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drabbles-mc · 7 months

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Cómo Puedo Ayudar?

Sal Orozco & Cecelia Garza

For @narcosfandomdiscord's Day of Rare Treasures: create a fanwork about a character that only shows up in one (1) season of the show

Warnings: 18+, language

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: The way I already want to write a novel about these two 😂 I have a problem. ANYWAYYYYYY enjoy this little something-something about a lady we deserved for FAR MORE than one episode.

NMX Taglist: @garbinge @ashlingnarcos @hausofmamadas @narcolini @artemiseamoon @cositapreciosa @proceduralpassion (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

(rest assured i will come back and add the cece gifs when tumblr starts showing them in the gif search sksksk)

She hadn’t been what anyone was expecting when Danilo said he had a cousin who was willing to help them out. The crew was expecting someone who was more like Danilo himself—quiet, rough around the edges, quick to pull the trigger. But all it took was one look at the loose curls falling around Cecelia’s shoulders and the warm smile on her face to realize that while they might’ve been from the same family tree, they didn’t share all the same personality traits.

Most of the crew didn’t meet her until it was all said and done. Danilo, however, insisted that she at least meet Walt before fully committing to helping them out. It was easy for Danilo to sign himself onto things that might end poorly on Walt’s behalf, but Cece had always had a good head on her shoulders, always had her act together—he wasn’t going to drag her into anything without giving her the option of saying no. So he brought her to meet Walt, and of course wherever Walt went so did Sal. Both of them were on their best behavior when they gave her the pitch, knowing that it could be the make or break thing in getting the ball rolling for their entire plan to work.

The relief he felt when she agreed to help them was enough to get his shoulders to relax, head tilting down for a moment as he smiled and nodded. He knew that at least one thing with this plan was going to go right, especially if Cece had anything to say about it.

Once she agreed, Walt dove right into explaining the entire plan. Cecelia was looking at all their faces as Walt spoke. She kept a close eye on Danilo’s expression—Walt and Sal were too new for her to be confident about reading them, but if Danilo faltered she would be able to tell. They were all aware of the fact that everything had to work out pretty much perfectly, which was hard to come by in their line of work. Cecelia was wizened enough to know that, but she could also tell that even with the potentially longshot stakes they were dealing with, they all seemed confident and committed. That was the best that any of them could hope for at that point.

“I don’t want her alone, though,” Danilo said when the conversation was starting to wind down.

A tiny, knowing smile tugged at the ends of Cecelia’s lips as she cast him a look. “Dani.”

“Cece,” he matched her tone. “Estoy serio.”

She chuckled, nodding. “Sí, sí, puedo ver eso.”

Neither Walt nor Sal spoke up, letting the two of them go back and forth about it. Knowing Danilo, it wasn’t as though their opinions were going to matter all that much anyway. Despite the undertone of severity and warning in Danilo’s tone as he spoke to her, Cecelia’s voice stayed light, easy-going. They had to wonder if she just did that to get under Danilo’s skin, nettle him the way that cousins and siblings always do to each other, or if she just had always been like that despite him.

Finally, she turned to the two of them. “Do you think it’s necessary?”

Sal’s eyebrows rose slightly, immediately turning and looking at Walt. If he could keep himself out of the middle of whatever that mess could turn into, he was going to. Meanwhile, as much as Walt understood Cecelia’s point, he also knew that things for them always seemed to go wrong one way or another. He didn’t want another innocent person getting caught in the middle of it if he could help it.

“Can’t hurt,” he offered up with a shrug.

She chuckled, holding her hands up for a brief moment in surrender. “Okay.”

That was how it ended up being her and Sal sitting in the office together waiting for the phone to ring. She was more of a conversationalist than Danilo was, although admittedly that bar was pretty low. But what could have easily been an awkward afternoon of two people, essentially strangers, being stuck in a tiny room together was anything but that.

“He trusts you,” she said as she rooted around her desk drawers, looking for something Sal couldn’t even try to venture a guess at.

He hadn’t been expecting the statement, not quite processing it. “Hm?”

