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narcolini · 2 years

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when the crows come home, 4

part one / part two / part three & ao3 link

angel reyes x gn!reader, part 4 of ?, 4588 words

a/n: screams. finally get to bring in some angel pov and some spanish AND some OCs. im chomping the bit - also theres translations at the end (thankyou @yourlocalspacewitxch love u)!

taglist: @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa @ashlingiswriting

Angel didn’t mean to fall asleep here. He really didn’t mean to fall asleep here.

He was talking, no, you were talking, he was listening, for most of the night. Until you weren’t. Until you were asleep. Well, who knows which person went first, it doesn’t matter, really. He doesn’t remember. All that matters, is that he fell asleep in your bed, still dressed, and that was never the plan. He was gonna leave, back out the window and onto his bike before it got too early to be pointless. So much for that. Instead, he fell asleep like he was already home, with your TV flickering over him instead of his own.

It’s still on now. He’s still in his kutte too, and he fucking hates sleeping in his kutte. Shit feels like sleeping on a saddle, rigid and hot, so hot, once he starts sweating under it.

God, he hopes you haven’t noticed the sweating. First time you’ve shared a bed and he’s damp under his shirt, behind his neck, across his fucking brow.

He stares at the ceiling above your room. You haven’t moved yet, besides the lift of your shoulders and the push of your breath over him. You don’t know that he’s awake and thinking himself into something like a nightmare.

Didn’t mean to cross that boundary, right, Angel? To fall asleep with you against him, face on his chest, patches probably leaving imprints on your cheek. Santo Padre pushed into the skin in that same blocky font. Way too fucking soon for that, yeah? Why not seal the deal and go have breakfast with the parents, too?

So much for taking it as it comes, for letting you figure your own shit out, before stuffing himself into the middle of it all. If he’d known this would happen, he’d have rode off last night when you didn’t answer on the first dial tone.

Fuck. He didn’t mean to leave his bike out in the open all night, either.

He’s out of the bed faster than he should be, considering you’re sleeping still, but the bike’s there when he looks through the window and the relief of that quickly overshadows any guilt he has about waking you. Thank God, you live in a neighbourhood full of pensioners. No-ones even looked twice at his bike. The helmet’s still swinging from the handlebars.

‘Angel?’

You’re disorientated, obviously. He’s just thrown you onto the mattress like you’re an extension of the sheets.

‘Hey.’ He wipes his palms against his jeans and turns back to the bed. ‘I just.’ He stops. It must look like he’s trying to escape through the window, caught in the act before he can even touch the frame. ‘You good?’ he asks, hoping he looks relaxed, or as normal as someone can be in this situation.

You nod and make a noise that’s almost readable as a yes.

That job shit really got to you. This is the longest you’ve gone without telling him something about himself, or cracking a joke that makes him so annoyed, but so glad you’re back. He misses it like you’ve gone mute.

‘Sorry,’ he explains, though you aren’t awake enough to care, ‘I thought someone might’ve stolen my bike. Forgot your neighbours are, like, five hundred years old.’

You’re propped on your elbows, squinting at him like the sunlight’s blinding you. Your hair’s flattened on one side, your lips are dry from breathing through your mouth—yeah, that’s something he’ll use later—and honestly, you look like you haven’t been awake, or human, in a year at least. But he wants to get back in, he realises. He wants to apologise again, lie down, and put your goofy sleep-struck face back onto his chest like he’d never moved at all.

And that is a very fucking loco thing to be thinking on a Thursday morning. Looking at you, biche.

He puts his hands in his pockets and keeps his feet firmly in the same spot on the carpet. ‘Guess we fell asleep,’ he says, because that’s better than suggesting he stays and wastes the day with you.

‘Fuck,’ you mutter, before rubbing your eyes with your fingers. ‘What time is it?’

His phone’s on your bed still, under your stomach—he can see the edge of it beneath your t-shirt. When he points it out, silently, you oblige, taking it and clicking it once to read the time.

For a second, his gut tightens, because he know’s you’re seeing it again, the photo Potter sent him. But you know about that now, to an extent. He forces a breath until his lungs deflate. The kid’s not a secret anymore. You don’t even react when you see him shining back at you.

