gap between them, wrapping him up in a hug that feels like it could put him back together.

Javier breathes out. Feels like he’s drowning—in his sorrows, in her arms; her scent. He curls his fingers around her blouse; her own carefully touching the hair at the nape of his tense neck. Tracing.

And it’s soft. And gentle. And says more than any words ever could. Javier's heart is about to burst at the contact, ready to spill out every single thing he is feeling. Every emotion he’s been trying to hide from her; from himself. Because Javier is tired. Tired of hiding that he wants her; that he needs her.

Still, Javier knows he ain't a saint. Especially when the feelings are involved.

His past relationships—if one could even grace them with such a term—have been fleeting at best. Nothing more than an endless cycle of thrilling beginnings and swift endings that left nothing but cold sheets and whispers of promises that turned out to be empty.

But she's different. She deserves more, and Javier's ready to face that challenge.

"I'm not good at this..." he muffles into her shoulder.

A confession. A revelation. 

She says nothing, but only tightens her hold around him. 

And then she whispers, pulling away from him, but keeps her hands against his face. “Let’s get you home, Javi. Okay?”

Okay.

Notes:

come talk to me on Tumblr @couldsewyouastitchandsavenine

Chapter 4: Unknown

Summary:

"The silence settles is heavy and loaded. Filled with the weight of decisions that could either fix what’s broken or shatter it beyond repair. Javier’s gaze involuntarily drifts to her lips, softly parted, tempting—a familiar desire stirs within him."

Notes:

okay folks, last chapter that was never supposed to happen, but I got carried away with this story and decided to give you some smut. note this is the first time i am writing and posting it, so let's say I am very nervous about it. so, I just wanna give everyone who has read this story and supported me a big big big smooch

come talk to me on tumblr, I am nice i promise @couldsewyouastitchandsavenine

Javier has never been one to believe in things divine.

The scene’s he’s witnessed and the things he’s done; the actions he’s taken—all have stripped away any hope that whispering prayers into the void might somehow cleanse his soul. That’s not to say that he judges those who do; people who cling to their faith with both hands.

With a bitter kind of understanding, he accepts that while some find solace in their beliefs, he finds none. 

And yet, when he steps out of his bedroom and into the morning light spilling through his living room, Javier is confronted with the sight that somehow dares him to challenge his views.

“Good morning,” she says in a voice so delicate and soft that it seems to hang suspended in the air, woven from the dawn itself. 

For a second, Javier stands there, frozen. Wonders if she’s merely a figment of his dreams—a scenario that, if he were to be completely honest, became a distressingly familiar occurrence over the past few weeks. There is a point where he tilts his head a little and where his moustache twitches in disbelief. But then, she smiles—a slow, deliberate curve of her lips, closing the book she's holding with a soft thud.

And just like that, reality snaps back with unforgiving clarity.

She is here. Flesh and blood. Real.

Javier isn’t sure what to say, even though he knows he ought to say something—greet her back, at least, but his brain refuses to cooperate. And it's not because he doesn’t want to, but because his head resembles a cluster of things and notions, pictures and moments as he stumbles through it.

And it’s irritating, this stutter in his mental gears, more than he cares to admit. 

So, in a vain attempt to grasp at some clarity, he drags his hands down his face, as if that could somehow rearrange his thoughts into some kind of order. However, it proves to be a futile endeavour, yet he persists, determined to make sense of it all.

One by one, flashes of the previous night flicker through his mind. 

He thinks of her hand in his, her grip both tender and assertive as she spoke to him, asking first for his car keys, then for the keys to his apartment. Her touch, and the way she deftly disarmed him—both literally and metaphorically, stripping away his gun, badge and pager as if by doing so she was trying to peel away layers of burden from his shoulders.

Perhaps she was.

Javier thinks of her voice, gentle and soft, encouraging him to take a shower, then urging him to eat a tostada she had prepared for him; her understanding of his needs before he even voiced them, and his sheepish realisation of just how much he needed care.

He thinks of the moment she asked him to go and take some rest, promising that she’d stay the night—just in case he needed anything. 

He hadn't believed she would. He didn't think he deserved it, not after everything.

“You’re here?” he asks and then flinches at how ridiculous he sounds. 

Her response, when it comes, is soft yet firm and it makes him avert his gaze from hers and look at his bare feet. “I said I’d stay, didn’t I? Took the couch for the night. Hope you don’t mind.”