“My cousin,” she said as she pulled two small bottles of nail polish out of one of the drawers. “He trusts you.”

Sal chuckled and shrugged. “Doesn’t have much of a choice at this point, does he?”

She hummed knowingly, the sound almost coming out like a laugh. “Maybe. But you’re here with me.” She her eyes flicked over to him. “He trusts you.”

Sal smiled and gave a slow nod. “Good to know.”

She shook the bottle of red polish as she spoke. “He told me that if Walt couldn’t be the one here, you were second best.”

He couldn’t help but to laugh at that. “Sounds about right.”

“You two are close?”

“I don’t think anyone but you is close with Danilo.”

She smiled and shook her head as she started to put the red onto her nails. “No. You and Walt.”

His expression shifted, that same look he had a couple days before when Cecelia asked Walt to give a second opinion on what Danilo had said—surprised, a little amused. “Yeah,” he replied with a nod. “Been working together a long time.”

Even though she was looking at her hands, there was still a warm smile on her face at Sal’s answer to her question. “That’s good.”

Their conversation hit a comfortable lull shortly after that. Sal watched her, admittedly a bit bewildered. Perhaps he should’ve known better than to have his assumptions, but he certainly hadn’t expected her to be so at-ease given the situation. The waiting game got to the best of people, even people who spent their entire lives doing the things that Sal and the crew did. But there she was, waiting to help topple an entire drug trafficking organization, painting her goddamn nails. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she started humming a tune or whistling just to cut through the quiet. He couldn’t deny that he found it admirable, the comfort in the face of all of this—must’ve been a Garza thing.

“Can I ask you something?” he posed the question as he watched her blow on her nails.

Carefully placing her hands flat against the top of her desk, she nodded. “Of course.”

Leaning forward, he propped his elbows against his knees. “Is your whole family this relaxed about things like this?”

She hummed in amusement. “Things like this?”

Sal laughed, her unbothered nature manifesting itself differently than Danilo’s, but either way it kept both of them calm. “You remember what we’re doing here, right?”

She nodded as she grabbed the bottle of clear-coat nail polish. “Sí.” She tapped the bottle against her palm. “There’s a reason he asked me to help you instead of anyone else in our family.”

He couldn’t hide the impressed look on his face, a look that Cece was kind enough not to comment on. “Alright.”

As their conversation once more faded into an easy silence, they went back to the waiting game. Sal watched, paying more attention than he realized, as she deftly applied the top coat to her nails. Unbeknownst to them in a completely different building, Rubén Zuno Arce was attempting to call and get through to Miguel Ángel for the umpteenth time.

The phone rang once. Sal’s head snapped to look, expecting Cecelia to reach out and immediately grab the phone. Instead, though, he watched as she calmly dragged the nail polish brush over her nail once, twice more. Another ring. She put the brush back into the bottle. With no shift in her expression at all, she reached and carefully pulled the phone off the receiver and held it up to her ear.

“Hotel Américas, cómo puedo ayudar?”

Sal knew that he should’ve done a better job at keeping a neutral expression, but he couldn’t help it. Like an actor reading off a script in front of her, Cecelia calmly went back and forth with the man on the other end of the line. Except she wasn’t an actor, and there was no script, not really. They’d talked about the general things that she should say to sell it, the big line that she had to be sure to feed him before it was over, but the details were all left up to her.

Sal was trying not to laugh at the easy, extremely convincing tone of her voice as she said, “Ah, Rubén! Hemos estado tratando de localizarlo.”

The moment Sal heard her say that Félix had given her a message to pass on, he found himself moving so that he was sitting on the very edge of his chair. He was still in awe of the way that she didn’t fumble a single word, not even so much as a waver in her voice as she spoke.

“…y los gringos, saben dónde estás.” There it was, the hammer drop, and she did it with the ease of telling someone that their appointment had been rescheduled to a different date. There was a pause, and despite the look of anticipation on Sal’s face, Cecelia simply found herself smiling over at him as she drove the entire conversation home with a simple, “Hola? Bueno?”