Annoyingly, it doesn’t feel like a relief yet. There’s still things he hasn’t told you, things that could make you react worse than ‘I have a baby’ did—though, that, you took better than he ever imagined. Freakishly well, really. It’d be weird as fuck if he wasn’t so used to you and your calculated responses. A lot has changed since you went away, but you weren’t a liar then, and you aren’t now. As far as he knows, anyway.

‘Well, house is empty,’ you say afterwards, words still nudging into each other with sleep. ‘You're good to use the door.’

Like that’s what he’s worrying about. He hadn’t even got to thinking about your parents yet.

‘Alright.’ He nods, taking the phone when you hold it out for him.

Should he leave? Is that what that was? Just a polite way of saying, get out please, we made it fucking awkward, right?

He half expects you to say it out loud, but you don’t.

Instead, you fold back into the bed, arms collapsing under you, head pushing into the pillow he’d been using. There’s no reason for you to get up, he guesses, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling conflicted about it. He almost wants to drag you up and make you come with him, but Bish would have something to say about that. Fuck, all of them would have something to say about that. Even EZ would find some smart-ass comment to make.

‘You gonna be okay today?’ he asks, watching your face, your eyes closed already.

You murmur a yeah. Lying, clearly.

He’s never seen someone actually look depressed while they’re falling asleep before, but you’re managing it. He can see you waiting for the bed to swallow you whole. Something about the way your shoulders are sitting, all tucked into yourself.

He cant help himself; he has to say, ‘Text me when you’re up, alright?’ like he’s got you under 24-hour supervision. Like he has some right to know.

Your answer is another hum, followed by, ‘Go do your job, Angel. M’not a kid.’

You aren’t. You’ve dealt with worse, without him, plenty of times before. He’s gotta remember that. He shouldn’t need prompting.

‘Sure, biche,’ he replies, but you’re already asleep, lips parted slightly.

__________

Letting himself out is easier than he expects it to be. Though, really, why would it be hard? House looks the same as it did when he was there to eat pizza and watch WrestleMania on the box TV in your living room. God, that was a lifetime ago now. You taped it for him, when you remembered, and he’d come round to watch it, sitting inches from the screen. Highlight of his week, every week.

That’s one thing that has changed actually, it’s a flat-screen now. Your parents have welcomed more of the 21st century into their home than Pops ever has. He’d still use the black and white set if he could. He didn’t change it ’til him and EZ pitched in for a new one.

The front door locks as he shuts it behind him, which he’s glad of. Least you won’t get robbed while you sleep the day away. Then, he’s back into reality, down the steps from your porch and over to his bike like nothing has happened. No sleepover, no boundaries crossed. Just back to the grind, same as every day. Feels good. Feels right. He takes a breath big enough to fill his lungs before swinging his leg over.

It’s border work this time, fucking baby seats, of all things. Like he wants to spend his day carting those about, knowing he’ll never need to buy one himself.

He sighs, back curving as he slouches into the seat.

Gotta stop thinking like that, man. Won’t make him come home any quicker.

‘Yo.’ He’s called EZ before even touching his helmet, or the keys in the pocket of his jeans. His brother’s groan cracks into his ear in place of a hello. ‘I wake you up?’ Angel asks, fighting the urge to hang up again. The one time he’s up before noon and every other person he talks to is dead-set on being sleeping beauty.

‘Yeah, actually.’ EZ groans again, then clears his throat until he sounds lively. ‘Thought we weren’t meeting til twelve?’

‘Sooner we start, sooner we get it over with.’ He was already thinking about the beer waiting for him afterwards. Ice cold, condensation up its neck. ‘You gonna be ready when I pull up?’

‘Fuck, no.’ EZ laughs. ‘I gotta shower and eat something first, bro. Gonna be a long fucking day.’

