#candyhearts exchange

[drabbles-mc]

Behind

Carmen Berzatto & Pete

Written for @ashlingnarcos for Candy Hearts Exchange 2024 💝

Warnings: 18+, language, canon-typical chaos and angst, injury

Word Count: 6.7k

A/N: i'm so normal about them i promise me when i lie

The Bear Taglist: @garbinge @withmyteeth @hausofmamadas @narcolini @darqchilddaydreamz @justreblogginfics @fromirkwood (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

ONE.) With each minute that ticked by and he still found himself sitting in the row alone, Pete found the weight of disappointment lingering on his chest getting heavier and heavier. He wasn’t surprised, per se, but that didn’t wipe away the disappointment that he felt on Natalie’s behalf. While there were still some things about her family that he was figuring out, he assumed that they would at least show up for this. She didn’t ask them to show up for much, after all.

He looked around, wondering just how long he would be able to hold the three seats next to him for. He had his jacket draped over one, and was just politely telling people that the seats were reserved. It was looking more and more like a lie the longer that none of them showed up, though, and the room was quickly filling.

Just as he was about to reach across and grab his jacket, Carmy came flying in. Pete could feel the breeze come off of him from how quickly he’d been walking. He stood there at the end of the row of chairs, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He looked back and forth between Pete and the empty seats beside him. Internally, Carmy groaned, but luckily, he managed to keep the sound contained to his head.

Shrugging, he asked in a hushed tone, “Where the fu—is it just you?”

Pete smiled, knowing that there was nothing else that he could really do to respond. “Uh, yeah, right now. But you’re here!” he added on cheerfully.

“Fuck me,” Carmy muttered under his breath.

“You heard, you know, from Mikey or your mom at all?”

Carmy shook his head, and while Pete didn’t hear the exact words that he said in the wake of that, he had a decent idea. He moved to slide into the row, so Pete pulled his legs in, trying to make himself as small as possible as Carmy slipped by him so that he could sit in one of the chairs that Pete had reserved for them all.

First, he looked at the jacket draped over one of the chairs, and then he looked back over at Pete. “Yours?”

“Yeah, just thought it’d be easier to save all the seats. If you want—”

He stopped himself when Carmy picked up the jacket and handed it back to him, sitting in the chair that it had just been covering. While it felt grossly apparent that they were going to be the only two in attendance, Carmy still left the two seats between them. To an outsider it looked like he was just holding the line, helping keep the seats empty. But he knew better. So did Pete, even though he didn’t say anything about it.

Pete saw the way that Carmy was fidgeting, fingers twitching and drumming against his leg. Trying to be helpful, Pete handed over the piece of cardstock that he had been holding onto. “Look,” he let Carmy take it from him, “they got Nat’s name on there and everything.”

Carmy’s brows met, equal parts focus and confusion. “What…what’s this all—” He stopped when he answered his own question, reading the printed words in front of him. Order of events, awards and recipients. And, just like Pete said, there was Natalie’s name spelled out in black and white. He didn’t think that they really did awards in Natalie’s line of work. But I guess even when it’s interest loans, dollars and cents, someone always has to be the best at it or close to it. Maybe he should’ve asked her more about it when she mentioned it the first time.

“Big week for you guys, huh?” Pete said, excitement in his tone.

Carmy’s eyes snapped up to him. “What?”

“Oh, you know,” Pete gestured to the slip of paper in Carmy’s hand as he leaned in an attempt to close the distance Carmy had left between them, “Nat and her award. You and culinary school.” He paused, waiting to see if Carmy was going to say anything. When he braced one hand on the seat of the chair beside him. “That’s pretty dope, dude. Nat was telling me about it and she’s—we’re both really stoked for you. Congrats.”

His face pinched, unsure of how he wanted to respond to that. “Yeah, yeah. Um. Thanks.”

“Where you going for that, anyway? Here or—”

Carmy made a dismissive motion, shushing him as the lighting in the room shifted, signaling the start of the ceremony. He was looking up at the front of the room, fingers twiddling still with the paper in his hands. He had been perfectly ready to not pay Pete any mind for the next, well, however long it was going to take to get through all of this. But then Pete was shuffling over and sitting in the chair right beside Carmy, no barrier or gap between them. Carmy felt his jaw clench involuntarily, but there was nothing to do about it now as Pete was balling up his jacket in his lap.

“She’s gonna be so happy you’re here,” Pete said, voice somewhere between a whisper and his regular talking voice. “She wanted to congratulate you in-person anyway.” He saw the confusion on Carmy’s face and Pete still smiled but there was a little bit of sadness in it. “Culinary school.”

Carmy’s voice came out soft, and not because he was trying to be courteous of what was going on around them. “Oh.”

“Hope you don’t mind I said it first,” he tried to joke, knowing as the words were coming out of his mouth that it was going to fall flat.

Shockingly enough, it got a flicker of a smile out of Carmy. “It’s fine.”

TWO.) There was so much noise in the house that he hardly heard any of it. It was deafening and yet none of it was really reaching his eardrums. Voices and music and times and dishes being thrown about. So many layers that it was impossible to piece through them all.  Carmy was fairly certain that he had gotten good at tuning it all out. Or maybe he’d finally just cracked under the weight of it all, knocked just enough screws loose to end up like the rest of his family.

It was impossible not to hear Donna. Laughing. Crying. Screaming. No matter what mood she was currently fluctuating through, she made sure that anyone and everyone around her heard her. No matter how many years went by or how hard he tried, Carmy wasn’t ever able to deafen himself to that. He listened to her fire off directions at him, ones that didn’t make any sort of sense but he’d still have to follow them exactly as she said them because it just wasn’t worth it to try and not to.

Carmy grit his teeth and got through it as best he could, the same way he did every year. Mikey was nowhere to be found, of course—probably deep in the house somewhere getting into an argument with Lee or getting dragged across the neighborhood by Richie. He and Natalie orbited around each other, occasionally crossing paths but never really letting one hand wash the other. The best they could do was suffer through it near each other.

He was elbow deep in the oven, switching around pans in the precise way that Donna had instructed him a few minutes before. He was staring directly into the oven, wishing for a brief moment that it would turn into a window that he could crawl out of so that he could get out of this fucking house.

The shrill sound of yet another timer going off snapped him out of his wishful thinking and he stood back upright, letting the oven door snap shut as he did.

He was grabbing a towel to wipe his hands with when he heard someone else besides his own mother. It was different. He wasn’t noticing it because the person was yelling, per se, which had him wondering how he heard anyone in that house on Christmas if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs. His brows drew together, ears burning when he realized that he heard it because someone was talking about him.

And of fucking course it was Pete.

Carmy didn’t have it in him to go and throw himself into the middle of whatever it was. He didn’t give enough of a damn about what Pete thought of him to really make that much of a fight about it. If Pete wanted to finally join in on the fun everyone else had at Carmy’s expense, then he could go and do just fucking that.

“No, you guys, seriously,” Pete said in a voice that was loud for him, but barely registered above a whisper on the Berzatto scale, “Food and Wine named him best new—”

“Fuck Food and Wine,” Richie interrupted with a laugh. “What, they say that Mr. New York Bigshot was the best new jagoff? Hate to break it to you, but,” he clapped Pete on the shoulder, “that ain’t new.”

Pete forged onward, not letting himself get derailed by Richie even though the man was a master of the art. “They named him Best New Chef,” he said earnestly.

Richie rolled his eyes. “Best new chef but he still can’t make the fuckin’ spaghetti.”

Pete ignored the laughs that Richie got with his comment. His voice was a little quieter now, but he still didn’t stop. “It’s a big deal.”

Carmy felt bad for his initial assumption. He should’ve known that Pete wouldn’t do that—he wasn’t wired like the rest of them. Pete probably wasn’t even the first one to bring Carmy up. It was probably Richie or Cicero. Pete was probably just coming to Carmy’s defense the only way he could think of, not that it did either of them any good. Carmy knew that he should say something to Pete. Maybe thank you? But that wasn’t how they were, wasn’t how Carmy was.

He looked out the kitchen doorway to find Pete already looking at him. He didn’t look defeated, really. No matter what anyone ever said to Pete it never seemed to deflate him or keep him down for long. Carmy lifted his eyebrows slightly, the only acknowledgment he could think up in the moment as another timer went off.

THREE.) Pete was sitting at the table, laptop open with countless emails left to open and respond to, and yet he wasn’t paying any of them any mind. They were left ignored in another tab, number ticking upwards slowly the longer he avoided it. Instead, he found himself reading, and then rereading, the latest article that had been published about the restaurant that Carmy was currently working at. He’d been corrected before, ruthlessly, by Mikey and Richie whenever he referred to it as Carmy’s Restaurant, but like many things it never really was enough to deter him.

It felt like there was always another article or another announcement coming out about Carmy, about his restaurant. And, sure, maybe he wasn’t completely tapped into the restaurant scene like Carmy was, maybe he wasn’t up to that caliber. But he still tried to keep an eye out, and it seemed like every time he went looking there was always something to find.

He was in the house alone, but it didn’t stop him from letting out an impressed chuckle as he read through yet another article on how one of the youngest new chefs on the scene managed to raise the caliber of an already-stellar restaurant in New York City. Praise like that would mean a lot no matter where Carmy was working, but being able to stand out against all of the static and noise, the sheer number of restaurants that were in the city, it just drove the point home even further of how great of a chef Carmy really was. All the sacrifice seemed to be paying itself off, at least from what Pete could see.

Scrolling back up to the top of the page, Pete left it so that the article headline was in the center of his laptop screen. Picking his phone up off the table, he swiped and opened the camera. Paying no mind to the fact that it was nearly impossible to get a good and clear picture of a computer screen with a phone camera, Pete snapped a picture of the article open on his laptop screen. The smile stayed on his face the entire time as he opened up the text conversation that he had with Carmy. He didn’t pay any mind to how long it’d been since the last time one of them texted the other, or that all of their previous conversations were never initiated by Carmy.

He sent the picture attached to a message of, “Feel like I should set a Google alert for you or something man. Congratulations! Proud of you”. There was a faint whoosh sound of it being sent, and Pete gave a satisfied nod before setting his phone back down on the table again. He looked at the headline taking up his web browser one more time, smiling before clicking out of the tab. He left it lingering there while he went and finally started to pluck away at the emails waiting his attention.

It was about an hour later when Pete’s phone chimed. He angled it off the table just enough to see what the notification was, excited when he saw Carmy’s name on the screen. Expanding the notification, his smile dimmed but only slightly when he read the message in full, “Carmy liked “Feel like I should set a…””

Unlocking his phone, Pete brought himself right to the text message thread. He looked at the little thumbs-up that now appeared in the corner of the message he’d sent. Tapping on the message bar, he went to start typing again only to be met with the three little grey bubbles. He stopped, backspacing what little he’d just typed out, only for the bubbles to go away again. He waited, contemplating starting up another message. They did the same dance one more time before Pete locked and set his phone down, giving Carmy the opportunity to type out whatever it was that he wanted to say, even if he wasn’t ever going to hit send.

FOUR.) “I’m just sayin’,” Mikey started, trying to make it all sound like a joke even though there were layers of real frustration underneath, “of fuckin’ course Pete is the one who gets to see you at your big fancy fuckin’ restaurant.”

Carmy stopped what he was doing, confusion flooding over his face. Looking up from the braciole he was trying to help Mikey prep, he tried to figure out what the fuck his brother was talking about. “Wh-what the fuck are you talking about?”

Mikey laughed, snatching the meat that was laid out in front of Carmy so he could finish prepping it himself. He was willing to compromise and get together at Natalie’s place, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice all of his prep, too. “Fuck you, what am I talkin’ about. Talking about fuckin’ New York!”

Carmy didn’t know if he was more confused or angry at this point. Angry because he was confused. “Pete was never in fucking New—”

“Yeah,” Natalie finally spoke up, her tone showing just how much she hadn’t wanted this to come up, “he was.”

Carmy threw out a vague gesture with his hand. “When the fuck was he in New York?”

Natalie was taking a deep breath, getting ready to try and get a word in edge-wise about any of it. Carmy was going to have all these questions and he wasn’t going to wait for the answers to any of them. She hated it despite knowing it was something that they all had in common. She was leaning back against the kitchen counter, just about to spit out the first word of it, when the front door opened and a new voice came onto the scene.

“Happy Sunday, everybody!” Pete called out cheerfully as he made his way through the house.

He arrived at the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the look on Carmy’s face. He would get around to paying Carmy and Mikey some attention in a moment, but his first-stop-shop was always Natalie. A hug and a kiss. She didn’t say anything because she knew that she didn’t have to. Her brother would take care of that for her.

Pete finally turned to Carmy and Mikey. “Hey, guys, what’s—”

“When the fuck were you in New York?” Carmy jumped right down his throat.

Pete’s eyes popped open wider. “What?”

Carmy nodded towards his sister. “Sugar said you were in New York? Came, came to my fuckin’ restaurant? What the fuck?”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t, um, hm.” Pete knew that he hadn’t really done anything wrong, but he also knew that it wasn’t a simple situation. It was why he hadn’t said anything to Carmy about it before or after the fact.

Mikey was getting a kick out of all of it. “C’mon, Petey, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“It just—”

Carmy didn’t let the third word make it out. “I don’t get—you didn’t say anything? How, how long ago was that? How many times have I seen you since then?”

Pete blew out a puff of air, still trying to formulate his answer to one question at a time. “I was in New York for work,” he said, a little surprised he was able to get a whole sentence out without an interruption. “They wanted to do dinner after a meeting so—”

Two sentences in a row would’ve been too much, apparently. Carmy was a reactive dog pulling angrily at the end of his leash. “When the fuck was that?”

The gears in Pete’s brain jammed up for a moment, unable to recall the answer to such a straight-forward question. “Um, I—”

Natalie was the one interrupting this time, coming to Pete’s defense. “Maybe if you called and asked what any of us were up to, Bear, you’d fucking know when he was there.”

Carmy’s face scrunched as he flinched, like Natalie had tried to swat at him. “What? What the—” He motioned aggressively at Pete. “He comes to my fuckin’ restaurant and he couldn’t call? Or you?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t say that like you would’ve picked up.”

Pete’s eyes were darting back and forth, watching each verbal volley as it flew back and forth across the court between his wife and his brother-in-law. This time it felt like a bit more of an even match, maybe that was just because Pete was the guaranteed underdog. He couldn’t help but to look over at Mikey, who was apparently perfectly content to split his attention between prep and listening to his siblings bicker back and forth. He was shaking his head at the both of them, chuckling quietly as it went in one ear and out the other.