Sal knew when Zuno hung up the phone because the smile on Cecelia’s face grew a little wider. Without another word, she simply set the phone back down on the receiver and looked over at Sal. The look on her face didn’t give anything away when she always seemed to have that little bit of a smile playing at her lips. As much as Sal wanted to ask, for whatever reason he just couldn’t get the words out.

She plucked the brush back out of the clear nail polish, intent to finish the few nails she still had left when the phone rang. “So,” she said, no longer looking at Sal, “now we wait, sí?”

He laughed, collapsing back in his chair. “Yeah. Now we wait.”

There was a smirk on her face as she said, “You sound relieved.” Her gaze flickered over to him. “Did you have doubts?”

Sal was still chuckling, mostly to himself at that point, as he shook his head. “Not about you.”

#narcoctober #narcos #narcos netflix #sal orozco #cece garza #cecelia garza #danilo garza #narcos fanfiction #narcos netflix fanfiction #sal orozco x cecelia garza #cecelia garza x sal orozco #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc #narcos mexico #narcos: mexico #nmx

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cregan-starks · 2 years

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Walt Breslin and Sal Orozco

#narcosedit #narcosmexicoedit #narcosmxedit #netflixedit #userbreslin #usermirna #userfrodosam #maevemills #narcos: mexico #narcos mexico #narcos mx #walt breslin #scoot mcnairy #sal orozco #jesse garcia #original creations #tw smoking #tw guns

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artemiseamoon · 2 years

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Pt 1: It wasn’t supposed to be this

A narcos mx one shot | Calderoni x Slate f agent*

Words: 6,200 | read on A03

Fic info | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 -finale

An: I made an exception and posted this in full. Anyway, I’m going back to my system after this, just previews on tumblr.

Warnings: violence, mention of injuries and blood, drinking, vague sexual content, drug traffickers, character deaths, lots of angst

Narcos disclaimer: I fully understand how sensitive all this is, which is why I struggled with writing for the show or not. But, I do, and I enjoy it so don’t plan to stop anytime soon. The show is naturally a very real trigger, so off the bat, you are triggered, block the narcos tag. I’m only one of many who write for this show (I blame the actors, it’s their fault, they charmed us). Filter the tag and save yourself and the writers unnecessary exchanges. Criminals, drug traffickers, drugs, really bad people who hurt so many are talked about in this show. In writing these little stories I’m not trying to erase that or gloss it over. Now that I’ve said my peace, remember it’s fully your choice if you continue and your fault if you get upset not mine. Last, if you don’t like the fic/story just move on. Plenty of other things to read. Don’t waste my time. Plenty of other fics around.

The full realization of what happened last night hit during the shower. She drank a lot; this job is stressful, and she usually limited herself to one beer or one drink as a calming agent for a few reasons; to keep in control and to avoid letting her defenses down.

Last night, she lost both those battles and ended up in bed with the Calderoni. Slate couldn't put her finger on why she was drawn to him. They didn’t trust him, she didn’t either he’s not even her usual type but there was something about him.

As they worked with him over the last four weeks, she shoved her curiosity away and denied it was real. She chalked it up to horniness, it had been a very long time since she got laid; a full two months before she came down on this mission. And hooking up locally was out of the question, with anyone in her team? An absolute no, a completely bad idea. Living in abandoned warehouse with a bunch of dudes really limited her private time, so self-pleasure was also not an option.

Maybe all the drinking, combined with a need to get laid led to this. Still, Calderoni didn’t seem like the type to just end up in someone's bed. The man was like a fucking wall; he said what he had to say, made his point, and wasn’t trying to make friends. So maybe the curiosity was mutual, had to be.

Calderoni never outright flirted with Slate, in fact, she was sure he was pretty indifferent to her at first. But then she caught it, the briefest lingering stares, the short, well-hidden glances when he thought she wasn’t looking. At the time, she didn’t know if the attention excited her, scared her, or a little of both.