Wrong answer, but it’s too early to argue with him. ‘Alright,’ Angel sighs, ‘I’ll stop by Pops before I come to you.’ He pulls the keys from his pocket and turns the ignition, hoping EZ can hear it through the phone. Hurry up, it says, don’t keep me waiting, hermano. ‘Someone should probably check on him, anyway. Make sure he’s eating and shit.’

‘You nearby?’

Angel snorts; imagines himself saying, Yeah, I’m near by. Wanna hear a crazy story, bro? Guess where I slept last night.

But that’s another thing it’s way too early for, so instead he says, ‘You’re supposed to be showering, fool.’ Then he pins the phone to his shoulder and reaches for his helmet. ‘You got an hour, no más. Entiendes, carnal?’

‘Alright, relax,’ EZ complains. ‘Man, I like it way better when you’re the one oversleeping.’

Yeah, me the fuck too.

Heroin-stuffed baby seats. Ironic even to Angel and he barely knows what the word fucking means. Made to save kids in a car crash and they’re filling them with dope, sending them right past border control with someone playing sweet little Mommy behind the wheel.

So dumb, but it always works. World’s funny like that.

‘That all we’re moving?’ he asks, shining the torch over EZ.

They’re by the tunnel’s exit still, EZ stuffing the load into the cushioning of the car seats they’d brought. Thank fuck, they got to avoid the dirty job this time, left that part to Gilly and Coco instead. He hates going through the tunnel. Shit always sticks to his hair: cobwebs, dirt. He’s the only one tall enough to brush the fucking top of it.

‘That’s all there is,’ Gilly answers from behind.

Well, fuck.

‘Shit’s not gonna last long out there,’ he says, though it’s obvious, but someone’s gotta say it.

EZ looks up at them. ‘Neither are we if it stays like this,’ he says.

And that’s even more fucking obvious.

‘Will you hurry up?’ Coco whines, clinging from the ladder still. He’s poking out the hole in the ground like a prairie dog. A prairie dog in his abuelita’s wig. ‘I’m fucking itchy man, this shit is clinging to me like fucking asbestos or some shit.’

EZ ducks his head again, shoving the final package into the seat.

‘It’d be quicker if you helped, asshole,’ Angel says, earning him a, fuck off, go do your part, in return.

Yeah, don’t have to tell him twice. He can’t wait to get out of this shit-hole and back into the open air.

‘Have you noticed Coco’s got cranky lately?’ EZ asks, once it’s just them again, a car seat in each set of arms.

‘That’s what he’s always like,’ Angel answers, eyes rolling. ‘I used to live with him, remember?’

Used to make breakfast around him like he was cohabiting with a viper. So bite-y until he’d had his breakfast, or a smoke.

‘Probably forgot his morning coffee or some shit,’ he adds, though he can tell by EZ’s expression that he already doesn’t agree with him. He’s got that line between his brows like Angel’s said something stupid again. His favourite fucking expression lately.

Angel looks away before it can piss him off.

‘Pops didn’t get out of bed,’ he says after a minute. ‘House is a fucking mess, too. Dirty dishes everywhere.’

When he went, Pop didn’t even return his hello. Didn’t even lift his head to look at him, standing in the doorway. Somehow, it felt worse than arguing does. He’d rather that, Pops telling him how much of a constant disappointment he is, than whatever this is. Silence stings in a way he can’t shake off.

EZ sighs beside him, switching the seat to rest on his opposite arm. ‘What’re we gonna do, man?’

Angel shrugs. ‘Fucking no idea. I’m not good at fixing people, bro. That’s your job.’

‘Since when?’

‘Um,’ he shoots EZ a look, ‘since forever?’

Since Angel went to Chino, before he’d even turned twenty-one, since he ruined his relationship with Pop and fucked up every good thing he had going for him. Since he scared you away, right out of Santo Padre.

‘You’re good with people, Ezekiel. Pops will listen to you eventually.’

‘Fucking hope so.’ He tuts. ‘I hate seeing him like this.’

You get used to it, Angel wants to say. That’s how it was every fucking day when EZ was in Stockton. But he knows what the answer will be. You went away too, you know. We had to deal with the same shit, Angel. Mum as well.

So, he says nothing, and he sets his eyes on the car of the poor woman who’s gonna take this shit through the border.