Pete’s eyes snapped back to Carmy at the harsh sound of his voice. “Well?”

He figured there was no use trying to repeat himself. If he was only going to get one sentence out at a time, he figured he should try to make it count rather than retracing what he’d already said. He tried not to think too much about the pinch of Carmy’s brows, a harshness that didn’t quite line up with the confusion that was all over the rest of his face.

“They were looking for a place to eat—we’d just closed a big deal. I knew your place would be good so…” he trailed off, not expecting to be able to actually finish his next sentence. “I just suggested it. I said that the chef was Food and Wine’s—”

Carmy’s head dropped back so that he was looking up at the ceiling. “God fucking dammit.”

“I didn’t say I knew you,” Pete offered up, wondering if that would do anything to come to his own defense. “They didn’t ask so I didn’t…If they knew they would’ve made you come out. So I didn’t.”

The anger on his face lessened but only slightly. His confusion was winning out for the moment. “Wh-why?”

The quiet laugh that slipped out of him was completely involuntary. The question itself wasn’t funny, necessarily, but he found himself letting out the laugh at how obvious the answer was. Carmy was so smart, Pete just thought they’d all instantly be on the same page about it despite the fact that he and Carmy hadn’t been on the same page about anything in the entire time they’d known each other.

He made a small gesture to all three siblings. “You guys hate it when people interrupt you in the kitchen. You get, you know,” he a narrowing motion with his hands, “in the zone.”

Carmy didn’t have an instant rebuttal for that. He stood there, annoyance on his face even though Pete had extended a kindness to him back then, and in a lot of ways continued to extend it every time that he didn’t bring it up. It wasn’t as though he was the one that Carmy wanted to talk to about those kinds of things. He wasn’t the one that Carmy wanted there, not really, but he was the one who had made it regardless.

There was a soft, knowing smile on Natalie’s face as she looked at Pete. The two of them had talked about it beforehand, they’d talked about it after. She knew exactly why Pete did what he’d done. Even if Carmy never wanted to take the time to be grateful for any of it, she was grateful on his behalf.

After a few tense seconds of silence, Pete spoke up again, speaking honestly because that was the only way he knew how. “It was really good, Carm. Like,” he chuckled softly, “really, really good.”

Carmy was stunned but was still trying to figure out a way to respond to what Pete had just said. He opened his mouth, unsure about whatever was going to come out when he finally got himself to make a sound. Everything in his internal hardwiring had him gearing up for a snippy comeback, something sarcastic and largely undeserved. For the first time in a long time, possibly ever, he found himself fighting against the instinct. He was trying to conjure up something that was positive, but he’d settle for something neutral.

He was taking a breath in, about to just force something out and hope for the best, when Mikey decided it was time for him to chime in again. “You’re right, Pete,” he started, pausing longer than needed knowing exactly what it was going to cause to race through Carmy’s mind, pausing just long enough for him to get his hopes up before continuing on with, “we all fuckin’ hate it when people interrupt us in the kitchen.” He looked over at Pete, a smile on his face that didn’t quite reflect in his eyes. “So let us get back to work here, will ya?”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” He made sure to give Natalie a kiss before making his way back out of the kitchen. “Do your thing,” he said, not a drop of malice in his voice as he went off to keep himself busy elsewhere.

FIVE.) It was just supposed to be dinner. Carmy was back in Chicago and in the midst of everything else, they were just going to try and have dinner. In the back of her head, Natalie knew that it probably wasn’t going to just be dinner. There was no just anything in their family. But she had to try—who would she be if she didn’t? It was nothing short of a miracle that Carmy agreed to show up in the first place, so there was no backing out of it at that point even if the endeavor was ill-fated from the start.

Someone should’ve had a stopwatch on-hand to see just how little time elapsed before things descended into arguing. Pete watched from the outskirts, not offering up his two cents since no one had asked for it. Natalie and Carmy were going at it as they both took care of things on the stove, which was stressful in and of itself. Sharp remarks and sharper knives.

“You all wanted me to fuckin’ come home,” Carmy said, exasperated. “And, and here I am. Still not fuckin’ good enough.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to! You didn’t have to fuckin’ say it. You’re pissed about the funeral, pissed about the restaurant,” he gestured to the pan that was sitting on top of the stove, “pissed I’m trying to help you fuckin—”

She held up her hand. “You’re not trying to help, okay? You’re just doing the same thing the two of you always do. You’re—”

“Who?”

“You and Mikey!”

Once she put the words out there, the air in the kitchen became twenty times heavier. Carmy stood there, stunned into silence. For a moment he couldn’t even try to stammer out a reply, too thrown by the reference to Mikey in the present, like he was there and about to walk into the kitchen to hijack her cooking plans. Like he was there, and that Carmy was like him.

Sugar raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to speak up, to fire back and keep it all going. When he didn’t utilize the couple extra seconds that she gave him, she scoffed. She tossed the fork in her hand onto the counter, the clatter of it the only other sound aside from the sizzling pan on the stove.

“You know what? Fine. You can cook it. You can cook it and you can go fuck yourself, Carm.” She shook her head and turned on her heel to exit the kitchen. She saw Pete in her peripheral as she made her way out. She wouldn’t have had to see him at all to know that he was going to try and say something to make things better, smooth them over like there was any possibility of that at this point. She waved him off before he could even think of the right words to say. “And fuck you too.”

He watched after her as she walked away, but he didn’t follow. He knew that she needed some time and space to be pissed off. Then, once she spit bullets for a little while, they would come back together and they would talk about it. At least, that’s how it worked when it was just the two of them. Carmy being there changed the playing field and Pete wasn’t sure how just yet.

Pete went from watching Natalie to watching Carmy, who at first was also staring at the space where Natalie had just been. He only lingered on it for a moment before the increasing volume from the stovetop rediverted his attention. He turned back, grabbing the fork that Natalie had discarded just moments before. He shook his head as he went back to cooking. He was in no mood to let the evening and the food both go to shit.

There was about twenty seconds between Carmy turning back to the stove and Pete walking over so that he was beside Carmy, leaning against the counter that was kitty corner to it. Twenty seconds didn’t sound like a long time until it was spent in silence staring at the back of Carmy’s head as he continued to cook. It almost would’ve seemed like he was trying to get things back to normal if he hadn’t been shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. Pete couldn’t quite make out what he was saying as he walked over, not that it would’ve really made much of a difference either way.

Pete let his fingers curl around the edge of the counter as he leaned back against it. He saw it when Carmy caught him out of the corner of his eye and made a point not to say anything. Instead, he stayed busy keeping his eyes locked on the pan in front of him, keeping the sauteed garlic and onions inside it moving just enough so that they wouldn’t burn.

Knowing that Carmy could stand there in silence much longer than he could, Pete decided to break the stalemate. “It’s just been—”

“Don’t,” Carmy tried to stop him before he really got started. “You, you don’t gotta try and fuckin’, explain or apologize for her or whatever. Sugar…she can do it herself.”

“I’m not apologizing,” Pete said simply, not aggressive or defensive. Even if he wanted to be, he knew that it wasn’t going to get him anywhere with the man standing in front of him. He saw the disbelieving look on Carmy’s face even with the honesty. “I’m not. I’m just saying…it’s been a lot. And she’s been alone. Like, she has me but—”

“Yeah, she has you. She’s not fuckin’ alone.”

Pete didn’t let the bite in Carmy’s tone break the skin. “She’s felt really alone because of all of it. But I’m sure, you know, I’m sure you’ve felt alone too.”

Carmy clenched his jaw, anger dangerously close to boiling over. “Pete, I’m telling you, just, just shut the fuck up. I’m not talking about this with you.”

“I’m just saying,” Pete repeated, eyes fixed on Carmy’s profile. “You both lost him. And it wasn’t easy, and I know that’s probably why you didn’t come to—”

“Stop!” Carmy snapped, throwing the fork not unlike Natalie had a couple minutes before. “It’s, it’s not your fuckin’ problem, Pete, alright? You, you don’t know fuckin’ shit about—”

“I’m not saying I do, but Carm—”

There was something about the heartfelt nature behind Pete’s words that felt almost saccharine, like they left a sugary residue across Carmy’s teeth. Genuine concern was so rare to come by in their family, expressed so blatantly at least, that it felt like just a different type of trap. It didn’t matter that Pete had no history of laying traps, of pulling the rug out from underneath anyone. The warmth in the way Pete said his name felt scalding.

Carmy was white-knuckling the handle of the frying pan in his hand. “I’m not doing this with you right now, with, with either of you.” He saw the way Pete drew in a breath, prepping to try and say something else understanding and comforting and he didn’t want that, didn’t know how to handle that. All the feelings and thoughts finally bubbled over. “He wasn’t your fuckin’ brother, so it’s not your fuckin’ problem!”

Without thinking, Carmy thrust the pan out of his hand, sending it clattering against the stove and slightly onto the counter from the force. The contents and oil splattered everywhere—around the burners, across the countertops, and, unfortunately, onto Pete’s arm. He hissed, cursing under his breath from the pain, but all Carmy could do was stand there and watch, frozen all over again as Pete threw the faucet on and ran cold water over his arm.

The loud clatter was what drew Natalie back to the kitchen, anger still clear on her face. “What the fuck—oh my god!” It took her no time at all to put together what had happened in her absence. She looked at her husband, taking a brief look at his arm, “Pete, I—” Her anger won out over her worry as she whipped back around to Carmy. “Get the fuck out.” She didn’t yell, but her voice was harsh, filled to the brim with anger like she was a pressure cooker on the brink of exploding. “Now. Get the fuck out of my house right now.”

Carmy was in no mood or headspace to argue. He also didn’t realize that he was even making his way towards the door, his body moving independently from his mind. Mentally he was still staring at the mess across Natalie’s counter and stove, mentally he was still back in New York getting a phone call saying that his brother died, mentally he was trapped in Donna’s house on Christmas with a dozen relatives breathing down his neck about why he didn’t come home more often. Then suddenly he was standing outside on Natalie’s doorstep getting slammed by a cold gust of wind.

Inside, Natalie pulled Pete’s arm out from underneath the stream of water so that she could get a better look at it. “That little fucking…” she trailed off, shaking her head like she couldn’t decide just what name she felt like calling him in that moment when so many applied.

“It’s fine,” Pete said, the wince in his expression instantly negating the statement.

“It’s not fine.”

“It was just a lot for everyone, that’s all. I’ll just,” he shrugged as Natalie pushed his arm back under the water, “go to Urgentcare. They’ll take care of it for me and it’ll be alright. They’ll probably just give me—”

“This wasn’t okay,” she said, eyes glued to Pete’s arm. “None…none of this is okay.”

Pete frowned as Natalie leaned against him. Letting out a breath, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his arm, he let his head drop so that he could place a kiss against the top of her head.

ONE.) Pete stood outside the door to The Bear, manilla folders gripped tightly in his hand. It was the one thing that Natalie said he could actually do for her in that moment to make her life easier. He’d do anything if she asked, and this seemed on the surface to be a simple errand. And yet he was still hesitating out on the sidewalk.

Tucking the folders under his arm, he reached and pulled the restaurant door open. The eating area was empty so early in the day, and Pete knew that it would be but it still felt strange to see it that way. He couldn’t remember if he had ever been inside there outside business hours. They never really needed him to be.

He could see through the thin strip of window that there were people already prepping in the kitchen. He didn’t see Carmy among them, and he knew that he was most likely going to have to walk through the kitchen to get to him at the office. He’d never set foot in the back of the house, not when it was The Beef, and not since it had become The Bear either. It seemed silly to harp on but it mattered. He knew it mattered.

Nervous or not he had to go in and drop off paperwork for Natalie. She’d taken care of everything, and all Carmy had to do was put a signature on them and hand them off to the guy when he showed up. And all Pete had to do was hand them off to Carmy since Natalie was too pregnant and too exhausted to think about getting out of bed and putting real shoes on her very achy and swollen feet. After another round of trying to keep her breakfast down and not being able to, Pete asked what he could do, and she said that if he could play mailman for the day that would be super fucking helpful, actually. So, there he was.

He let himself into the kitchen, almost tip-toeing even though that didn’t really make much of a difference about anything. He didn’t recognize some of the chefs that were there. If they said their names, he would probably know them based off stories that Natalie told him, but other than that they were just strangers to him.

He couldn’t hide the relief when he saw Tina. He walked over closer to her, stopping so that he wasn’t so close that he would throw her off what she was doing. “T—hey, Tina.”

Turning, her confusion morphed into a smile when she looked at him. “Hey, Pete. What are you doing here? Natalie okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, yeah she’s good. Just,” he chuckled with a smile, “pregnant. Like, super pregnant.”

Tina laughed. “I remember that.”

Clearing his throat, Pete asked, “Is, uh, is Carmy around? I got,” he held up the folders, “these for him.”

She nodded in the direction of the office. “He’s back there.”

“Thank you. Keep, uh, keep up the good work,” he offered with a smile.

Tina chuckled, shaking her head affectionately at him as he walked away. “We will.”

The door to the office was open, but Pete still knocked against it anyway. Carmy looked up from the papers that he was staring at, already saying, “Yeah?” before he saw who it was in the doorway. When he saw it was Pete, his exhaustion shifted, turning to equal parts tiredness and confusion. “Pete?”

“Hey,” he said, almost stepping into the office before he stopped himself. “Can I?”

Carmy nodded, motioning for him to come in as he turned in the chair so that he was facing Pete head-on. “What’s up?”

“Nat said that you needed these?” He held the folders out for him to take, only continuing once he did so. “Said that the guy was supposed to be coming by today.”

Carmy flipped them open, nodding in recognition as he read the forms. “Right, right. Fuck. Thank, thank you.” He looked back up at Pete. “Sugar alright?”

Pete shrugged with a nod that was as noncommittal as he could manage. “Yeah, I mean, you know, she’s—”

“Super pregnant and fuckin’ hormonal and angry?”

Pete smiled and shook his head. “Very pregnant. Very uncomfortable.”

“Kicked you out of the house for the day?”

“I offered.”

“To leave?” Carmy asked in jest.

Pete cracked a small grin but he still corrected Carmy. “To help.”

Carmy drummed his fingers on the folders. “Very helpful, yes. Thank you.”

Pete motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “First time seeing the kitchen. You guys are, like, the real deal back here.”