Slate was thankful he was gone upon waking, seeing him in the light of day, would make all of this worse and she was pretty sure Walt was likely losing his shit because she hadn’t checked in yet. To be fair, she wasn’t that late, just 10 minutes or so. But he already wasn’t a fan of her leaving the place for the night, no matter what bullshit reason she gave him.

...

Walking into the warehouse after a night in a real bed and a decent hotel made it feel gritter than usual. With her shades still on, Slate found the guys gathered into one room.

“Look who decided to join us.” Ossie commented with a grin.

Slate flipped him off and he chuckled. She sat on the edge of the L shaped countertop and sipped her coffee.

Though she felt Walt's stare, she didn’t make eye contact. “I needed a night away from all you stinky boys and a damn shower.”

The reply seems good enough for most, except Walt, who continued to observe her.

She's not too worried though, she's known him a long time. “So, fill me in, what's going on.” She sets the coffee cup aside.

Walt took out a cigarette, lit it, then caught her up with the few minutes she missed.

-The Next day-

Back pressed against the wall, Slate crossed her arms and listened intently as Calderoni addressed the room. It took some work, but she was able to shift the events from a day ago to the back of her mind.

“Felix was in Panama last month, meeting with members of the Cali Cartel.” He walked into the center of the room, hands in his pockets. His profile was still facing the group.

“What was on the agenda?” Walt asked. Calderoni made eye contact with him and stopped walking.

Calderoni responded, “Not sure, but it ended with Felix committing to move more weight. Lots more.”

“Why now?”

"El Padrino’s feeling the pressure.” Calderoni switched to Spanish at this point.

With the tension between the plazas, this intel could be a big win; it had to be connected. Slate and Ossie look at each other, then back at Calderoni.

Calderoni rested his palms flat against the table. “There’s been talk of major construction somewhere outside of Juarez.”

“Construction of what?” Daryl asked.

“Runways.” Calderoni responded. He flipped open the folder he previously placed on the table. Everyone moved closer, including Slate. Walt remained on the opposite side of the table, beside Calderoni.

Calderoni continued, “Amado Carrillo Fuentes. Used to be some kind of pilot, among other things.” Walt examined the file as Calderoni addressed at the group, “Now, Felix has him buying up passenger planes.”

Slate doesn’t hold his gaze for too long, she breaks away first and leans over the table to view the file. This is weird. Just play it cool.

Gaining control of her thoughts again, Slate’s eyes moved to Walt as he spoke. “Federation’s building their own air fleet.”

“And running it out of Juarez.” It’s the first comment she’s made since the meeting started; her voice almost felt unfamiliar to her ears.

Walt adds, “Yeah, if we can pin down Felix’s distribution hub, then we can unlock his entire route network.” Walt hands the file over to Danilo.

Daryl spoke next, “Track shipments across the border, pick them up one by one.”

“That’s right,” Walt nodded, “bleed the motherfucker.”

Done with the file, Danilo passed it to Slate who looked it over before passing it to Ossie and Amat.

Walt leaned over the table. “Starve him of his cash until the government cuts him off.” His eyes met Daryl's. “You know, hang him out to dry.”

“Now, we need to track Amado and the purchase of planes. Especially in large numbers. Maybe discount sales.” Slate said.

Calderoni made eye contact with her, before addressing the group again, “well, Amado just bought a one-way ticket to Belmopan, Belize.”

“What the fuck for?” Ossie asked.

Slate looked at him, then Walt, “Let me guess, an out of business airline getting rid of planes?”

Impressed, Calderoni raised a brow. “That’s where Aero Tropical is based. It’s an airline. It used to be. They just declared bankruptcy. They’re liquidating their entire fleet at an auction next week.”

Walt’s eyes scanned the group, “Looks like we're going to Belize.”

-One week later, Belize-

This might be a win, and it feels damn good.

At the same time. Slate doesn’t get her hopes up. Wins were rare in this work, it's something one just got used to and had to find a reason to keep pushing, to keep trying to make some kind of difference. Some days it was easier than others. But right now, she feels glad she said yes when Walt asked, maybe all this could amount to something useful.