Finally, finally, he gets his God damn beer. He feels like kissing it, but he takes a sip instead. Fucking beautiful. He lets the rest of them fall into conversation, along the bar to the right of him—he took the end seat for a reason—and enjoys the quiet he’s pretending he has. Lets himself think, properly, for the first time today.

Until he’s interrupted, that is.

‘You depressed, homeboy?’ Coco laughs, looking down the line, past Gilly and EZ, to target him. ‘Looks like you’re gonna cry or some shit.’

‘I’m thinking. Jesus.’ Can’t have a minute to himself without a fucking interrogation. He rubs a palm over his face, then sets it on his beer again afterwards, rings clinking against the glass. ‘Was thinking if I knew of any jobs going,’ he explains, reluctantly. ‘Got a friend that needs some work.’

Gilly shrugs. ‘Always need more mules going over the border.’

‘Fuck no. Not that shit.’ The idea of it almost pisses him off. No, it does piss him off. The thought of you sitting there, drug-filled baby seats behind you. He’d rather be the one taking that risk. Him and his ‘arrest me’ looking self. So, no, not that. He takes a swig of his beer to wash the sour from his mouth. ‘Something above board,’ he says, ‘legal. Something normal people do.’

EZ laughs. ‘Do we know any normal people?’

‘Ha-ha.’ God, he’s hard to talk to sometimes. So quick, it’s annoying. ‘It’s for…’ He stops himself. Things shared at midnight, in the quiet of bedrooms, don’t usually come with a free pass to tell other people. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he finishes, head shaking. ‘I’ll think of something.’

Then, right on cue, you message him. He knows, because his phone vibrates against his chest, jumping alive from the inside pocket of his kutte, and no-one else texts him lately. Besides EZ, and that fool’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with him.

Thanks for last night, the text reads, and, yes, I just woke up.

He smiles. Then sniffs and rubs a hand over his mouth to wipe it away again. No problem, he types back. You feel better?

He does, anyway, miles better, in fact. About the baby, about the two of you. About being useful to someone who isn’t paying him to be.

So much, you reply. Ready to take on the world.

Shit, watch out Santo Padre. He hopes you laugh at that, lame as it is. Hopes you snort in that way you do. The typing bubble pops up again as he takes another drink.

You staying out of trouble? you ask.

The answer comes easily. Hell yeah, good as gold, biche.

He didn’t mean for it to be a lie, Gilly and Coco just have really, really bad timing. The moment he hits send, and looks up from your conversation, is the exact same moment that Gilly punches Coco, sending him right into the back of a uniformed soldier. Right into a group of them, even, flattening Coco and the one nearest onto the pool table behind.

Who knows what they were arguing about, who knows who was in the right, or how it went from beer-side talk, to a physical fucking fight—between men who are supposed to be brothers, he might add. Angel doesn’t know, or care, that’s for sure. What he does know, however, is that when a soldier throws a punch at one of his own, yeah, that’s when it becomes everybody’s problem.

EZ turns to him, as he reaches the same conclusion Angel has. ‘Shall we?’ he asks.

Angel swallows the last of his beer. ‘I think we fucking shall.’

And, fuck it, he’ll bring the bar stool too.

He was getting his ass beat. Not this time, not now, but then, fucking years ago, in Chino. In the fuck-up that took his stay from twelve months to eighteen. It was a fight that lasted all of three fucking minutes and it got his sentence extended, without debate. Could have been worse, of course. Could’ve ended up dead in the yard for running his mouth, again. He hadn’t worked out how to survive in there yet, didn’t know when to joke and when to keep his mouth shut. How to make friends and who to avoid all together. Couldn’t get it right, at all, until Gabe had taught him how.

That was the first time he’d spoken to him. Gabriel ‘Gabe’ Trujillo.

He’d got to Angel before the COs did, pulled the brawl apart like he was shucking corn. Pulled Angel right from under the guy, Boney—yeah, dumb name, that’s why it started, Angel just had to tell him that—and set them away from each other like children. Got involved before it got too bad, while Angel was still able to stand.