Carmy chuckled, a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue that he managed to bite back. “Working on it.” He paused, staring at the black and white print of the forms but not really reading any of it. “How’s it compare to New York?” he asked.

“What?”

“You’re the only one who’s been to both of my restaurants, so,” he looked up at Pete, “how’s it compare to New York?”

It was the first time that Carmy ever brought up the fact that Pete went to his spot in the city. Pete didn’t think that he was ever going to bring it up again, let alone bring it up so casually. It caught him off-guard and it almost felt like a trick. This was a question that definitely had a wrong and a right answer.

Pete chose his words carefully. “You worked at your spot in New York and it was great. But this,” he gestured to the office and the space beyond it, “this is yours, you know? It’s your spot. And you can…you can tell.”

Carmy allowed himself to smile, allowed himself to take the compliment. He forced himself not to twist Pete’s words in his head. “Glad you can tell.”

A beat passed before Pete spoke up again. “Need me to tell Natalie anything or…?”

Carmy shook his head. “No, no. No, I think we’re, uh, I think we’re all good. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” Pete nodded as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his vest. “I’ll just, uh, let myself—”

He spoke up when he saw Pete take a step backwards towards the doorway. “Hey, Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks…thanks for this. For this and um, you know, always, always taking care of Sugar.” He paused as he nodded, like he was trying to come up with kind words to say to him, a foreign act. “We’re all, uh, she’s really lucky to have you, you know?”

Pete heard it all, what he did and didn’t say. His smile stretched wider. “Thanks, Carm.”

#the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmy berzatto fanfiction #pete #pete the bear #pete the bear fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc #candyhearts exchange

[thraced]

EVERYONE GO READ MY HEART ATTACK GIFT IT IS PERFECT.

PLEASE LEAVE MANY COMMENTS.

#i am forgot to shout about my candyhearts gifts and still feel terrible #they were great and so is this #i want to literally climb up to rooftops and shout #HawkFate #fanfic #exchange fic #heart attack exchange

[seadem-on]

When your favorite ship is always nominated in the most participated ao3 exchanges but never gets matched :(

#im so sad #the takes were AWESOME for both the yuletide and candyhearts exchanges

[mylittleredgirl]

hey party people go read the fic i got in candyhearts! i have once again won the exchange by getting the ✨best fic✨ (i have not read the collection yet but i am assuming it's the best because it's very very satisfying and good)

All i have to do is dream by [redacted] Stargate Atlantis John Sheppard/Elizabeth Weir

five things! episode related! fix-it! they love each other sooooo much in this, grab a beverage and enjoy <3

#don't read my feverish comments though because that part's embarrassing #look they are chemically rewiring my brain that combined with good fic it's like im commenting from inside a vitamix #fic rec #john x elizabeth #stargate atlantis

[circumference-pie]

Saw this on @thebansacredbanned 's blog and decided to do it because I'm a ho for this particular ask game.

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

CLJ/Absence and Memory/Part 4

CLJ/you don't even like me

CLJ/everyone lives but

CLJ/once all she wanted

CLJ/chidi-gugu

CLJ/xiyun teamup

DC unglitched/you've got mail

DC unglitched/angel demon AU

DC unglitched/desperate revival

Guardian

MBD/exchange 2024 (don't choose this one, all info will be redacted lol)

Nif/Survivors

Nif/Lin Chen

Tiger and Rose/han mingxing

[redacted]/candyhearts (also don't choose this one lol)

tagging @sassybluee @harocat @eldritch-bisexual @joyburble @clj-art-blog please ignore if this doesn't sound like your cup of tea or if you've done it recently or something

#tag games

[hausofmamadas]

| Always short to the gate |

⁂

Pairing: David Barrón & Enedina Arellano Félix

For my df, dear friend, and fellow writer @purplesong1028 - Candyhearts Exchange 2023

Word count: ≈ 7.8K

TWs: Canon-typical violence, descriptions of violence

✷Disclaimer - This is an AU version of Barron, to the point that mans is essentially my OC. So, for purposes of morality/sanity/all that is holy, we disregard Nmx - S3, ep8, Last Dance. For more details, refer -> here. On a similar note: if I have to say “not condoning/glorifying the real people” aka “I don’t sanction the real-life actions of drug cartels,” I implore thee, look where you are. You’re in the wrong place. Best take that elsewhere porque no hay bronca, for civility's sake, we will not be going there✷

Still, these were all things to wish for, not to have. What was left now? What if some things were better dreamt than done? David Barron is in love. He's in love and he does care who knows it. Particularly, if the brutal, savage cartel-boss brothers of the woman he loves, Enedina Arellano Felix, know it. But what’s he to do when he's taken by another powerful cartel leader, in retaliation for Dina's secret side-project moving coke across the Tijuana/San Ysidro border with fellow drug baroness, Isabella Bautista? In the face of a potentially more imminent death para su rayo de luna, can Dina afford to keep both him, and the business she built from the ground up, a secret?

⁂

So, this is it. I finally made it. Staring at the crowd, all the bigwigs laughing and clinking their champagne flutes, and now that I’m here, I can’t figure what all the fuss was about. Because in my whole damn life, I’ve never been to a party like this. Frankly, I’d sooner hit up a barbecue at Chato’s grandma’s trailer or a tailgate in Chicano Park, than show up willingly to a place like this.

The guest list is a family tree of Sinaloan-born narcos and an obnoxious who’s-who of Mexico City elites. Men come down from the ivory tower to grace all the thieves and plebes. Fat cats in pressed gray suits. Although, the champagne-glass pyramid is pretty cool. And somehow, this isn’t even as lavish as last year? At least according to Ramón. When we arrive, he explains that there was still all of well ... everything. But last year kicked off harder because Güero and Co rolled through with a life-size train and a tiger in a gilded cage. A fucking tiger.

“Pendejos only did it to kiss Miguel’s ass, que sean tan mamónes,” he growls, shooting a dead-eyed stare at Chapo across the lawn.

I laugh into the highball glass I’m sipping from. I don’t normally drink at events like this, and on the off chance I do, always a Corona with a lime ‘cause it reminds me of home. But thank you, no. I would not like to keep my tab open.

Except this time, the over-interested hostess practically forces a drink on me when we get there. No clue who she is either, except she must’ve been a high-roller herself or at least married to one, based on the obscene dress she’s wearing. Fuck if I know a thing about designer shit, but I can spot the difference between black-tie and fuck-you money. And I’m not in the habit of saying “no” to fuck-you money. Even if she is smiling and touching my shoulder too much.

My eyes wander, looking for Dina, brooding an invisible SOS into the night air, hoping she might swoop in and save me, but she’s nowhere in sight. Neither is Mín. I smack Ramón in the chest with the back of my hand. “Oye, dónde está tu hermana?” <'Hey, where is your sister?'>

He shakes his head.

The fuck did she go? The only reason I’m even at this glorified peacock-fest, and— oh wow, yeah, there are actual peacocks wandering around on the lawn by the lake. No tigers, but of course the night isn’t complete without some form of exploited wildlife. No, the only reason I’m here is because she asked me. Or rather, because of what came out when she asked me.

✺

Dina sat on Mín’s desk, legs dangled over the side, smoking a cigarette like always, and eyeing me slyly from across the room as I buttoned my shirt back up.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you?” I asked, readjusting my collar.

“What?”

“That it’s rude to stare.”

She threw her head back, laughing.

“Yeah, they must’ve had some lesson at whatever charm school you probably went to.”

Her mouth dropped open in mock outrage, “Charm school? No me digas esas shingaderas, hombre. I wasn’t as poor as you but we didn’t have that kind of money.” <Charm school? Don't give me that bullshit, man. I wasn’t as poor as you but we didn’t have that kind of money.>

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, “Ah, tu lo sabes? Tienes razón. <Ah, you know what? You're right.> Because the working-class shit I’ve heard outta your mouth?” and shook my head. “They wouldn’t have let you in the building.”

She snapped her fingers. “Sí, David. Now he’s getting it.”

“Well, then that would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why you don’t know it’s rude to stare at someone like that.”

Her voice shot up half an octave into the range of feigned innocence. “Like what?”

“Like they’re dessert.”

“Es solo porque eres tan dulce. <It's just because you're so sweet.> Maybe I just can’t get enough. Maybe I have no choice.”

I looked up at her, smiling wide, all love-struck-stupid ‘cause I couldn’t help myself. “‘Can’t get enough,’ like you didn’t just get a three course meal.”

She kicked her heels against the desk, then hopped off and strolled over. I made a face when she flicked her cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. “Your brother’s gonna hate that.”

“Ya lo sé, y no me importa ni una mierda.” <Oh, I know and I don't give a shit.>

“Oh, sí? Pues lo haría tampoco <Oh, yeah? Well, I wouldn't either> pero the second he sees it, he’ll think I did it.”

Voice dropping just above a whisper, she came closer, “If he does, he can take it up with me,” and slid her hands under my shirt. “It’s as much mine as it is his. Maybe more even.”

They felt cold through the thin, ribbed fabric of my undershirt, gliding around my waist, creeping around to brush my lower back with her fingertips. At first, I thought she was going for my pant pockets, until her thumb hooked around the handle of the gun in my waistband. It startled me in spite of myself.

She smirked, practically presenting it, barrel pointed up at the ceiling. “Sorry, were you gonna need this? Or can we remove the ‘fire’ hazard.”

Taking the gun and grumbling, “You know there’s a safety, right,” I leaned over and set it on the filing cabinet against the wall.

When I turned my attention back to her, she tightened her grip around my waist suddenly and backed me up against the door. She tried bracing with her other arm so I wouldn’t fall back too hard. It didn’t work. A second thud, my head smacking the door, followed the first of it slamming shut. Still, the though that counts, right? My pained smile complemented a look of amused pity on her face.

Laughing, she winced and mouthed, “Shit, sorry!”

“So, this is how you treat your employee—“ she cut me off with a few well-timed, remorseful kisses.

She pulled back breathlessly, grinning, almost electrified. “Yeah, why do you think I took your gun away?”

“Mmm, yeah, would’ve been a hazard.”

“That, yes. But mostly I didn’t want you to feel like you were on the clock,” she murmured against my mouth, “this isn’t meant to be company time,” then caught my lower lip gently with her teeth.

I sucked in a harsh breath, not a chance in hell of suppressing the feral rumble already escaping the back of my throat.

It might’ve been fine. I might’ve been able to tear myself away, because we’d already been there too long, nevermind it was never long enough.

Until her lashes brushed my cheek and I heard, “Ah, how I love to hear you, guapo.”

My heart bottomed out in my stomach. I got ahold of the collar of her jacket on both sides. Rocking her back, easy and gentle, I slid it slow off her shoulders. Goosebumps followed the path of my fingertips across her neck, collarbones, down the backs of her arms. The metal buttons clinked against the floor. A bell announcing another round.

And all of a sudden, I couldn’t get at her fast enough.

I swept my arm around her waist, hand sliding into the curve of the small of her back, the other palming the spot between her shoulder blades to flatten her against me. If I could just bring her close enough for us to melt together and into the wood grain of the door, the better to freebase the air she breathed, the smell of her hair, the blood rushing to her face.

How many nights had I spent awake, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling of my cell, dreaming of moments like this. I’d lost count a long time ago. And okay, maybe not exactly like this. The feeling. The wholeness to it. But not the details. Like I never could’ve predicted the boxy radio with the giant antenna that played from its sketchy spot on the window ledge, too close to the edge; day in and day out while we worked. Or the way the sun lit the dust in the air like the office was an attic in an old house that wasn’t ours. And Dina, all nimble fingers now, working my belt buckle. No way I could’ve dreamt her up. She was too complete for that.

Still, these were all things to wish for, not to have. What was left now? What if some things were better dreamt than done?

Suddenly self-aware, I wondered what it’d be like if just now, she could feel that inferno of memories at the tip of my tongue, burning through my lips to hers. If she could learn, inhaling every breath I took, things I’d share without saying a word. I wished she could. Maybe that’s why her kisses were so urgent now. Sharp, demanding, like she couldn’t get close enough. Like she’d occupy the exact same space if she could.

Don’t hide. Let me in. Anything. Tell me anything.

She was funny like that. Didn’t even know how far she’d gotten. So much further than most.

Lips still locked to mine like cross examining a witness, her hands grazed my jaw, my neck, practically mauling the collar of my shirt to get the buttons undone. I should’ve known not to bother earlier. This was the way it went with us. Part of the ritual, pretending we were done. Getting ready to leave, all raw nerves in the afterglow. Anxious awareness, never far behind not-near-enough satisfied. Because no matter how careful we were, there was a chance we’d be caught all the same. But we were never ready. Not really. So, we’d stall enough to justify starting up again. Living in each other as much as we could. Wringing out every last drop to bottle it up, a fail-safe supply for later. Another bump, another hit to tide us over. ‘Til next time. If we got one.

She’d only made it two buttons down when we both froze. A crashing sound, loud echoes of metallic clanging. Fuck. Someone on the main floor. We repelled to opposite sides of the room before we could think long enough to be disappointed.

I fixed my shirt, then grabbed Dina’s jacket from the floor and tossed it to her. “You said no one was supposed to be here till tonight?”

She caught it, draping it over one arm so she could get her cigarette holder out of one of the pockets. Trying her level best to look composed, she took one out and lit up. But I could see the tells; beads of sweat on her forehead; that too-quick rise and fall of her chest.

Eyes wide, she shrugged, at a loss. “They’re not. Pancho’s with Món at the racetrack. Apparently betting against some new horse Güero and Chapo brought up from Mazatlán. Mín’s taking Ruth to one of her appointments.”

I walked to the window and looked out onto the main floor. It was easy to make out a head of black hair bobbing just beyond the giant, industrial-sized forklift, partially blocking my view. My eyes followed it along the top of the forklift’s arm until Nestor came out from behind it, puttering around and practically strangled by a few long chains from one of the trucks. He swore, dropping them again. Poor guy. The links jittering against the cement floor filled the warehouse with what sounded like twisted, metallic laughter. Mocking him. Us.

“Who is it?” She asked it like she wasn’t looking out the same window.

Without a word, I turned and walked back toward the door. She followed, “Pinshe Nestor, este wey &lt;Nestor, this fuckin' guy>,” waving her hand dismissively at the window.

I couldn’t resist. “Mmm right? Fuck that guy. Yea, go yell at him, chew him out, tell him why you’re annoyed.”