Though they’re here for work, it feels good being in a different setting, like a breath of fresh air. Not just because of the dusty ass warehouse, but because of the whole Calderoni situation.

What happened that night, when she grabbed a drink at the same bar he happened to be at, was never discussed. She went about her job like nothing happened, and even after the meeting last, he didn’t say anything extra to her; just spoke to her as needed according to the situation.

It seemed like that was the end of things. One messy ass slip up. One very wrong but sensual one night stand. Just as Slate was making amends with that fact, she found a little envelope slipped into her jacket pocket after he left.

She stepped away to the broken-down bathroom for privacy. Inside the small envelope was a room key, she recognized it from the other night, same hotel. They had eyes on him the whole time, how he got it in here? She wasn’t sure. On the back of the little envelope was some kind of code, but once she figured it out, she deciphered it as a time and a vague date.

One of the things about being on this crew is most of their time was spent sitting around, talking, coming up with plans, going over information for the 1000th time. Action was few and far in between. Now with this trip to plan, she knew she couldn't get away in the coming days, but from the code on the back, Calderoni was aware of that too.

She didn’t use the key until 5 days later, once all the travel plans were set and all their new equipment arrived. She didn't know if it was pure curiosity, or if she really wanted to see him again; but something led her to that room.

Upon stepping in, she was gently swept inside. Once the door was closed, and locked, his lips met hers. There was no talking, no conversation, just two people swept up in desire and need.

-Flashback-

After drying off with the towel, Slate started to get dressed. Calderoni was still in bed. Though her back was to him, she felt his eyes on her, but didn’t turn around.

“Being seen together once at the bar was dangerous enough, we need to be careful.” She slid her jeans back on and pulled the zipper up.

He sighed behind her, but it had a more relaxed tone to it.” Neither of us knew the other would be there.”

“Because it’s so out of the way.” She glanced at him over her shoulder with a smirk,” that was my hidden spot. Now I have to find another.”

“No,” he sat up against the headboard, “it was mine, then you showed up.”

She turned to face him, “I barely leave the safe house, except a couple of times to get a drink there. Now, I don’t even have that.” She poked his arm playfully.

Calderoni shrugged,” shit happens.”

“Asshole.” Slate chuckled and glanced at her watch. “I need to get back. And, if this happens again, we cannot come to his hotel.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he inched closer and gently caressed her bare back with his fingers. “Relax, there won't be any issue with this place. Trust me.”

Calderoni moved his fingers from her back to her arm, making feather light strokes over her soft skin.

“We’ll have to end this.” He said, his fingers wrapping around her arm with a tight grip before pulling her closer to him.

“I know.” Slate steadied herself with one hand as he drew her into another kiss. Her other hand cupped the side of his face. In between kisses, she whispered, “last time?”

“Last time, or” he slid one of his hands behind her head, “second to last time? Third to last?”

Slate smiled and kissed him once more before breaking away. “I guess we’ll see where the cards fall.” With her lips still tasting of him, she finished getting dressed and grabbed her things.

“I’ll have one of my guys drive you back, drop you off a block away.” He pushed the sheet off and started gathering his clothes. He stopped to look back at her, “Be careful.”

Slate tapped her holstered pistol then moved toward the door, “I usually am.”

-Flashback over-

Belize is beautiful, Slate reminds herself to come back some time, after all this is over and long in the past.

Glancing to her left, she sees Walt using the binoculars. To his left is Ossie, Danilo, then her. Amat, Daryl and Sal are taking care of the other end of things in Juarez.

The auctioneer: Next we have a 1779 Boeing 727, registration number N-1779. Featuring forward and rear galleys. Currently featuring 12 first class seats and 136 coach seats and this aircraft is ready, willing, and able…”

Her eyes drop to Danilo’s hands and his notes.

“We can get in through the north side of the fence. Bad sight line for security,” Ossie said quietly to Walt. They are in the furthest row from the auction, nosebleed seats with no one sitting directly next to them. But there are a few people in the row before them.

Walt replied, “Cut through. Two in, two outside for lookout.” He hands the binoculars over until they make it Slate. She takes a look and listens as they continue to talk.