Javier grimaces—not from objection, but a stab of shame, considering the history that couch has seen. He then makes a non-committal sound with his tongue, tasting the air as if searching for the right words within it. He fails because he really has no idea how to navigate these kind of moments. 

“You really shouldn’t have,” he answers, finally, the words low and strained, resonating with a tinge of regret that causes her to wince this time. “Shit, sorry, I didn't mean... I don’t—” He stops, his words faltering, his brain screaming at him to shut up and be grateful for the amount of understanding she has for him. Because she could’ve left. Should’ve left. But, she hadn’t. “What time is it?”

“Still early,” she reassures him, her movements hesitant as she gets up from the armchair, nervously brushing down her brown trousers he has learned to associate with both fondness and aversion. “Anyway, you’re fine. It’s Saturday.”

Javier nods, slowly, moving his hand to the back of his neck to soothe the tension and pain that never quite goes away. The fingers of his other hand twitch involuntarily and his eyes dart around the room, finally settling on the familiar pack of Marlboro resting on the chest of drawers behind him. 

He isn't sure why he feels the need to ask, perhaps he is seeking some semblance of courtesy or connection, but the words slip out anyway, "Mind if I have a smoke?"

“You don’t need my permission, Javi,” she replies, her voice light yet laced with a subtle weight that latches onto his own shoulders as she looks at him. She then looks at him, offering him a small smile, a blend of reproach and reassurance. Salt and salve to the wounds of his regret. “Go ahead. I’ll make you some coffee. How do you take it?”

Javier pauses, now fumbling with his cigarette before finally sparking it to life. “Preferably with whiskey,” he says, his voice slightly muffled by the exhale of smoke as he joins her in the kitchen and leans against the counter. Reaching out to arrange an ashtray closer, he clears his throat and gives her a more serious answer; the one she expects to hear, "Black."

She nods as Javier takes a deep draw on the cigarette—the nicotine providing a familiar, if fleeting, comfort as he watches her move around his kitchen. But the comfort lasts only mere seconds before it's pushed aside by a different kind of sensation that begins to coil within him, heavier and far deadlier than the tar layering his lungs.

So, he looks away and focuses on the cigarette that burns between his fingers. On the cracked skin of his cuticles and the small scar that sits right below his knuckle. On everything and anything but the way she moves around his space. 

As if she belongs. As if she always did. 

But no matter how much he tries to ignore it; push it away, he can’t help but like the way it feels—fuck, he likes her. A lot. 

“Almost done here,” she mumbles, and her voice, even though it’s murmured, snaps him out of his reverie. And then, she’s turning around, extending the coffee mug towards him with a hopeful expression.

Only, Javier doesn’t take it. Instead, he pauses. Blinks—once—slowly, his stomach twisting with a knot of déjà vu.

And just like that night, his resolve punches his way out, gathers at his fingertips before it slowly trickles away and pools silently at his feet. 

It would be so easy, so recklessly simple, to just let go.

“Is something wrong?”

Javier isn’t sure why he flinches at her words. Or why he looks away and clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth grind together. It’s a reflex, he reckons. Something he hasn't learned how to control because it's been years since his heart was this unsettled.

“This…,” he begins, but stops himself before he can continue digging himself deeper in a hole from which he won’t be able to come out. 

The silence is oppressive and her eyes are asking him questions he isn’t sure he knows how to answer. So, he decides to avoid it, twisting around so he can stub out his cigarette. But, even without looking at her, he senses it—the slight flinch, the retreating step, the crack of something breaking inside her.

“I—I’m sorry…,” she stammers, setting the coffee cup down with a small clink against the countertop. Her voice falters when she adds, “I thought you’d—just, nevermind. I can leave...,” her words trail off into a whisper before she gathers herself, standing taller. “Yeah. It’s best if I leave.”

By the time Javier's mind reels back from the edges of his thoughts, she's already fumbling for her satchel, her movements marred by a desperate grace that speaks of embarrassment and a quiet panic.

And Javier wants to shout, to tell her to wait, to stay, but as he parts his lips, only a curse whispers out, venomous and low—aimed not at her, but at himself.

However, it backfires. Because when she looks at him, all he sees is hurt in her eyes—the same raw, painful expression he saw that night in her apartment, when his judgement had been clouded, when he'd made her believe she was neither what he needed nor wanted.

It takes barely a second, and then she is pivoting towards the doors, her exit clear. 

“No, no, damn it, no,” he mutters under his breath, the words tumbling out fervently as he stumbles after her, knocking over a lamp that sits on the small side-table.