She narrowed her eyes but in that way she did when she was stifling a smile. When she knew I was right.

“You know, it didn’t occur to me until this moment.” Sighing and cupping my chin gently, she turned my face from side-to-side to examine it. “But I think I just realized why you’re so quiet.”

My eyebrow shot up, not a clue where she was going with this.

“It’s this smart mouth of yours,” she mused, grazing my lip with her thumb, “gotten you into too much trouble.”

I brought her hand from my cheek to my lips and hummed into her palm, “Mm, mhmm,” before nibbling a few besitos across. “Funny coming from you, always trying to get me to talk. But only when you like what I have to say.”

“Ay chulito pues, I didn’t say I minded it,” she winked. “Just not when it’s used against me.”

“Mm yea, don’t play that way. I’m an equal opportunity offender.”

At that, she laughed, eyes closed, full-out, no doubt loud enough to be heard on the first floor. Remembering Nestor, I let her hand drop but held onto the tips of her fingers. I couldn’t be sure how long we stayed like that, twining and un-twining our fingers in silence; every once in a while pressing palms together; two kids in the sandbox, comparing to see whose were bigger. If we’d never stopped, I wouldn’t have cared a lick.

Something must’ve hit her though because her face fell. Serious. Troubled. Thoughts descended in real-time, only I couldn’t make out what they were.

Until she breathed out, “Oye.”

It wasn’t like her to retreat but when I looked up, she said nothing else. Just chewed ferociously on the inside of her cheek. I waited, eyes drifting back down to watch our fingers and knuckles, still rhythmically locking and unlocking.

Breaking the silence, she gave it another shot. “Miguel’s party is on Saturday.”

“Yeah.”

There it was again, another retreat. What the fuck was she gonna say that she was so nervous to say it?

“And?”

It came out soft like a secret. “Go with me?”

Huh. Whatever I thought she might say, it sure as shit wasn’t that. Not … asking me to the dance? Disbelief chipped away at my usual poker face and without thinking, I blurted, “What? Why?”

Zero-to-sixty in four seconds flat and now she was fuming.

“Why? What do you mean ‘why?’”

Senseless. I knew it then. Should’ve walked it back. Found a better way to ask. But still, it was the only thing that came out of my mouth and all too matter-of-fact.

“I mean like ... why.”

Her jaw cocked to one side. She looked like she wanted to slug me. Because despite the fact that I wasn’t family, had never even met Miguel, had no business being there, somehow it was the dumbest question in the world.

“There’s—” I fumbled for words, raking my hand up and down the back of my head. “I just— why would I be there? You don’t need security. He’s the main man. No doubt he’ll have his own.”

“Because.”

“Because,” I shot back flatly.

“Because.”

“Think your brother, my boss, is gonna need more than ‘because.’ Even from you.”

“You’d be surprised.” She cracked a smile.

That’s right. Stubborn. Impossible. And she knew it. Like a reflex or muscle memory, my face settled into that thousand yard stare, the one she and so many others felt the need to decode.

She conceded, “Because. Okay?” throwing her hands up and letting them fall. They smacked her hips on the way back down and the rest came out in practically one breath. “Because even though he’s a genius and he’s technically family, Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo is the most insufferable man in all of Mexico. I can’t stand him and I can’t stand almost everyone else on that fucking guest list. Así qué quiero que estés allí porque ya todos los odio. Pero a ti te quiero. <So, maybe I want you there because I hate all of them. But I love you.>"

Wait, come again? She didn’t just— no, but she did.

Pero a ti te quiero.

“Oh.”

I turned around, fell against the door, pressing into it with my forehead, and didn’t say anything for a long time. Mind searching for an explanation: the timing, why now? What day was it? What date was it? What was different about now?

I’d woken up in the same bed in that cramped apartment just down the street from Parque Teniente, the first one I could find when I got to Tijuana months ago. Woken up the same damn person. As far as I knew, so had she. There was nothing especially extraordinary about today. If anything it was routine, sneaking into Mín’s office when we knew no one would be there, away from prying eyes: Alicia, Ruth, their mother, the gaggle of Arellano women who always seemed to be at the house. Away from Pancho, who’d made a habit of passing out, snoring until three in the afternoon, on the pull-out couch at my place.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it sank in how unremarkable the day was. Maybe something happened. Some earth-shattering event she hadn’t told me about yet, something that would explain the sentence that just left her lips and turned reality into something like the dimensions of a funhouse mirror.

Shit, how long had I been standing there with my head against the door? How long had she been waiting? No idea. Did it matter? Of course it did. This wasn’t something silence could solve. Or even put off. Not that there was anything to solve.

I turned back around to face her, half-wincing, anticipating her fury. A satisfied smirk had settled in the corners of her mouth. She wasn’t mad. Just leaned against the desk, puffing away, which was ... odd. I scanned her face for any indication, clenched jaw, flared nostrils, blazing brown eyes, some sign of impending apocalypse. But no, she looked serene. Smug even, tickled at how surprised I was. No, she wasn’t mad at all.

Oh.

And it hit me. I could see it so clearly now in the way she stood with her hip out and how she held her cigarette off to the side, wrist lax, nothing to worry about. Why she wasn’t mad. She knew there was nothing to worry about. This wasn’t a confession. No grade-school picking petals off flowers, ‘he loves me, he loves me not.’ She hadn’t said it in the hopes that in return, she’d hear the same. Because it was plain as day. Fucking obvious. Not a doubt in her mind.

It was funny too ‘cause that had been sealed away in a vault in some deep, dark corner of my mind, cordoned off by an electric fence, wrapped in several yards of barbed wire and caution tape. WARNING. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. I barely knew because I barely allowed myself to. That came easy as it always did. Or easier anyway than feeling and not knowing what to do, where to put it. So I barely knew. Maybe it was now that I only just realized it, in a fully-formed thought.

A ti te quiero también.

But it felt wrong, seemed to make the moment small somehow, if I were to say it out loud back to her. Forced for obligation, ceremony’s sake, and altogether pointless when she already knew.

So I just said, “Fine.”

Her eyes lit up, filled to the brim with, you really mean it?

“Yeah, fine, I’ll go.”

She beamed. My own personal sun.

“But you figure whatever fake reason to tell your brothers. I ain’t sayin’ shit.”

She squeezed my hand. Any tighter and it would’ve cut the circulation. Not quite the deliverance that launching at each other would’ve been, sweeping all the papers and supplies off of Mín’s desk, not giving a shit what broke as it hit the floor, buttons popping loose from my shirt and rolling on the ground as she tore it off, taking each other carnally hostage right there. But with Nestor still downstairs, it’d have to be enough.

✺

So here I am. And she’s missing in action.

A hand comes down on my shoulder. Ramón’s. “Mira nada más <Look what we have here>,” he chuckles pointing to Ms. Fuck-You-Money. “Esa chulita been eyeing you all night.”

I roll my eyes.

Món chokes out, laughing through a sip of champagne, “Ay qué duro, cabron. <Ey, tough fucker.> Good answer. Attention from a woman like that? That’ll get you killed, or worse.”

Lost, I shoot him a look of confusion.

“What’s the look for.”

“What’re you talking about?” I say shaking my head.

“Wait d— you don’t know who that is?”

I stare at him through half-lidded eyes.

He can barely contain his amusement and I could bust that Cheshire-cat smile wide open for it, the chistoso. See, ‘cause it’s something I’ll never understand but Ramón lives for shit like this. How many times I wished I felt the same or could at least access some similar well of couldn’t-give-a-fuck charisma that allowed the kid to cut loose, no matter where he went. Unless he was in one of his moods. Still, his glee is infectious if not foreign. So despite being miffed, I’m grateful he’s here.

“That’s— okay, that’s Miguel’s wife, Daniela.”

“Thought her name was like Marta? María? Something else?”

“Oh nooo, no, no, no.” Ramón jiggles his head back and forth. “That’s his first wife. This is his second.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“Yeah, right?” Món shrugs. “Tío moves fast apparently. Upgraded to a new model already. Personally, I don’t get it. Should’ve stuck with the classic. And María,” he looks at me and whistles, “qué clásico.”

We both watch Miguel work a group of sleazy-looking politicians. I don’t need to be up close to imagine how badly they reek of too-expensive, tacky cologne, or how clammy their hands are, sweating because they’ve been mainlining too much sauce and blow. My eyes drift to Daniela who’s pointing around theatrically to the outdoor decor. Like her husband, she’s smooth-talking another group of guests.

That’s when it clicks. As she dances from a group of Senators, to a group of financial hacks, to a group of mid-level distributors, I can’t help but think how busy bees flit. Flower to flower, pollinating each one. Stroking the right egos, smiling, leaving a hand on a shoulder just long enough to make them think they might have a shot with the big man’s wife. From everything I’ve heard about Miguel, he might let them, for the right price. That fact fills me with equal measures of sadness and relief. Sad for her. Relief to know it’s a hustle, an award-winning performance. Though why she’s been wasting time on me, a friend of the Arellano family at best, low-level Arellano goon at worst, is anyone’s guess.

“Seems she’s like that with everyone.”

“Oh no, carnal. With you? That shit’s real. She knows you’re with us.” Ramón reaches for my face like he’s about to pinch my cheek. “Not some rich politician’s secret love child.”

“Ey, no mames, cabrón.” I swat it away with a smirk, so he knows we’re simpatico. “You and Pancho always fixin’ to get me in more trouble than I’m ever looking for.”

I think of Dina just then and how it’s possible for lies to lag like that sometimes. Feeling like truth ‘til the words are well outta your mouth.

As if anxiety’s summoned her to me, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dina walking toward us. On her way over, she grabs a drink from a guy standing by the bar holding two champagne glasses, someone she mistakes for a waiter. Based on the beet red look on his face, he turns to be a guest. He flips out and at first, Dina looks ready to apologize and move on. No big deal.

It’s not until he starts pointing his finger in her face, “Qué verga, vieja? No soy un pinshe mesero <What the fuck, lady? I'm not a fuckin' waiter>,” that I glance at the ground to hide a smile. I know what’s coming but this poor bastard doesn’t. It’s always satisfying to watch Dina work, handling men who make mistakes like that. No doubt it’d be a scathing indictment but never done in the same way. Refreshing, that kind of variety. I always respected it.

She leans back, eyeing the guy up and down, then walks over, purposely slow, all the time in the world, to a real waiter holding a tray. Grabbing a new glass, she walks back and shoves it into the guy’s hand, taking extra care to make sure it spills on his jacket. Beads of sweat and outrage pour from him, as he looks down at his damp lapel in disgust.

She waves her index finger back and forth between them, “Listo, pues. Ya estamos? <Well, then. We good?>” and points at Ramón next to me. “Or shall I have my brother, Ramón—“ she waves, “Hi Món! Yeah, that one. The tall one over there. Shall I ask him to step in, help mediate the matter?”

Everyone’s eyes shoot straight to Món who, on cue, flashes a smile so diabolical, the devil himself would’ve tipped his hat in appreciation. Still fuming, the guy brushes the front of his jacket and straightens his collar but says nothing.

“Aye,” Dina punctuates with a dip of her head. “Eso es lo que pensaba. <Yeah, that's what I thought.>"

And that seems like the end of it until she a twenty out of her wallet in that impossibly tiny purse. “Ey, next party you go to, if you want to avoid being confused with the catering staff, maybe don’t wear a dinner jacket. It’s a nice house, sure. Not the fucking Met.”

The guy is mute, shocked as she slips the bill in his breast pocket and glides away. Even a few feet away, I can already see her rolling her eyes and giggling as she makes her way to us.

Ramón says, cackling, “I thought maybe you were going to ask for a bottle there, crack him over the head with it,” as she gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“No, no. We couldn’t embarrass our tío querido could we. Besides,” she gives a cavalier wave toward the guy, “Drastic measures like those are reserved for Chapo. Or Cochi.”

I look at the two of them standing with Güero on the other side of the DJ platform. They look like they’re enjoying themselves about as much as I am.

I make eye contact with Güero briefly before I feel another hand on my shoulder. Dina’s?

“What no hug for me?”

I catch her awkwardly with one arm, stiffening as she pulls me in too close and for too long.

“Woo,” Món hoots. ”Creo que Enedina ha tomado un poquito demasiado. <I think Enedina's had one too many.>"

She bats him in the arm. “Ay que no, if you’d had the conversation I just had with Mín, you’d be chugging this,” she knocks back the last few sips of champagne, then holds up the glass, “like water too.”

“Why? What happened?”

”Oh nothing, he just–“ she lets out a hefty sigh. “Just rolled over for Miguel like he always does.”

Before Món can ask anything else, Dina’s face lights up at someone behind him.

All drunk swagger, Pancho waltzes over, a drink in each hand, yelling, “Estos cabrooooones. I been looking all over for you.”

He sidles next to Ramón, who reaches for the other drink in his hand. He pulls back. “Qué shingadas? <What the fuck?> I didn’t bring this for you.”

Món pulls a face like Pancho just kicked over a sandcastle he spent hours building.

I hold my hands up in defeat, chuckling, “Ey I didn’t ask him to bring me anything. Knowing this pruno-king, I bet they’re both his.”

“Y esto? Esto es porque es mi compa. Él me conoce <And this? This is why he's my homie. He gets me>,” Pancho slurs, with a tipsy smile, eyes half shut.

“Qué pedo <What the hell>, is everyone drunk here besides me?” Món catches me smiling and rolls his eyes. “Tú no, rarito &lt;Not you, weirdo>. You don’t count.”

Glancing at the crowd around us, Pancho asks “Where’s Mín?” and stumbles back, nearly planting his ass on the lawn.

He grabs Món for support, who already looks startled as Dina shoves her empty glass at him. “Who cares? Yo quiero bailar,” she declares, grabbing my hand.

She yanks me with such force, I wonder if I look like one of those Loony Toons characters, a regular Beaky Buzzard swept offscreen by Bugs Bunny with a giant cane.

Behind us Pancho and Ramón are busting up laughing. “Panchito, I think she might be drunker than you are.”

Pancho holds up one of his drinks in salute. “Aaaaaayyy órale, mi brujita!”

My hand firmly in hers, Dina shimmies around the other couples on the dancefloor. When she finds a spot she deems satisfactory, she turns and snaps me towards her, gliding her hand up my right arm to my shoulder, and moving my left around her waist. I’m lost in static. My heart’s beating fast. Too fast, like a hummingbird caught all up in my chest and each beat of its wings jolts my rib cage, while it tries to jailbreak outta there.