‘Pinshe mocoso cagadero, ‘tás tratando de que te maten?’ he barked, all up in Angel’s face.

He stood in front of him, voice hard like he’d been fighting himself, not watching it happen, and waited for an answer. Like Angel could give him one, like he could even focus on the guy. There was two of him, he remembers, their heads going in and out of each other in the blur.

‘What?’ Angel parroted. ‘What?’

He was bleeding from his brow, dripping red over his eyes. His own head was spinning from the hits he’d taken. He couldn’t understand English, let alone Spanish, but that’s all Gabe ever used with him.

He didn’t look at Boney either, didn’t even address him. Just stood between the two of them, his back to the other man, chiding Angel like a kid.

‘Pues, quieres morir,’ he said, ‘es eso?’

No, Angel tried to tell him, who the fuck are you? No, he doesn’t want to die.

But before his mouth could catch up, the COs had arrived, and then Angel was against the fence, wrists pulled together behind his back, Boney slammed into place beside him. Somehow, that was the worst part. That shit hurt the most.

__________

Once he was let out of the Hole, Gabe had found him again. He sat down across from him, at the table Angel had been occupying, and put a pill in front of his food tray.

Angel stared at it. His face was still too bruised and swollen to bother with pulling any sort of expression in return.

‘Aspirin,’ Gabe explained. ‘I get it on a doctor’s note. Migraines.’

Migraines? Angel looked from the pill, to Gabe, to the CO standing in the corner of the room.

‘Figured your head’s hurting more than mine right now.’

‘What?’ Angel asked, looking back to him.

He still didn’t know the guy. He was shorter than Angel, but older. Forty vs twenty. Thicker too, working muscle with a noticeable belly, and a beard that touched his chest when he talked.

‘Quieres que lo repita?’ He scoffed, and kept his voice hushed as he continued. ‘Tómalo antes de que vean, plebito.’

His head was pounding, so he took it. And he gagged, of course, because he’s always been fucking bad at taking pills. It sat on his tongue, refusing to go down, until Gabe sighed and passed him the drink from his tray. Like he couldn’t even do that himself.

‘Thanks,’ Angel managed, sounding ungrateful. He didn’t recognise what a lifeline it was, what it meant in the grand scheme of things. Now, Angel would go back in time and tell himself to pull it together. Gabe is giving you more than a fucking painkiller, fool.

‘Mira. Kid.’ He switched to English, thinking Angel didn’t know it well enough to keep up. ‘I’m tired of seeing you get your ass beat. They’re gonna extend your sentence for that one, y’know? Other guy’s lip was split, needed stitches.’

Angel scoffed, like that was his fault. Boney threw the first punch. ‘That’s not—’

Gabe put his palm up. ‘They don’t give a shit. Damage is done, everyone pays for it.’

That’s when Angel noticed the tattoos across Gabe’s knuckles: MAYANS MC. He remembers thinking it was goofy, branding himself like that. Then, here he is now, having covered more of his skin than Gabe has, with the very same name. You don’t get it, until you’re in it.

‘I can’t sit and watch you ruin your life, okay?’ Gabe said. ‘Too many kids go that way.’

His brother, Angel found out. He told him that later. Apparently, he had Angel’s attitude and stubbornness, made the same mistakes over and over without learning from them. Angel didn’t know at the time, but Gabe had been keeping an eye on him since the beginning, hoping that eventually he’d wise up. The shit with Boney was his limit. Like seeing a ghost, he said. Hermanito.

‘So, what?’ Angel asked, disbelieving. He’d never had a guy in his corner before then. ‘You gonna make me part of your crew or something?’

‘Pendejo…’ Gabe muttered. ‘You ever think before you speak?’

‘No, not really,’ he replied and, somehow, that chipped a smile across Gabe’s husky features. Sealed the deal for him.

‘Gabriel,’ he said, putting a hand out for Angel to shake, ‘Gabe, if you’re not my mother.’

He took his palm. ‘Angel.’

Gabe laughed at that, really fucking laughed, and Angel smirked back like he was in on it.