Catching up to her, Javier reaches out to take a hold of her arm, fingers barely curling around her sleeve, fearing that if he grabs her any firmer, it might cause her to shatter—or worse, drive her further away.

His exhale is sharp when she looks up at him, her eyes brimming with unanswered questions that he finds himself struggling to meet. Yet, he knows he can’t let her slip away—not now, perhaps not ever. So, he takes a tentative step closer, almost as if he’s testing the depth of the waters he’s about to cross. 

“I’m sorry, I—look, I’m not good at this,” he admits, his voice rough as he gestures vaguely at the space between them, “I just… I’m lost, you know? My head…my own damn thoughts. It’s a bullshit excuse…” Javier’s voice falters, words caught somewhere in the back of his throat. 

When she decides to talk, her voice is not sharp as he expects it to be, but soft; hesitant. “Javi, I’m so confused,” she begins, looking away from him. “About you, and whatever this is—” she pauses in order to exhale. “Look, I can’t read you, as much as I want to. I don’t know what you want from me… and one time I thought I was able to, it kinda backfired… and I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself.” There is a tiniest of smiles on her lips as she looks up at him before she speaks again, “I guess, pride ain’t my strongest trait.”

She then tries to pull away, but Javier isn’t ready to let her slip through his fingers just yet. "Listen, I’m a mess, but please, stay," he urges, his hand shifting to grasp hers—small, cold, and trembling. "Let’s go back, sit down, and just… talk, okay?"

The silence settles is heavy and loaded. Filled with the weight of decisions that could either fix what’s broken or shatter it beyond repair. Javier’s gaze involuntarily drifts to her lips, softly parted, tempting—a familiar desire stirs within him.

Any other time, he would have given in, but not now, not with her, not when there's too much at stake.

Feeling his control weakening, he forces his eyes back to hers, only to find her gaze lingering on his mouth as well. It causes his hand to tremble, just like it does when the nicotine cravings strike, and just as he knows how to quell that urge, he’s convinced—he can fix this, too.

Fuck it.

Javier takes a final step forward, his hand finding the curve of her lower back, gently drawing her closer. He hesitates for a moment—offering her a chance to pull away, to leave before everything changes. Because he doesn't want things to stay the same. Not anymore. It’s a breath, a heartbeat suspended in the air—then, he lowers his lips to hers.

The kiss is far from gentle—it’s a collision, a salve, a confession of long-suppressed desires, of nights haunted by dreams of her and her mouth. His lips move against hers with desperation, seeking and giving all at once as his hands pull her even closer. And when she kisses back, everything in him seems to reorient. Realign. Pieces snap into place. And the feeling in his chest only intensifies, finding a new rhythm, especially when she wraps her arms around his neck and coaxes him to plunge deeper.

Javier is the first to break the kiss, not because he wants to but because he needs to—his lungs screaming for air. His chest heaves, and so does hers, their breaths ragged, struggling to find the tempo that would soothe the tumult within.

Then, with a resolve that clouds his mind with a fog of desire, Javier growls and kisses her again. 

She kisses him back. 

And there is no finesse to it. Only teeth and tongues. Harsh. Desperate. 

“Fuck, fuck… fuck—,” he groans when he breaks away and presses his nose in the hollow of her throat where he takes a second to breathe her in. She smells of lilacs and a faint trace of smoke, most likely from her choice of bed the night before and it is almost too much. “Fuck. I need you,” Javier asks, circling his tongue over her skin. “Can I have you?”

She is all pliant and melting in his arms, breathing in short gasps when she breathes out, “I thought you wanted to talk.”

Javier finds himself chuckling, rolling his hips into hers. “Do you want to talk?” he then asks, moving just enough to meet her eyes, hazy and glossed over with need as she drags the tip of her tongue over her swollen lips. She shakes her head, just a fraction. “Thoughts so,” he smirks, “but, I still want to hear it,” he adds, ghosting his mouth over her ear, tugging at her earlobe. She shivers. “Can I have you?”

Her response is not so much a word as it is a breath, a soft, needy sound mingled with a moan of his name that slips from her lips when he pins her to the flimsy wall behind her and presses his hips fully against hers. 

And from there, it’s a tangle of limbs and quick, clumsy steps, piles of clothes on the floor as they move through the hallway where Javier steers her away from the couch and towards the doors at the other side of the room, towards his bed.