And it’s not the proximity that’s got my blood up, really. It’s her. It’s rare to see Dina overflowing with this kind of reckless joy. So rare in fact, there’s a gravity to it, a pull magnified by irregularity, that makes it harder to resist. In tandem with the music, I’m goner, already falling into it. But what does any of it matter, when I know how she feels now. Just the same as me.

✺

We finish with a dip, and the blurry wall of lights and onlookers, among them the suspicious face of Mín, the curious face of Ramón, and the drunk glassy eyes of Pancho, become crystal clear again, as I bring Dina back up. The song changes and I let go, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. Making my way off the dancefloor, she follows close, reassuring in a low voice, “It’ll be fine, amor. They know I’m tipsy.”

“Yeah. And they know I’m not.”

Although— I look over at the bar. Fuck it, I could fix that now. Before we can reach Mín, Món, and Pancho, standing by the DJ booth, I tear through the crowd, right to the bar. Fuck any rules. This is Def Con One and that lapse in judgment could only be reasonably explained to the Arellano boys by both of us being shitfaced. I flag down a bartender.

“Shot of tequila.”

“What kind?”

I eye him coolly. “Whatever. Dealer’s choice.”

Willing myself not to be too twitchy, conspicuous, I glance around to make sure Benjamín hasn’t sicced Món on me. That look of disapproval on his face is going to be seared to the backs of my eyelids for days. Maybe weeks. Not a chance in hell that he’d overlook that display. As far as Ramón, who looked more intrigued than anything, jury’s still out. Might be he’d follow Mín’s lead. That is, unless Dina were to intervene, which– that’d be something she’d have to do. I’d never ask her. Not an option. That leaves Pancho who’s unlikely to give a shit. Or if he did, he’s too drunk now to make a show of it. But no, even sober, we’ve been homies through and through. He’d have my back. Maybe the only one.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Christ, all of it, already a fucking mess. It hasn’t spilled out entirely from my head onto the world, but only a matter of time.

A whistle from someone a barstool away interrupts the game of 3D chess I’m playing with myself, trying to compute then varying combinations of factors and events that could end me. I’m so in it, it takes me a beat to even realize they’re whistling at me.

“Ey, dónde aprendiste a bailar como eso? <Hey, where did you learn how to dance like that?>” someone asks quietly, in familiar but strangely-accented Spanish.

I turn to shoot a fuck-off stare to whoever, but when I’m met with the sight of an odd-looking, half-bald, ginger dude in jeans, a denim jacket, and a pair of Jordans that probably cost more than my first car, I’m taken aback by the expression on his face. Strange-like, fondly admiring, but more like he’s observing a zoo animal, exotic as those peacocks waddling across the lawn, than a person.

“Viene de familia.” <Runs in the family.>

All the odd guy says is, “Ah,” and then proceeds to fiddle with the toothpick in his mouth and survey the crowd.

Based on how he’s dressed, it’s clear this dude isn’t a regular guest. If I had to put my money on anything? Sicario. No question. Because even though he doesn’t have the trademark hyper-vigilance, coiled up tight, a piston ready to pop, the strange little homie does have a cracked look I recognize. Like he doesn’t need to be on-guard because he’s past the point of feeling much beyond general amusement.

I’d come up with a couple guys like this back home. Met even more of them in prison. You could tell who they were because they didn’t pretend to be concrete copies of themselves. Already born steel people, they never needed to bother with the mandatory, self-imposed identity mutilation necessary to survive in the Petri dish of the California Department of Corrections. But the most interesting thing about them? Scary as they could be, they’re also some of the more honest criminals I’ve dealt with. At least, those who’re murder-for-hire, not murder-for-fun.

Spotting the shiny, engraved handle of a pistol in his waistband, I whistle, “Nice, .357?”

He doesn’t take it out to show it off, just flashes a slinky, joker smile. “You got a good eye.”

“Likewise. Dope piece.”

Yeah, definitely more than your average muscle. The real pros don’t tend much to show and tell. But who the guy works for, I can’t figure exactly. Given that I had to give up my own weapon before we came through, I’m guessing he’s Miguel’s muscle. Looking over at a doorway filled with the broad shoulders and Fabio-like hair of Miguel’s top security guy, Tony, I try picturing these two working together and have to stifle a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Eh, it’s too hard— it’s nothin’.”

The strange homie responds with an amused snort but doesn’t press further. We go back to our mutual but silent surveillance. I can’t see the Arellanos anywhere, but I do spot the Sinaloa crew making their way to the exit by the bar. The weird little guy waves at them like they’re the oldest of friends. I nearly give myself whiplash, looking back and forth from Strange Homie to Güero and Cochi’s pained smiles and an outright look of disgust from Chapo.

“Those are the guys who brought the tiger last year,” Strange Homie helpfully explains, still waving.

“Man, everyone keeps telling me about that tiger. Guess I missed out.”

“You weren’t here last year?”

Still looking around for Ramón, I shake my head, stating absentmindedly, “Haven’t been to any kinda shit like this in my life.”

If Benjamín hadn’t already put him up to cutting me into little pieces, I would’ve at least expected Món to be hot on the heels of the Sinaloa crew, if only to berate, and harass, and swear at them as they’re leaving. And yet, he’s nowhere. Shoot, maybe Mín decided not to even bother chasing me down, and they just bounced. Left me there. Dina would be pissed but all things considered, I’d be getting off lightly. Compared to other possibilities. Could I be so lucky?

I turn my attention back to Strange Homie.

A jackal-like grin brightens his whole face. “Yeah, you did miss out. I got to feed it.”

“Big animal fan, huh?”

Strange Homie considers the question seriously as though it requires an answer, deep or existential in some way. But what he comes back with is relatively simple. “I guess, apex predators, yeah.”

“Easiest to relate to?” I joke.

The jackal smile back again as he exclaims, “Exacto!” Only this time, it bears sincerity that makes it more endearing than unsettling.

I raise my shot glass, saluting, “Makes sense to me.” An implied given what I know about you, unsaid in the air as I knock the shot back. Strange Homie likely knows, has probably been profiling my own profiling this whole time.

“So, you are not from around here?” Strange Homie ventures, as I catch the bartender’s attention to order another shot.

“From Guadalajara?”

Strange Homie shrugs and nods.

“Nah. You?”

He says with a knowing smirk, “Do I sound like I’m from Guadalajara?”

I shake my head, chuckling to myself. The bartender brings another shot and I put it away, perfunctory, then bite into the lime. It’s so sour, I feel shooting pangs in the sides of my mouth and tongue. The sensation of pain, concrete and tangible enough to focus on, brings me back to me.

I wipe my mouth and clear my throat. “You don’t sound like you’re from Guadalajara, but I got a few camaradas back home who sound kinda like you. Colombianos.”

“Good eye. Good ear,” Strange Homie notes, a hint of approval in his voice.

“The melting pot of America.”

“Ah, entonces eres un gringo?” <Oh, you're a gringo then?>

“Te has visto, hombre? De donde vengo, eres más gringo que yo.” <Have you seen yourself, man? Where I'm from, you're more gringo than me.>

I half-expect Strange Homie to be offended but he just snickers and nods in agreement. “Pues, tal vez tengas razón. Supongo que quiero decir que eres un gabacho.” <Well, maybe you're right. I guess I mean to say, you're a foreigner.">

“Close enough.”

“Well gabacho, un placer. Yo soy Navegante.” He reaches out to shake hands.

I extend mine tentatively, “David Barrón.”

As we stand there, forearms bobbing up and down slowly, a look of calculation and sorrow fills Strange Homie’s eyes. Something about it, and the way he says, “You seem like a cool guy. I wish we hadn’t talked so much.” I can’t quite put my finger on why it makes my stomach drop.

Fuck. Dina. Where are they. The Arellanos. Makes no sense. Been nowhere this whole time. Fuck. The empty spot where my gun usually sat in my waistband screams at me like a phantom limb. I try freeing my hand from Navegante’s, who holds on like a vice and laments, “I am glad you got those shots of tequila in though. Since we both know how bad this will hurt.”

My teeth grind into my lower lip so hard, I taste blood. And yet, it still does fucking nothing to ease the sting of surprise as the knife sinks into my stomach.

✺

Everything after that happens in slow motion. He must’ve carried me out at some point and anyone who saw me doing shots at the bar just assumed I was wasted. I don’t know how much blood I’ve lost. Enough that it feels like I’m moving through molasses when they chuck me in the backseat of that town car. Or is it a limo? The seats are facing each other like in a limo. Or maybe I’m molasses because of the booze. If not the booze exclusively, it definitely isn’t helping, blood thinning as it is. Fucking stupid. So stupid. In my life, had I ever been so stupid?

Although, I have to give it to Strange Homie— what was his name again? Navegante? — it’s been ages since someone got the jump on me like that. Since I was a kid probably. He’d been decent enough about it too, although I could’ve done without the stick in the gut. A few inches higher, he might’ve fractured a rib, but I might have more my full faculties. But no, this guy knew what he was doing. It’d landed exactly where he’d wanted it to.

Fingers wrestle with the tie at my neck, ripping it off, and it’s not until I bring it down to put pressure on the wound in my stomach that I realize those fingers are mine. The other courtesy Navegante had done? Strange Homie left the knife in. Although, whether that’s so I wouldn’t bleed out as fast or if it’s so he could further torture me by twisting it, is unclear. So much of it is unclear. I try going back, retracing every step leading up to the point I’d been stabbed but my brain’s stuck in quicksand. If I live to see tomorrow, I’ll have to take some kind of blood oath to never touch another drop of alcohol again. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Dina. Where is she. The Arellanos. They’d disappeared. Where the fuck was Dina. The panic, the cortisol, like a defibrillator at my chest, shocking me more awake, as I pack the fabric of my tie around the knife to soak up the blood. Forgetting myself, I reach behind for my gun and grumble at the empty spot where it normally is. Should be. Stupid. So. fucking. stupid.

I hear voices outside the car. No gun, no way out, no idea where anyone else is, where I am now, no choice but to accept it. So I just lean back against the seat, keeping pressure on my stomach and wait patiently for what’s to come.

When the door finally opens, I expect to be met with Strange Homie, Navegante’s jackal grin but instead it’s a taller man, a lot more normal looking, with dark eyes and a full head of hair. No one I recognize though and he’s someone I’d remember, considering he’s one of the most sharply dressed motherfuckers I’ve seen outside a movie. He slides in to sit across from me and grabs a file that had been laying on the seat next to him.

He reads from it calmly, soothingly business-as-usual. “I do apologize for the harsh introduction, Señor Barrón Corona. Navegante said you were nothing but gentlemanly prior to his stabbing you.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and on reflex, the muscles in my stomach clench around the blade. Like I’ve stepped onto the worst elevator ride, my throat feels like it’s in my head. Just blistering, white-hot agony. A jagged inhale drags down the back of my throat and I try not to pass out. “S’funny,” I cough out, “was just thinking the same thing.”

“Please know, this isn’t personal. Or rather, not for me. I suspect it’s very personal for your employer.” He looked up from the file, smirking. “Or I suppose, that’s the idea.”

My employer? The fuck was Benjamín going to be upset about? Me with a knife in my gut in the backseat of whatever big-shot, cartel guy’s car?

“Banking on the wrong strategy there,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

The man looks up from the file again, waiting for me to explain further.

“No love lost between my employer and me.”

“Hmm. Is that so?”

He says this with such assurance, it becomes apparent that this whole scheme, whatever it is, whatever game this guy’s playing, this shit is well above my pay grade. No point trying to outmaneuver when my head’s still in quicksand and I don’t even have the fucking rulebook.

“But you answer to the whole family, no?”

I roll my eyes and slump my shoulders, too tired to summon a real response.

“David Barrón Corona. From Logan Heights, San Diego, California. Says here you were born in Tijuana, but your parents are naturalized citizens. Which would give you—” he licks his forefinger and flips a page. “Ah yes, dual Mexican-American citizenship. Oh, your father was in the navy? Why does it seem the best sicarios come from military families. Someone should do a study.”

“Eh, eres un soldado either way.” <Eh, you're a soldier either way.>

The man smirks and continues reading. “Two brothers, one older Mateo Barrón Corona, deceased. And one younger, Alexander Barrón Corona, incarcerated, life no parole. And your mother— hmm, we don’t have much on her.”

I clench my teeth so hard, it feels like I have a charlie horse in my jaw. Willing my stomach muscles to relax, I ease off the middle console with my elbow to lean against the window and breathe out a, “Wow.”

The man takes out a cigarette and pops it between his lips, mumbling, “Qué?” as he lights up.

“Just— I dunno. Seems a lotta paperwork for somebody who’s nobody. Whose asset are you, DoD, CIA?”

The man shakes out his match and cracks a window on his side to toss it out. “Ah, see, but that’s the thing, David— may I call you David?”

I nod listlessly.

“David, do I seem to you like someone who’d waste so much time, go to all this trouble if you were a complete nobody?”

“Can’t say. We just met.” We’re well past politeness. I’m already bleeding all over this guy’s Oxford leather seats.

But instead of insulting him, he cuts up, laughing deep and full. “Funny, discerning—tonight’s little encounter notwithstanding. And from what I hear, an excellent shot, a competent sicario.”

I snort loud enough that he pauses to say, “What is that? False modesty? Don’t bore me before we’ve gotten started.”

“No. I am as good as you’ve heard probably. But that’s not the point.”

Dragging slowly from his cigarette, he brushes a bit of ash that’s fallen on his pant leg, then looks up, fixes his eyes on me, and says, “Enlighten me, then.” He’s the cat. I’m the ball of yarn. It doesn’t even matter.

“Any sicario worth a shit knows it doesn’t matter how good you get.“

“Why’s that?”

A gotcha-type smile spreads across my face for the first time in what feels like ages. “’Cause however good I may be, I’ll always be expendable. Guys like me are always short to the gate.”

And just when I think I’ve got him, for some reason, that warms up those cold brown eyes of his, as though I’ve proven his point more than my own. He bobs his head toward the window where Navegante stood guarding the car. “Well, that may be true of most in your line of work. But I asked my man out there, and he seems to think you’re good people. I’m putting together the picture of you, beginning to understand the appeal, what she sees in you.”

“Why. You hiring?”

“Oh no, no,” he chuckles lightly, “you’re of no use to me that way. No, the fact of the matter is,” then clicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek, “you’re right. Some are more expendable than others. But at the finish line, when death comes to collect, really, we’re all expendable.”