Ossie, “We need radios. A ladder too.” he paused, chewing his gum. “We can get in through the rear airstairs, under the fuselage.”

“You figure it’s open? Can you even lock up a fucking 727?”

Ossie grinned.” Either way, I can pop the lock.”

“Of course, you can. Troublemaker” Slate commented with a smile. And for a fleeting second, a tiny grin flashed on Danilo's stoic expression too.

Ossie continued grinning for a little longer. Light banter is exchanged between the guys, with little interjection by Danilo.

“I definitely went astray somewhere,” Ossie stared straight ahead, “end up sitting here with you three broke motherfuckers.”

Danila makes a micro expression in response, Slate chuckled, and Walt turned to him,

“I got an amen to that.”

Slate adjusted her shades, while holding her grin a little longer, "You mean four broke motherfuckers.”

-Later that night-

The night sky was dark and starless; the only light is coming from the airstrip, the guard center, and the city in the distance.

Slate took a ground position, on the other side of where Danilo is in the jeep. Covering both angles was a good idea, and so far, everything was going as planned. With the mics, they could all hear and communicate with each other.

Carefully concealed, with a good vantage point, Slate continued watching through the binoculars.

Walt over the mic, “okay talk to me. Are we clear?”

“He’s still there.” Slate answered.

Danilo is watching the same thing she is. “Okay, hold on…"Up ahead the guard left the center and stepped outside. “Guard moving”

Slate and Danilo watch him enter this vehicle and head for the landing strip.

“He’s making his rounds.” She said,

Danilo waited a moment, then gave them the signal, “All clear. You’ve got three minutes. Go!”

Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she waited. Her eyes dropped down to her watch, 2 minutes and 55 seconds to go.

55 seconds later, Danilo’s voice met their ears, “2 minutes, get a move in it.”

Two seconds passed by.

“Heads up. Security on the move.” She leaned forward, following the guards' movements. A nervous flutter filled her stomach. “Fuck, come on guys, hurry up.” She muttered under her breath. The guard's jeep is getting closer to where the guys are.

“Walt - " Danilo warned.

“Yeah, yeah. We see him. We see him.”

Ossie and Walt exchanged a few words, as Ossie worked on the lock.

Danilo, growing increasingly concerned, spoke again, “Walt, you’re running out of time.”

Slate watched closely with bated breath as the guys finally made it inside the plane. She continued holding her breath until the craft door closed. The guard drove by almost immensely after. “Thank fucking god,” she exhaled.

Everything fell quiet for a moment. The guard was now headed to Danilo's view and was out of hers.

Danilo's voice was next over the mic, “He’s going out again. You’ve got three minutes. Move!”

If Slate smoked, she would have a cigarette right now. She hated the things too much to ever indulge.

-Minutes later-

Danilo drove as Walt slipped a cigarette between his lips. His expression full of pride as he glanced back at Ossie. “Six for six baby. He’s a goddamned artist.”

Danilo glanced back through the rear-view mirror, “nice work”

A closed mouth smile grew on Ossie's face. “Thanks man.”

Sitting there, next to him, it almost feels like a proud father kind of moment, in both the way Danilo speaks and holds himself, and Ossie’s response.

Slate gently nudged him, “Nice job, that shit’s impressive as hell.”

Ossie’s smile grew a little wider, “thank you.”

Slate settled her eyes on the landscape through the window again. It’s been a while since everything felt so hopeful, and she hoped this is a feeling they can hold on to a little longer.

-Juarez - Early morning, Chiapas airfield-

Standing on the rocky dry edge, the group waited as Walt viewed the plane and its inhabitants, which included Amado.

Walt lowered the binoculars and turned to his team. “Alright. Find a spot to set up surveillance. Two teams. Sal, me and Amat work the first rotation.” he handed the binoculars to Sal. “This is it.” Walt paused. “Fuckin’ A.”

- Flashback, the day before -

The coffee was still too hot to drink, Slate placed it on the floor and fixed her eyes on Walt. The team is in a half circle, some sitting, some standing, all facing Walt the evidence board.