‘Angelito,’ he said, once he’d wound down again, ‘ah, qué chistoso. You stick with me, you might even start enjoying yourself, kid.’

Yeah, not quite. But, he’d kept him straight after then, and when he got out before Angel did, he sent him mail and called and—fuck, Angel really should ring him soon. It’s been too long.

You’d like Gabe, really. He’s your sort of person, doesn’t talk until he has something to say. Doesn’t lie either, just gives you whatever he thinks is right, as long as it’ll serve a purpose. If he wasn’t in Oakland, Angel would introduce you to him before anyone else, before anyone in Santo Padre leathers at all. Hell, he’d take you to fucking dinner at his house. Gabe’s approval almost means more to him than Pop’s does.

But that’ll never happen. You won’t even get close.

Bishop is in a bad fucking mood. Obviously, news of the fight at the bar hadn’t gone down well and they’d been scolded for it, in front of the whole damn club. Never gets any easier. He never gets any leeway either, no matter how high he goes. Angel’s made it to secretary now and still, when you’ve fucked up, you’ve fucked up. Bish has no problem reminding him, or anyone, of that.

But, he gets it. He gets it. Scrapping with military men in public does nothing for the club’s rep, but, man, shit happens sometimes. Bishop would’ve acted the same damn way if he was there.

Angel’s outside now, smoking on the clubhouse steps like the cigarette might drag all the shitty feelings out of him, pull it right up from his stomach, into his lungs, off into the fucking air with the smoke. It isn’t working yet. Maybe on the next drag.

‘Hey,’ Bish appears behind him, halfway out the door, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I want bodies tonight.’

Angel nods.

‘Be back here at midnight.’ He holds his gaze. ‘No more fucking about, Angel.’

‘Yeah, got it.’ Loud and clear. ‘Midnight,’ he agrees and then el presidente disappears again.

Fucking attitude.

Sometimes, he misses Oakland. He even misses Marcus, of all people. The guy had the leash so tight, Angel never got in trouble in the first place, never got scolded for things, because he never stepped out of line. He didn’t know he could miss that until recently.

Marcus you wouldn’t like, he thinks, or maybe you would. He can’t tell. Maybe you’d like him for what he’d done, him and Gabe both. They’d moulded Angel into something worthwhile, after all. Someone worth coming back to.

A whining engine catches his attention, Chucky’s dumb little vespa pulling into the lot in front of him. There’s a box balanced on the back of it, tied down with a fraying bit of string. Knowing Chucky, it’s something edible, in way too big of a quantity, that absolutely nobody has asked for. Donuts, or some shit. He’s always playing housewife when he has actual yard work to be doing.

Ah, now, that’s an idea.

‘Hey, Chuck?’ He finishes his cigarette, snuffing it beneath his boot before taking the steps onto the gravel. ‘You got a minute?’

Chucky beams, nodding quickly as he kicks the stand down. The unclipped straps of his helmet bounce by his chin. ‘For you, Angel? Always, brother.’

He smiles back and tries to make it look genuine. Chucky has a real talented way of making things sound fucking weird.

‘You ever feel like you need an extra pair of hands around here?’ He winces as soon as he asks it, Chuck’s wooden fingers already up and wiggling between them. ‘Sorry, you know,’ he sighs, ‘you get what I’m saying.’

‘Sure,’ Chucky agrees, nodding again.

It’s a twitch, it must be. His nerves are rattling out through his skull.

Angel carries on despite it. ‘We got room to take on someone else?’

‘I think so,’ Chucky replies. ‘Who d’you have in mind?’

------

part five >>>>

‘Pinshe mocoso cagadero, ‘tás tratando de que te maten?’ = Fucking little shithead/kid/brat, are you trying to get yourself killed?

'Pues, quieres morir, es eso?’ = Well, you want to die, is that it?

‘Quieres que lo repita? Tómalo antes de que vean, plebito.’ = You want me to repeat it? Take it before they see, dumbo.

qué chistoso = how amusing/silly

#angel reyes x you #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfic #HOOOOO BOY!#gabe i will die for you i hope the people will agree

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