If this guy doesn’t reach some point, some punchline soon, I swear I’m gonna yank this knife out myself, happily bleed out all over the place just to reach some definitive conclusion.

”But here and now? To one with a little power and something I need? You David, are much less expendable than you think.”

The hell is he even talki— oh, fuck.

What she sees in you.

It echoes in my ears until it detonates, like pulling the pin on a grenade in my head, shrapnel ricocheting on the inner walls of my skull, just as I’m trying to piece it together.

My boss. Personal. Dina. You answer to the whole family, no? The guy’s practically been explaining it from the beginning. I’ve just been too dead in the head to make sense of it.

“Ah yes, there it is. And now that you’re caught up with the rest of the class, allow me to formally introduce myself.” The man places his hand on his chest, bowing his head. “I’m Pacho Herrera.”

Yup. This is above my pay grade. Way, way, way the fuck above my pay grade.

#narcos mexico #narcos mexico fanfic #enedina arellano felix x david barron #dinarron #enedina arellano felix #david barron #timeline divergence #also this is separate from my dinarron russian novel #but this place has everything #angst so mild a white man could handle it #smooching #stabbing #with KNIVES #forbidden love/secret relationship #seeeeeeeeeecrets #Dina - a woman who will actually pay to step on you #Barron - a man being accidentally hot at every turn for no good reason #Pacho - a sly and suave and snappily dressed mf with a plan #the most bizarre buddy-cop duo we didn't know we needed #like shit you not it makes no actual sense but somehow works?? #there's also dancing #during which you should bust out Spotify or Youtube or wherever tf #and put on a little ditty called 'Guajira del Mar' #to set the mood #to get the feel #to establish the Vibe #also to that one anon who likes dinarron stuff - here's a new thingy to feast on #until i get my shit together with the asslong novel i've been working on for them sksksjflkdajlsdkj

[fourgods-nobrakes]

Last night @sincethewreck asked what i had in progress, and i started listing things, and then kept realizing i was leaving things out, so here: a list of the things in my google drive that i've poked in the last month and which aren't finished.

my entry for Psychic Wolves for Lupercalia fest, Abaddon/Falkus (and possibly additional Justaerin)

[redacted] cute fluffy treat for candyhearts

[redacted] assignment for Id Pro Quo, sweet kink

Perturabo/Kroeger thing about the difference between wanting to and being willing to

Lorgar/Russ in the cathedral on Sicarus, I have a comfort ship ok

"The Quality of Autumn," sweet pre-Heresy Lupercal/Aximand

"ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil," Lorgar helps with Perturabo's ascension

Sharrowkyn/Wayland, adventure fic i stalled on for Playlist Exchange

Argel Tal/Khârn, sparring fic i also stalled on for Playlist Exchange

Konrad/Fulgrim not talking about nightmares as Fulgrim angles for some smooching

Not pictured, anything I haven't worked on in longer than a month, or anything I haven't started writing down words for. Some days I feel pretty unproductive, but I think this list argues that's my brain being a jerk.

[lumosatnight]

February Fun Round-Up 2022

A masterlist of all the drabbles I wrote in February! Everything can be found on AO3.

February Prompt Fests

Day 1: Press and Release [Draco/Harry, M, 171 words] Fluffbruary’s sketch + Candyheart’s “sweetheart” + Kinkuary’s gagging

Day 2: Leaving [Hermione/Bellatrix, M, 186 words] Febuwhump’s failed rescue attempt + Shipuary’s Hermione/Bellatrix

Day 3: Indents in the Skin [Lavender/Parvati, E, 175 words] Kinkuary’s sensory deprivation + Femslash Feb’s thorns + Shipuary’s Lavender/Parvati

Day 4: Beautiful [Marlene/Dorcas, T, 194 words] Fluffbruary’s bright + Femslash Feb’s fairies + Shipuary’s Marlene/Dorcas

Day 5: Brave [Lee/George, G, 225 words] Fluffbruary’s brave + Shipuary’s Lee/George

Day 6: Wet [Fleur/Ginny, T, 150 words] Femslash Feb’s rain + Fluffbruary’s walk + Shipuary’s Fleur/Ginny

Day 7: Subtle [Cho/Luna, E, 289 words] Femslash Feb’s lost + Kinkuary’s masturbation + Shipuary’s Cho/Luna

Day 8: The Sweet Flavor [Draco/Harry, E, 183 words] Kinkuary’s impact play + Candyheart’s chocolate

Day 9: Tall [Seamus/Dean, T, 56 words] Fluffbruary’s stiletto + Shipuary’s Seamus/Dean

Day 10: Never Boring [Scorpius/Albus Severus, G, 550 words] Fluffbruary’s braces + Shipuary’s Scorpius/Albus Severus

Day 11: Under the Surface [Alice/Lily, G, 460 words] Femslash Feb’s mermaids + Fluffbruary’s blanket + Shipuary’s Alice/Lily + Femslash-Minifest's song prompt ("Under the Sea" from the Little Mermaid)

Day 12: Red and Terrible [Vincent/Greg, T, 117 words] Febuwhump’s “I dreamt you were alive.” & friendly fire + Shipuary’s Vincent/Greg

Day 13: I'm Cold [Marcus/Oliver, M, 250 words] Kinkuary’s lingerie + Fluffbruary’s cold + Shipuary’s Marcus/Oliver

Day 14: Dat Ass [Draco/Harry, M, 100 words] Candyheart’s love letters + Drarrymicrofic's euphoria

Day 15: Scars [Hermione/Draco, M, 101 words] Febuwhump’s hidden scars + Shipuary’s Hermione/Draco

Day 16: Imagine [Sirius/Remus, E, 324 words] Kinkuary’s bareback/creampie + Fluffbruary’s fantasy & mirror + Shipuary’s Sirius/Remus

Day 17: Twirl [Teddy/James Sirius, G, 322 words] Fluffbruary’s ballet + Shipuary’s Teddy/James Sirius

Day 18: Teacup-Sized [James/Lily, E, 265 words] Kinkuary’s face-sitting + Fluffbruary’s cat + Shipuary’s James/Lily

Day 19: Out for a Drink [Draco/Harry, G, 212 words] Fluffbruary’s bubbly + Candyheart’s “sunshine”

Day 20: Every Week [Fleur/Tonks, G, 206 words] Fluffbruary’s club + Shipuary’s Fleur/Tonks

Day 21: Dear Em [Bellatrix/Molly, T, 666 words] Femslash Feb’s black + Femslash-Minifest’s song prompt (“Someone like you” by Adele)

Day 22: The Mark [Harry/Voldemort, M, 200 words] Febuwhump’s restrained + Kinkuary’s tattoos + Shipuary’s Harry/Voldemort

Day 23: The Umpteenth Time [Daphne/Theo, G, 163 words] Fluffbruary’s glow + Shipuary’s Daphne/Theo

Day 24: Oblivious and Unaware [Katie/Angelina/Alicia, E, 101 words] Kinkuary’s hands + Femslash Feb’s steel + Shipuary’s Katie/Angelina + Femslash-Minifest’s song prompt (“Te Amo” by Rihanna)

Day 25: One Word [Helga/Salazar, E, 323 words] Febuwhump’s muffled screams + Kinkuary’s choking + Shipuary’s Helga/Salazar

Day 26: Just Friends [Minerva/Poppy, G, 200 words] Femslash Feb’s friends + Fluffbruary’s fire + Femslash-Minifest’s song prompt (“Just Friends” by Marshmallow & Anne-Marie)

Day 27: Drops of Water [Albus Severus/James Sirius, T, 612 words] Febuwhump’s shower breakdown + Shipuary’s Albus Severus/James Sirius

Day 28: Same [Cho/Ginny, T, 450 words] Femslash Feb’s rainbow + Fluffbruary’s bathtub + Shipuary’s Cho/Ginny

HP Sweethearts Exchange

My Tea-Leaf Heart [Lavender/Parvati, T, 200] The fates agree that Lavender and Parvati should be together. If only they could see it for themselves.

She's Open [Astoria/Pansy/Narcissa, E, 200] Pansy smiles pleasantly, lips still wet from Astoria’s release. “I see,” says Narcissa, eyes drawn to Pansy’s shining lips.R

Read on AO3: HERE and HERE

#kinkuary2022 #febuwhump2022 #fluffbruary 2022 #hpshipuary2022 #femslashfeb2022 #hdcandyheartsfest2022 #hp fanfic #february round up #lumosdrabbles

[magpiecharmshop]

=CANDYHEART= Feeling a bit nostalgic for elementary school Valentine's exchanges. What was your favorite Valentine candy? . . #dice #d20 #dnd #handmadedice #homebreweddice #polyhedraldice #resincasting #resin #ttrpg #diceporn #dicemaking #taz #critrole #magpiecharm #candy #sweethearts #valentine — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/2LMCubU

#Instagram #IFTTT

[dralenamax]

I can totally see MC & Maxwell relaxing together while reading & exchanging those little Valentine’s Day candy hearts, and it just brightens my soul. 💜💙💚💛💖 #MaxwellBeaumont #TRR #Choices #MAXWELLxMC #CandyHearts

#maxwell beaumont #trr #choices #maxwell x mc #candy hearts

[pinstripepulpit]

Few know that Kentucky native Abraham Lincoln and Lexington native Mary Todd exchanged candy hearts for Valentine's Day. . . #rejectedcandyhearts #valentine #candyhearts #civilwar #abrahamlincoln #sharethelex #kentucky #lexington (at Lexington, Kentucky)

#sharethelex #civilwar #abrahamlincoln #valentine #kentucky #rejectedcandyhearts #lexington #candyhearts

[drabbles-mc]

Once in Twenty Lifetimes

Takeshi Kovacs x Kristin Ortega

Written for the 2024 Candy Hearts Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, language, smoking/alcohol, light angst, slight steam

Summary: She had spent so much of her life making sure that she blended in, and she'd been successful at it the way she'd been taught. Now, though, it was all going to hang in the balance when the one other person left that knew who she really was, was getting spun back up. And of course he was getting spun up into the sleeve of her partner. (Envoy!Kristin AU)

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: i sat down thinking i was just gonna write a little something something for this au idea as a treat for the exchange but then i got super into it and fuckin carried away lmao. oh well! i had a good time! 😂

Altered Carbon Taglist: @garbinge @destinedtobeloved @justreblogginfics (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

“Takeshi Kovacs. Look me up,” he offered the statement to her with a smirk. It didn’t quite pass for charming, per se, although it probably wasn’t his intention anyway. From what she remembered, which was everything of their stint running parallel to each other thanks to Envoy’s total recall, that hadn’t ever really been his strong suit.

Plus she wasn’t in any mood to be charmed in that moment.

There were a million and one reasons that she shouldn’t have gone to seek him out. There were endless layers to the problems it could potentially cause. Bancroft selling out Ryker’s sleeve like a hand-me-down from an older sibling was bad enough, but putting Takeshi Kovacs into it? It brought the situation out of the realm of infuriating and into one of being unbelievable. Bancroft wheeling and dealing Ryker’s suit was a personal vendetta. Tak’s stack being put into it felt like a cosmic one. He should’ve been dead by now anyway. Same way she should’ve been, but a lot goes on in two hundred and fifty years, and clearly real death didn’t want anything to do with either of them just yet.

He said it, though. He confirmed it. She’d heard the rumors beforehand and there was an intuitive twist in her gut that told her there was some substance to them, but she didn’t want to believe it. He was looking her in the eyes and telling her his name and she still didn’t want to believe it.

“You can’t be who you say you are,” she said, partially to keep playing her assigned role but partially because she simply didn’t want to believe that it was really him. “All the Envoys died.” A lie. One that she would be living proof of even if Tak wasn’t.

“All except one,” he retorted easily.

Asshole. Another thing about him that had apparently stayed consistent across the centuries. What was it that he said to her back then? Every sleeve, every time? He wasn’t wrong about that at least. He was wrong about everything else, though. All except one? He’d been out of storage for five minutes and already felt comfortable making sweeping, definitive statements like that. Sleeve-jumping was a skillset they’d all developed, but still. That was a long time to stay down. And to turn up on a planet you’d never been to before? All that and over two centuries down and maybe she would’ve come off ice making the same grave mistakes. Maybe she could make his work in her favor. She just had to make sure that she could keep Takeshi and Elias separate.

She was so busy thinking about all of that, memories going in a relentless playback against the inside of her skull, that she almost didn’t realize that she was still talking with Miriam Bancroft. That part of her was on auto-pilot, or at least it was until she had to get herself the fuck out of there before she landed herself in even deeper hot water.

“Yeah, there’s your kid, there’s your car, and there’s your…” she thought on it for a moment, trying to pick something that felt honest to her feelings in the moment but would still feel like something Police Officer Kristin Ortega would say, not the woman she was back when Takeshi really knew her, “new pet terrorist. You’re welcome,” she added, mostly for good measure, but it also felt good to say it.

“The terrorist can hear you,” he spoke, just barely turning his head to follow her as she continued to walk, but not committing enough to the act to turn his whole body. “I’m standing right here.”

“Yeah, good,” she stared up at him, waiting for him to meet her eyeline, “’cause we’re not done, you and me.”

There was a moment when he was looking down into her eyes that she thought maybe he saw it. Maybe he saw the flicker of the person that he knew once, the person that she was back then. Dozens of sleeves ago but it was still her in most of the ways that mattered. Most, not all. He looked back and forth between her eyes and she waited to see recognition flicker in them. He’d always had that edge to him, after all. It got drilled into all of them during their training but there was something about the way that Takeshi was wired before he even became part of the Envoy core that made him take to it faster and better than most. She envied him for it back then, but maybe now they were more on the same playing field. Or they would be until he got his full footing.

Everyone thought they knew why it bothered her, but still they asked. They were probably hoping for some other nuggets of information, more vitriol about Bancroft and the rest of the meths maybe since she had such an outspoken issue with the lot of them. The rest of the precinct saw her anger and they assumed that it was all because of Ryker. Like she was a woman so simple as that. Elias was part of her frustration with this scenario of course, but the puzzle was so much more complicated than that. It was difficult in ways that she simply couldn’t risk trying to explain to any of them. All of the reasons that she feared Tak and the potential fall-out of him being taken off-stack, were all the same reasons that the rest of the precinct would no longer trust her if they found out the truth about her past.