The room is fuller than usual, there are 4 more guys present, Slate didn’t know them, but she assumed they were working with Walt too, just in a less direct way up until this point. But, if they were about to do what she thinks Walt is going to suggest, they need all the help they can get. The odds are far out of their favor.

“We’ve been over the risks.” Walt takes his time, making eye contact with each one of them. “But I want to be really clear on something. This is no longer the same job you’ve been hired for.” he moved into the center of the circle, “We have no support on this. Shit goes south, it’s on us. Believe me, this is not worth the shitty stipend you’ve been getting paid. Some of you have kids and families.”

Walt continued, his eyes on the other guys now, “Just because you’ve been helping us run surveillance and have known this asshole your whole life, doesn’t mean you're locked in, so if any of you are feeling any hesitation or nervousness, you need to tell me now.”

The room falls dead silent.

Slate stared down at the ground as her mind worked overtime. If they were lucky, a few of them would make it out, but not all, and she didn’t know what side she’d be on. A lifetime of trying to make a difference and help, just to die on some floor like so many others. It’s not what she wanted, but it’s a realistic outcome to all this.

Or, she could go home, pack her bags and head back to the states. It felt like the easy way out, especially after everything, even if it was the safest option. Though her answer scares her, she’s not a quitter, or a runner; she's seeing this through, no matter how terrifying that thought is.

Ossie was the first to speak, he asked “We do this, we cripple Felix’s entire operation?”

From where Slate is sitting, she could see the serious look in his eyes, the determination, she knows his answer too.

“Si.” Walt answered with a nod.

“Fuck being nervous.” Ossie said with more umph to his words. “We’ll never get this chance again.” He flashed a half smile, then looked at Daryl, “come on, let’s do this shit.” Ossie kept his eyes on Daryl and extended his hand.

Never a man of many words, Daryl leaned in and affirmed his answer with a brief slap to Ossie's hand. He then set his eyes on Walt. Slate glanced at Danilo whose eyes were cast down, his left brow slightly raised. With a small head nod, Danilo confirmed his answer, yes.

In short succession, Amat and Sal also say yes, followed by Slate and the remaining guys.

Walt proceeded. “Okay, let’s fucking cripple it.”

-Flashback over-

-Now -

“All right, everybody be safe out there. I’ll be in your ear. Stay alert, stay alive.”

Slate’s original station was on the high point, back at the jeep with Daryl, until shit hit the fan. It started with the overhead lights of the airstrip coming on, followed by yelling. She didn’t know it at the time, but Danilo was shot dead then.

“Fuck!” Slate grabbed a rifle and ran for the trees.

“Slate!”

“I’m going to help!” She called back at Daryl before disappearing into the trees. Running as fast as her legs would take her, she made it down the side of the ridge.

Eventually she made it to the guys and ducked behind the red flatbed truck where Amat and Sal were, both firing from either side, she announced herself as he approached, to avoid getting shot by one of her guys.

With a quick glance to her left, she saw Walt pulling a badly wounded Ossie to the side of the yellow truck, Danilo was nowhere in sight; neither were the extra four guys. Bodies are already piling up in the airstrip.

“Ossie! “She called out,” are you okay?”

“No! We’re fucking pinned!” Walt yelled back. “We gotta move!”

Amat takes cover behind driver's seat door and aims his rifle, then fires, “And fucking go where!”

Sal stayed low to the ground on the other side of the truck, “let’s head to the mountains!”

“We’ll never make it!”

Slate could barely hear Amat over the shattering glass and bullets. What's left of the truck's windows are gone, she lowers her head and shields her face from shards of glass before taking fire again.

Two tires of the truck get shot , the truck titles with a slant. Walt kneeled to the ground and shields Ossie from the continuous gunfire.

Sal was behind the truck now, with Slate, “what the fuck else are we gonna do?”

Slate’s eyes jumped to Ossie again, she needed to get to him. She takes a few more shots and makes a run to the yellow truck, then ducks behind it. “We have to do somethin, or we’re going to fuckin die!”