Javier's head is spinning as her skin is gradually revealed, inch by tantalising inch—his fingers hastily unbuttoning her blouse and peeling it away, but then he pauses—a moment to catch his breath, or maybe just to reckon with the absurd amount of fabric she's wrapped in. "Christ, hermosa, it's Bogotá, not Alaska. What's with all the layers?" he teases, his brow furrowing in mock frustration.

“I’m always cold,” she responds meekly, her voice a soft confession that only draws a low grunt from Javier.

His frustration mounts, but it only fuels his determination, each layer he discards sending a thrill through him, as if he’s peeling away the barriers to a treasure he’s been desperate to uncover—a prize he’s craved with an intensity that borders on the edge of obsession.

Dropping to his knees, Javier smirks up at her as he tackles the button on her brown trousers. “You wearin’ tights or some shit underneath, too?” he half-jokes, half-serious. She shakes her head, a laugh attempting to break through the tension, but it quickly fades into a swallowed sigh, her breath escaping in a whisper that carries his name when he tugs the pants down her legs. “Yes? Something you need?” 

To his surprise, she doesn’t respond with words but actions, weaving her fingers through his hair and pulling his face in between her thighs—soft cotton against his nose and he inhales sharply. 

“Javi…please,” she whispers.

“I know, I know…lemme just—” He rasps out, gliding his fingers up her legs, feeling the skin prickle and shake in anticipation under his touch.

Javier is still kneeling in front of her when he looks up, finding her looking down at him. And it’s the kind of look that tells him everything he needs to know. Everything he knows she wants. Everything he wants. 

“Hi there,” she breathes out before she bends slightly forward. Like ghosts,her hands—gentle and trembling—touch his face, tracing, smoothing the lines of worry and anguish that comes with his line of work; healing. 

“Lie down for me,” he orders softly, and with a nod she does exactly that. Hovering above her, like a hungry man that he is, Javier licks his lips as he looks down at her. “Fuck, look at you. You’re—,” he stops when she arches her back, sliding out of her bra with a kind of courage that defies her shy nature. 

A low growl is all Javier manages before he’s kissing her again, making sure to kiss and nip wherever he can reach.

“I—I’m…,” she stutters out just as he flicks his tongue over her hardened nipple and she shudders. “It’s been…a—it’s been a while.” 

“I’m ‘bout to fix that, cariño,”Javier muffles into the valley of her breasts. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.” 

She only whines at his words, reaching for his hand and bringing it between her legs. And he wants to keep teasing her. Wants to watch her impatience mounting; edge her, but the second he feels her wetness against his fingers, does he give in; does he dive in. 

Hot wetness greets his fingers in the same way as her cry of pleasure, and Javier thinks he could get off by just watching her writhe for him. Because of him. And it doesn’t take long before she is shaking, crying out his name as if it was the one thing keeping her alive. And then they’re both still, save for the elaborate breaths that come short and quick, just as he touches her lips, her arms reach for his waist, bunching the waistband of his underwear between her fingers, pulling him closer. 

“Need you,” she gasps into his mouth. “Now.”

He looks down at her, and there's this stirring in his stomach—undefinable, inexplicable. It swells. Morphs into excitement. Edges into nervousness. Tinges with anxiety. Yet, it invigorates. Waves of warmth travel through his chest. It is smouldering. Simmering.

And then it’s just her shy smile, eyes glazed over, and her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him into her. It’s her kissing him. And it’s her warmth embracing him—sung, perfectly so, as if she was crafted just for him. As if she’s home; a place where he belongs. It’s heaven and hell at the same time. It’s pleasure and it’s pain. It’s dizzying and thinking straight in that moment is beyond him, not that Javier wants to think straight. He just wants to get lost in the feeling that is both relief and a restraint, breathing life into him and stealing his breath away, all at once. 

“Mine,” Javier growls, picking up his pace. “From now on, you’re mine. Just mine…¿entiendes?”

“Don’t stop—,” she mutters against his ear. “Please…just don’t stop.”

Her name escapes him as a hollow sound. A strained cry that pierces the stillness and echoes deep within him as she arches into his embrace. Javier hisses, a curse whispered to the heavens. Stutters with her and into her. Feels her trembling, shivering against him.

Then, the world falls silent, save for the soft rustle of sheets as they shift, their bodies slick with effort, aligning like two puzzle pieces destined to fit together. The room becomes a space of nothingness, wordless, punctuated only by chaste kisses they share and the smiles that curve against each other's lips.

Javier has never been one to believe in things divine.

But damn, with her, he feels like he's already touched heaven.

Notes:

i am on tumblr too: couldsewyouastitchandsavenine

come talk to me!