She’d been born at just the right time, in her opinion. Born late enough to reap all the benefits of a stack, but early enough so that she could manipulate it easily to her benefit when she had needed to most. Data infiltration and manipulation was still easy when you knew the right people and had the right tools, but back then it had been so much easier. It also didn’t hurt that Envoys learned to be on the cusp of it all anyway. All of that was why she was able to wipe her entire past off the record, rewrite it the way that she had wanted to. She created someone who was just enough of a force that she wouldn’t have to water herself down too much, but it was dialed back enough to not get her put on a fucking watchlist. Or even worse, get her thrown into storage off the principle off it. They were all supposed to be masters of disguise, and it had served her well in the aftermath.

She sat in the precinct trying to play over every possible scenario in her head. She wanted to be able to see every possible outcome. If the two of them spent enough time running circles around each other, he was bound to figure it out, right? Figure her out? Eventually the fog would dissipate and he would see her. He’d see past the sleeve. There was no certainty for her in what she thought his reaction to it was going to be if and when that happened. Maybe she could get him thrown back in storage before she had to worry about it. Get Ryker back in his own sleeve. He was so much less of a problem on that front—all that time spent being partners and he still hadn’t even skated close to the chasm of truths that separated them. She hoped it stayed that way—it kept life simpler for the both of them.

Although if Takeshi got his sleeve torn to shreds in the midst of whatever this new deal with Bancroft was, she supposed that none of it would really matter for Elias anyway. What a mess.

She wasn’t surprised, to say the least, when she found him later, strung out and stumbling through the streets. It seemed pretty on-par for Tak—that specific brand of recklessness. For so many years she watched him equate the word Envoy with invincible even though they all knew that it wasn’t the case. It didn’t help that he wasn’t exactly known for his drive for self-preservation. Regardless, the drugs fell in alignment with the Tak she once knew, and she also knew that Ryker’s sleeve would soak them up like a sponge put into a pot of water. A disaster of a marriage.

“Bancroft spent all that money on a nice sleeve for you, and this is what you’re doing with it?” she asked sarcastically as she walked up behind him.

He turned around to face her, a stumble in his step that he was too far gone to even try and hide. “Didn’t think you’d give a fuck about me wasting Bancroft’s money.” He paused, eyes narrowing as his delayed processing caught up with the situation. “You’re following me.”

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “That’s what police do to psycho-terrorists.”

“Come on, you cannot call me that.”

He was stoned out of his mind on, well, it could’ve been just about anything. Or a combination of things. The longer that Kristin looked at him, the more she was certain that she could throw a dart at a board and it would probably land on something that he’d ingested since the last time she saw him. That wasn’t the point. The point was that he was stoned out of his mind and the reason that he was telling her that she couldn’t call him that was because he was being a petulant child, not because by calling him that she would be lumping herself into the exact same group. She knew that it wasn’t nearly that deep and yet she still found herself fighting the urge to flinch at the layers to the comment. Even if she hadn’t caught the physical reaction in time, she wondered if he would’ve even caught it with the state that he was in.

He wasn’t really paying her any mind as he tried to continue on his way. It was hard for him to come off as determined when he couldn’t think straight and he was in a place that he hadn’t ever been before. With each step she took to keep her stride with him, she was trying to separate out all the files in her head. She was trying to keep two neat piles, or even two messy piles if she was being honest with herself: one pile for Elias, and one pile for Takeshi.

She was just as much Envoy as Takeshi was—she could compartmentalize just fine for the most part. But it wasn’t often that she ran into the issue that she was currently facing, one that had so much overlap between sleeve and stack. She’d burned through so many sleeves back then, and continued to go through them albeit at a much slower rate even when she got out of the core. She’d watched others do it too, Envoys and civilians alike. But this wasn’t just putting someone’s stack into a new sleeve and needing to adjust to the new face. This was a face that she knew, the stack that belonged to it still fully intact somewhere in storage, and someone completely different occupying the real estate in the meantime. Someone else that she knew. And it wasn’t as though either of the men who made up the Venn diagram in her head were known for being uncomplicated individuals on their own let alone when they were tethered to each other.

She tried to toe the line with him, anything to get more information out of him. The pendulum swung back and forth between banter and sniping comments. It wasn’t as though either of them had any lasting impact on him. The comments rolled right off—either because of the drugs or the Envoy conditioning, she wasn’t sure.

“What was the other one?” she asked rhetorically as she downed her drink. “Oh, yeah. Icepick. I liked that one.”

“Yeah, that was a good one.” He looked over at her, a hoodedness to his eyes that would’ve almost come off as flirtatious if he’d been sober. “You should call me Icepick.”

She rolled her eyes, using it as a tactic to avert her gaze. “I never called you that,” she muttered, half under her breath.

“What was that?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as if to get a better look at her.

She looked him square in the eyes. “I said I’m not fucking calling you that.” She said it with enough conviction to sell it.

Another smirk, paired with hazy, drug-addled eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

The more that they fired back and forth, the more she wondered if it was possible that she had really changed that much. Apparent assimilation was supposed to be one of the key tools in their toolbox as Envoys, sure. But it was also hard to believe that she had done it so effectively that she was flying completely under Takeshi’s radar. It wasn’t humility—that was never her strong suit the way that charm hadn’t ever been Tak’s. It just didn’t seem to fit. There were so many things that seemed off about the entire situation, but she couldn’t quite name them no matter how much information she tried to pull out of Takeshi about Bancroft, about anything he was willing to give her.

Then there was a sharp sting in the back of her mind as the thought reared its ugly head. He should remember me. Her face scrunched, action unmitigated as she tried to beat the impending spiral of thoughts into submission—she couldn’t afford to lose herself to that right now.

He was already up and making his way towards the door. “I’m going back to my hotel.”

His voice snapped her back to attention. Shooting up out of her seat, she followed him. “You can’t really be staying in that fucking AI hotel.” She shook her head. “They’re like crazy ex-girlfriends, you know.”

He looked down at her as he adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. There was a smirk on his face, one that seemed slightly more intentional this time. “You know a lot about crazy ex-girlfriends, Ortega?”

She scoffed. “Probably not as much as you but—”

He cut her off, a shift in his tone, a seriousness that she could pick up on. “Give it a rest.”

She followed him clean out the door onto the sidewalk, trying not to let herself get discouraged by him ignoring her attempts to walk alongside him or, ideally, get in front of him to stop him. “Kovacs!” she called after him.

Without turning around, he waved at her over his shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, Officer Ortega.”

She huffed, allowing herself to stop. She whispered loudly to no one other than herself, “Fuck me.”

Takeshi didn’t hide the surprise on his face when she showed up to the hotel later before anyone else in the police department managed to get there. He didn’t get the feeling that she had just been lurking outside the door. If that had been the case, the scenario wouldn’t have played out the way it did, gotten as out of hand as it did. Or maybe it would have—he had no idea how she operated. But she strode in confidently, despite the worry and frustration on her face. She looked around and took in the state of the mess and Takeshi had no choice but to sit there and watch her do so.

“Couldn’t even make it twenty-four hours out of storage without killing someone?” she asked as she walked over to him, gun still clutched tightly in her hand even though it was pointed at the floor.

Poe tried to intervene on Takeshi’s behalf. “If it weren’t for—”

He didn’t want anyone coming to his defense, even when he could do with a little bit of assistance. “Waiting down the block for this to happen?”

She shook her head at him, finally holstering her gun once she was standing in front of him. “Might as well have been.” She looked around the destroyed lobby once more. “Had a feeling trouble was going to follow you.”

“Any trouble that would be following me,” he paused briefly as the red and blue lights of other responding police vehicles started to filter through the front windows and door of the hotel, “should’ve stopped being trouble a few centuries ago.”

She reached out and turned his face to get a better look at the damage, not hesitating to touch him, fingertips still drawn to his chin and cheek like it was still Ryker knocking around inside that sleeve. The tension that resulted from her touch, the momentary fighting against it, reminded her that it wasn’t, but it was too late to take it back.

“Seems like you might be enough of an asshole for it to follow you around for a couple hundred years, Kovacs.”

He grunted, pulling away from her touch, hating the way his sleeve wanted to lean into it despite how badly he was trying to recoil away. “Maybe.”

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck this was all about?”

“Thought you just told me,” he said, rising to his feet so he was towering over her once more.

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Can’t help it. Every sleeve, every—”

“Every time, yeah. Your consistency is admirable,” she snapped.

His eyes narrowed, chin dipping down so that he could study her face. “What—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his question. The other police officers came storming into the building, guns at the ready despite the fact that there was no more commotion coming out of the hotel. After all, it wasn’t as though there were other guests that were being disturbed. Once they all started taking stock of the situation, their guns disappeared back into their holsters as well. A few of them started peppering Takeshi with questions, although they didn’t seem as enraged about it all as Kristin had been. They stole his attention just long enough for Kristin to glean what she thought she needed from the scene and slip out without him noticing or being able to stop her.

Not only were Tak’s plans for the night effectively ruined by the men who stormed the hotel with every intention to kill him, now he also had Kristin’s words rattling around the inside of his skull like pinballs. She finished his sentence with no hesitation and what was bothering him the most was that he couldn’t say with absolute certainty if he said something while he was high out of his mind or not. He must’ve. There was no other way she would’ve known, no other reason. Or, at least, there would’ve been no other reason that felt at all feasible. The thought crossed his mind, but, no, there was no way that was possible. He’d had too many things happen to him too quickly after getting spun up again, that was all. Morning would come around and he’d had a perfectly good reason for all of it, one that didn’t make him feel insane.

The next time he saw her, she had the same air of confidence about her that she always did. He kept his expression neutral, not wanting her to know that he’d been turning her words over in his head ever since she’d spoken them. He tried to come off as impassive but he could feel the anticipation tightening in his chest, questions that he couldn’t ask and answers that he was in no position to get. He managed to keep his curiosity tamped down until he was dismissed by Bancroft’s lawyer, another situation that had more questions than answers.

He trailed Kristin out, taking no time at all to catch up to her. He was walking alongside her but he wasn’t looking at her. “Gonna need a couple minutes of your time, Lieutenant.”

She forced herself not to look at him either. “As much as I would love to give you a couple minutes of my time, Kovacs, I need to keep looking into who tried to kill you. You know, the thing that you asked me to do about two fucking minutes ago.”

He grabbed the side of her arm and pushed her into the next alleyway that they came across. She started to protest until she felt her back hit the brick wall behind her. He purposely invaded her space, bodies close but not quite touching. He looked down at her, not letting the anger in her eyes unnerve him.

She glared up at him. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Who are you?” he asked, voice low.

“What?”

“Who—”

“I fucking heard you.” She pushed him away and he gave in, not that she pushed with that much force but he figured maybe it would help get some answers. “You know who I am, Kovacs.”

 “No, I don’t. But you seem to know an awful fucking lot about who I am.”

She could see it in his eyes that he was skirting dangerously close to the truth. He would’ve already gotten there if he hadn’t allowed himself to put up a barrier of thinking that there was such a thing as an impossible outcome. Apparently being on ice for a couple centuries dulled the don’t expect anything so that you’re prepared for everything part of their training. Too bad Quell wasn’t around to chastise him for it—he’d undoubtedly enjoy it a lot more coming from her.

“That’s because it’s my fucking job.” She side-stepped, glad that he didn’t make any move to stop her. “Which, I’m trying to go do so that maybe you won’t have another group of mercenaries coming after you.”

“Not gonna keep following me around just in case?” He followed her. “What if—”

“Just call the precinct like everyone else in Bay City,” she told him dismissively.

“Right,” he replied with a chuckle.

Even though he couldn’t see the annoyed look on her face, Kristin was certain that he knew it’s how she looked anyway. “You work your case, if that’s what you want to call it. And I’ll work mine.”

She felt the distance between them growing as he stopped but she kept walking on. He called after her, a smart remark about seeing her soon. He was right, of course. Until they put Takeshi back in storage there was no way that she was going to be able to just keep avoiding him, not with Ryker’s sleeve on the line.

While she knew that there was no getting out of seeing him again, she certainly didn’t expect to see him before the day was out. She definitely didn’t expect him to show up at her apartment door, banging on the dense metal of it like he was a cop with a warrant.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Kovacs?” she asked, too tired to even sound properly annoyed.

“Found out some interesting news today,” he said, brushing past her and into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. He strode down the stairs, taking stock of the place as he went. “Some things that made the picture a whole lot fucking clearer on who you are and what the fuck you’ve been doing.”

Her blood ran cold for a moment. She went down the stairs slower than necessary, thinking maybe it was going to buy her some time. Tak was standing in the middle of the kitchen, palms flat against the top of the island as he leaned against it. His eyes kept darting around the room, taking as much of it in as possible, but they always came back to Kristin.

“I knew it,” he said with a shake of his head once she finally crossed the threshold into the kitchen. “I knew there had to be a reason you were so interested in all of this. And I was right.”

“Were you?” she asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as she could.

“Yeah.” He let himself return to a fully upright position, taking the few small steps to collapse the distance between them. He stared down at her. “When were you gonna tell me that they spun me up into your boyfriend?”

“Ryker is not my boyf—”

“What the fuck, Ortega?”

“What would it have mattered, hm? What would it have changed?”

“Well it would sure fuckin’ explain why so many extra people have it out for me. Can’t imagine cops with records like Ryker’s are exactly known for having a lot of friends.”

“Like I said,” she grit out, “it didn’t matter—wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t have cared about an Envoy running loose in your city if he wasn’t running around wearing your partner.”

He still hadn’t put those pieces of the puzzle together. Maybe finding out who his sleeve was, the relationship to her, maybe all of that was enough to sate his curiosity about why she was so invested in him. And sure, that was definitely a large part of it. The other part of it was going to make itself reckoned with sooner rather than later—Kristin could feel it deep in her gut. She could chalk it up to Envoy intuition but really at that point it was just common sense.

She paused those thoughts when remembered that she was in the middle of an argument. “That’s not true.”

“Wouldn’t be a priority of yours, though.”

“You don’t know that.”

He retreated farther back into the kitchen, rooting around to get his hands on something, anything that had alcohol in it. “So, what’s Ryker’s deal?” he asked, his head practically shoved into her fridge. “What makes him so special that you’ll run around the city to—”

“He’s my partner,” she said sharply. “It’s what you do for your partner.” She stepped so that she could lean back against the island. “Not that I’d expect you to understand that.”

“Why’s that?” he asked when he found a bottle of clear liquor on the counter. He opened it while he waited for her to answer, pulling a face when he wafted the scent of the alcohol. It’d still do the trick.

She couldn’t give her honest answer, one born from information about the people they were before. She watched him helplessly look through cupboards in an attempt to find a glass. She could’ve made it easier but she was getting a mildly twisted joy out of watching him go through the small struggle. “Being worried for someone else doesn’t seem like it’s your strong suit. Envoy compartmentalization, right?”

He finally found a glass, setting it down on the countertop with a surprising amount of care considering how tired and annoyed he was. He didn’t say anything as he proceeded to pour a hefty serving into it. Bringing the glass to his lips, he downed almost all of it in one go before setting the glass back down with a clatter, a scant amount of liquor still swirling at the bottom.

He let out a sharp exhale as the lingering burn from the alcohol in his throat subsided. “You don’t know anything.”

She wished she knew how to tell him just how wrong he was. Since she didn’t know just how to do that, she settled for, “You’re not as special as you think.”

He finished off what little was left in his glass, leaving it empty on the counter beside the bottle as he went back so that he was standing next to her. She was leaning with her back pressed against the island but he came and stood so that he was facing it again. Instead of placing his hands on top of it, he leaned so that his forearms rested there instead. He clasped his hands, staring at them instead of the countertop as he felt Kristin’s eyes studying him.

“Bet you didn’t talk like that to Ryker.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not him, so I guess it doesn’t matter, right?”

He turned and looked at her. “Make it sound like it’s so easy to separate it out.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”

“Right.”

Despite the instinctive urge to make another snarky comment, he stayed silent. He unclasped his hands, letting his fingertips drum against the smooth surface of the island. It wasn’t a habit that was his own, just the sleeve’s reaction to nicotine withdrawal. He never personally cared for smoking, and if he thought that his stint in this sleeve was going to be a long-term one he would’ve thought about putting in the effort to quit. That just seemed like too much work for too little payoff at the moment.

Kristin heard the familiar tapping of his fingers before she turned to see it. She hated that Elias smoked, always chided him about it. And she knew that Tak’s draw to the nicotine was because of the sleeve, not because of any intrinsic desire. Because of that she was perfectly aware of the fact that she shouldn’t encourage him, but it almost felt like a freebie given the circumstances. She wouldn’t have to tell Elias—he’d never know if she didn’t say anything.

Without a word, she pulled a pack of cigarettes from the back of the top drawer of the island. Elias didn’t think she knew about it, not that it was any great hiding spot.

Takeshi looked quizzically back and forth between her and the pack of smokes. From the second he got spun up all she and everyone else had been doing was chastising him for smoking. It felt like a trick.

She gave the pack a slight shake. “If it’s offered, take it,” she said passively.

His eyes narrowed instantly, his entire body tensing. “What?”

“Take it,” she repeated, “before I change my mind.”

She watched the conflict on his face and chose not to say anything. If he had a question he could ask it, if he had a thought he could share it. But she was done trying to pull information out of him—Tak and Ryker. He was the one who showed up on her doorstep, after all.

“So when you said that I knew you,” he said as he reached and took the pack from her, fingers curling around it and the lighter pinned to the back of it, “you meant that the guy riding my sleeve before me knew you. That any reaction, pull or push, I felt about you had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Ryker.”

She watched him put a cigarette between his lips and spark it to life. She raised her eyebrows, partially because she was surprised by how much she enjoyed watching him do it, but also because she was surprised at how much work he was putting into finding the wrong answer.

Finally, she shrugged when his gaze landed back on her. She watched the smoke curl out from between his lips. “Something like that.”

“What was he like?”

Kristin ignored how he referred to Ryker in the past tense as she chuckled, wondering if he really had any interest in Elias at all or if he just wanted to try and glean something more about her by watching how she spoke about him. Regardless, she decided that she would indulge him in the smallest way possible. “You two would hate each other.” She knew what the follow-up question was going to be so she answered it before he could really ask. “You have the wrong things in common.”

He had an urge to try and get her to elaborate, but he stopped himself. Tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette, he tried to figure out what it was exactly that he really wanted to say to her. He could feel the energy rolling off her in waves. It wasn’t tension, not in the traditional sense. He could feel that there were layers of depth that he hadn’t worked his way into. She was keeping him out. He was stopping himself. He wondered how much of the blame could be put on her, how much of it on him, and how much of it was simply old sleeve memory complicating things for him.

“You must’ve really pissed off Bancroft to get him to do this,” he finally said, gesturing to himself with the hand that was holding the cigarette.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Suddenly the empty glass and nearly full bottle of liquor were looking much more inviting than they had been. “You don’t have a monopoly on pissing people off, Kovacs.”

“Stiff competition,” the rebuttal rolled off his tongue easily before he pulled another drag off his smoke.

“Enough years doing anything and you become a professional, right?”

“How many years is that?” he asked outright, forgoing subtlety because there didn’t seem to be much point to it anymore.

She looked over at him. “Enough.”

“Ortega…” he started and then trailed off. He was scratching at the walls of the truth, could hear it rattling around on the other side. He ground out the butt of his cigarette, funneling his frustration into the action before letting it drop from his fingertips.

“Takeshi.” It was only when she said his full name that she realized how long it’d been since she called him that. Using it to talk about him when he wasn’t around was much different than using it while talking to him. Centuries had passed since the last time she used it so casually with him.

He read it all over her face, too. He could see the way that it felt foreign and familiar all at once. It sounded familiar, too. There was something in the tones of the word, undercurrents in his own name that he recognized even if the voice was different. He stared at her intently, head tilting slightly in thought as he tried to look past what he could physically see. He heard her voice from the alley. “You know who I am.”

His eyes widened just slightly as the realization finally began to crash over him. When he spoke again, there was a certainty to his tone that hadn’t been there before. “Kristin.”

She’d been doing nothing but agonizing over what would happen when he realized who she really was, but now that she could see that he had, all she felt was relief. Her shoulders dropped with the lessening of the weight on them.

“That took you a little too long.” She peeled herself away from him, crossing to the counter where Takeshi had left his glass. She refilled it and drank from it herself. “Still got tunnel vision.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His voice was tight, but there was still a lingering sense of bewilderment to it.

“Well for one thing I didn’t think it was going to take you so fucking long to figure it out.” She poured more liquor into the glass. She let out a quick, quiet wince as the liquor burned down her throat again. “They don’t know.”

He didn’t need to ask her who they were, or what exactly it was they didn’t know. His time off-stack might have been limited this time around but he knew the danger that being known as an Envoy would put her in. “None of them?”

She shook her head, contemplating a third pour. “None of them.”

“Not even—”

“I said none of them.” The relief was starting to disappear, dread slowly starting to take its place, and she poured herself a third helping to cope.

“You think I’ll say something.” It wasn’t a question.

“I think that there are very few things that you have ever cared about, Tak. I know that Bancroft definitely isn’t on that fucking shortlist.” She paused. “I know that I’m not either—never was.”

She looked over at him and she saw the way that there was a flicker of hope in his eyes when she said that last part. He knew she was right, that even back then she was never someone he paid much mind to. His concern had always been Reileen, and then Quell. Apparently a couple hundred years on ice hadn’t dulled his devotion to the latter. Kristin had a feeling that she knew what he wanted to ask, but she was content to make him actually say it.

To her surprise, he didn’t ask anything. “You haven’t heard anything,” he stated.

She shook her head. “No. But I’ve never gone looking.” She could feel the tension in the room thicken at that. “It was a miracle that I made it out. I wasn’t going to waste that by—”

“It wouldn’t have been a waste.”

“Not to you,” she snapped. “You were Quell’s favorite—of fucking course you would’ve gone looking for her. I was just another Envoy. Dispensable. Part of what was offered.” She sighed, forcing herself not to pour another drink. “I managed to survive so I did what we do best. I blended in.”

“Kristin Ortega,” he said her name in its totality, exploring each letter of it with fresh eyes and ears now that he knew who she was.

“Not a far cry from before, no?”

He shook his head. “No.” There were so many things that he could have, and probably should have, asked her, but in that moment he didn’t care about any of it. He easily collapsed the distance so that he was beside her again. He looked at the way her hands were wrapped tightly around the edge of the counter. He copied her position, only his grip wasn’t vice-like the way that hers was. Their pinkies nearly touched. “If we’d been better friends back then, would you have said something?”

That got a scoff out of her that dissolved into a laugh. “There’s no lifetime where the two of us are friends, Kovacs.”

“Not even in this sleeve?” It was teasing, but not cruel.

She turned her head, still having to look up slightly to meet his eyes even though he was leaning onto the counter. “The sleeve was never the problem.”

“This is probably my best shot though, right?”

She smiled and it was genuine even through the exhaustion. Maybe all the liquor was catching up to her. “Probably.”

Neither of them moved. In the thick silence of the apartment, they could each hear the other breathing. They knew enough to know where it could so easily go. It wouldn’t be anywhere good, at least not long-term. But what did long-term even mean for them anymore? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. There was that unspoken mutual understanding, after all, that they were each looking for someone in the other that they weren’t ever going to find. He might’ve been wearing his sleeve but Takeshi was never going to be Elias. And Kristin might’ve lived through the same hardships and lived to tell the tale, she might’ve known the history and the fight, but she wasn’t ever going to be Quell. They looked at each other and saw the truth, but they were both still pining after delusions.

Tak’s hand moved a fraction of an inch, the movement smooth as it caused his hand to brush against hers. She let out a short breath and he could smell the alcohol on it. Her lips parted slightly, like she was going to say something. Maybe she was going to say it was a bad idea, maybe she was going to send him home. Whatever she had been planning to say, he saw it in real time as it fell by the wayside.

She pulled her hand away from his only to reach and place it on the back of his head instead, pulling him closer. His body moved of its own accord. Some of it was just the natural motions of things, but there was also the familiarity of his sleeve and hers, chemical reactions that were innate that he had no control over. For a moment he fought it on the principle of it all, but then he felt the hunger in her, every movement of her lips and tongue against his a taunt to get him to reciprocate in kind.

So he did, grabbing her and placing her up on the counter with ease. She looped her legs around his waist as his grip tightened on her sides. He leaned into her, bodies pressed as tightly together as they could be with the barrier of their clothes still between them. If he wanted to, he could chalk his eagerness up to too many years on ice, an abundance of hormones in a sleeve that had been in the tank, body mechanics operating outside of his control. He could’ve said any and all of those things and none of them would’ve been a lie, per se. But as his hand slid towards the button of her jeans, he knew that the full truth was much, much simpler than that—they were both just taking what was offered.

#altered carbon #altered carbon fanfiction #takeshi kovacs #kristin ortega #takeshi kovacs x kristin ortega #kristin ortega x takeshi kovacs #candyhearts exchange #candy hearts exchange 2024 #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

[mylittleredgirl]

i wrote some fic for the candyhearts valentines exchange on ao3 and authors have been revealed, so i can post them here!

Fortuna Caeca Est for laurie_ipsum The X-Files - Fox Mulder/Dana Scully - post-ep to "irresistible" It’s the second time in a year that a man took her against her will. It’s the second time she was found alive.

Vitamin D for @ussjellyfish Stargate Atlantis - John Sheppard/Elizabeth Weir - just a lil fluff His feelings are only ever revealed via scavenger hunt.

Twenty Thousand Leagues for @havocthecat Stargate Atlantis - John Sheppard/Elizabeth Weir/Kate Heightmeyer - submerged atlantis submarine apocalypse vibes There’s no sunlight at the bottom of the ocean.

#mai fic #stargate atlantis #john x elizabeth #the x files #having a good fic harvest so far this winter! #which means my house is a severe mess #i don't know how y'all who write fics that are actually longer than 5k words like. live. survive. raise children. #teach me your ways

[hausofmamadas]

FANFIC

✸ ONE LAST SECRET OF DESOLATION | Hannibal Lecter & Will Graham (Fic in a Box 2023)

✸ SO MUCH FOR MY NINE LIVES | David Barrón & Benjamín Arellano Félix (Narcoctober 2023 - Day of Horror)

✸ HARD TO HATE UP CLOSE | Andrea Núñez & OC! Julián “Bugsy” Barrón Corona (Naroctober 2023 - Day of Monsters)

✸ THE OCCUPATIONAL HAZARDS OF LIVING | David Barrón & Rustin “Crash” Cohle & OC! Ziggy Morenas & OC! Ernesto “Chato” Quintana Colmenaro - Nmx/True Detective Crossover (Narcoctober 2023 - Day of Cross Pollination)

✸ TO LIVE AND LEAVE FAST | Andrea Nuñez x Horacio Carrillo (Naroctober 2023 - Day of Surprises)

✸ IN DEFENSE OF WONDERBREAD WHITE | Eureka! Character Moments - Analysis of garbinge’s Foldin’ Clothes (Narcoctober 2023 - Day of Support)

✸ TU CÓMPLICE | Ismael "El Mayo" Zambada x Benjamín Arellano Félix (Narcoctober 2023 - Day of Firsts)

✸ WHAT’S WAITING DOWN ZUNI ROAD | Gabrielle Castillo x Ignacio “Nacho” Varga (Mayans/BCS Crossover - Rarepairs Exchange 2023)

✸ OUR MAN IN MEXICO | Andrea Nuñez x Horacio Carrillo (NFF Smut Alphabet, July, 2023 - ✷ ✷ 18+ NSFW ✷✷)

✸ ONLY GOOD FOR A GOOD TIME | Isabella Bautista (heavily implied Isabella x Enedina Arellano Félix - ✷DRIVEL DRABBLE)✷

✸ THIS IS WHY THE EARTH EATS THE DEAD | Rafa Caro Quintero x María Elvira

✸ EVERY ALLEY IN MEXICO HAS ITS OWN GHOST | David Barrón x Ramón Arellano Félix

✸ GONE. LIKE THAT. | Mika Camarena & Connie Murphy (Narcos/Narcos Mexico AU)

Dinarrón:

✸ CHASING GHOSTS AND CHOICES | David Barrón x Enedina Arellano Félix x Claudio Vasquez (Narcoctober 2023 - Day of Life)

✸ THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US | David Barrón x Enedina Arellano Félix (NFF Smut Alphabet, July, 2023 - ✷✷ 18+ NSFW ✷✷)

✸ ALWAYS SHORT TO THE GATE | David Barrón x Enedina Arellano Félix (Candyhearts Exchange 2023)

✸ OJITOS ANOCHECIDOS | David Barrón x Enedina Arellano Félix (aka Dinarron, ft. AU Barron)

#masterlist #fanfic