Staying low to the ground, Slate made her way over to Ossie and Walt. She covered them, continuing to fire as Walt turned Ossie over.

Ossie was in bad shape, her eyes jumped from him and Walt, and back to the caret ahead. Walt kneeled on the ground, over Ossie,

Ossie gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain, "Walt, wait. The keys are in the truck, right?”

Walt continued checking his injury, “the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m fucking dying, man!”

Slate continued to fire back while trying to hear what Ossie is saying to Walt. A heavy feeling of dread washed over her.

“Hang on Ossie! You can make it dammit!” She yelled, her eyes trained ahead; she's working twice as hard to take out as many as she could.

Ossie’s voice was strained when he responded, “no I, won’t Slate.” Even with his hand in the way, they could see the blood pouring out of his gunshot wound. Its fatal, the organs, right under the hem of the fucking vest.

She looked down to find his wet eyes on her. Above him, Walt was still. Slate cursed under her breath and lowered to the ground, by Ossie and Walt.

“Don’t die on me asshole, we have rock concerts to see.”

“Rock out for me,” he forced a grin then looked at Walt, “Please, Walt. Let me fuckin' do this!” he grunted.

The cartel pressed forward, Slate rose back to her feet and returned fire. Walt joined in, then returned to Ossie.

“I can help you get out. Get me in the truck.”

Amat, Sal, and Slate continued to fire. She catches sight of Walt helping Ossie into the truck.

Part of her wanted to run to them, to convince Ossie not to do whatever he’s going to do; but they were dangerously outnumbered, and the cartel continued to get closer and closer.

“Walt, what the fuck are you doing!” Amat called out.

Once Ossie was in the truck, Walt stood on the driver's side door, “cover me!”

Walt made his way to the passenger side where Slate was. Before she could ask a question or, think a thought, Ossie was already moving, driving the truck head on into the cartel as they littered it with bullets. In seconds, he ran over some of the cartel and ran the truck into the gas tank. A huge red-orange fire erupted with black smoke.

With feet hitting the ground hard, Slate, Walt, Amat and Sal ran for the woods, returning fire over their shoulders as they sped away. They had no idea how many the explosion killed, but it did what Ossie said it would, it gave them cover to run.

Walt and Sal reached the tree line first. Amat and Slate stop to take out a few more guys. Slate is first back on her feet, Amat just steps behind her until she heard a body drop. Taking a fearful glance back, she saw Amat was down and continued to zig zag as she ran.

Finally reaching the trees, Slate looked around for Walt and Sal as her heart banged in her chest. Spotting them to her left, she limped over, careful to stay in the shadows.

Walk grabbed her arm and pulled her deeper into the shadows, his eyes moving from her to Sal.

“This is on me.” He pushed Sal forward, “get the fuck back the safe out, both of you, Go!”

Sal looked ahead where Amat was, hesitated then turned to run.

“Get the fuck out of there Slate!”

“I’m not leaving you out here alone!” She walked past him and crouched down, “we’re both making it out of this!”

“Fuck!” Walt crouched down too, the both of them peering through the trees. He would drag her back if he could, make her leave; but there’s no time for it right now, and there’s no way he's going to leave one of his alone out here.

A car pulled up, even in the dark of the night, the sight of it makes Slate’s heart drop. She knows that fucking car; it’s a black Cadillac. Her grip tightened on her pistol; her throat was closing up.

An ill feeling washed over her as Amat laid on his back ahead, a guy on either side of him, rifles trained on his body. Each time their fallen friend groaned, the sicker she felt. Slate shut her eyes quickly then opened them, she hoped the person getting out of that car is a stranger, maybe he just has the same car as -

“You guys got one?”

It’s his voice. His fucking voice.

“Fuckers still alive.”

Calderoni came into full view, the car lights on him like a spotlight, his right hand raised; gun in hand and ready to shoot. Calderoni then shoots both the cartel guys, each one a kill shot to the head.

He kneeled down beside Amat, Slate and Walt were too far away to hear what Amat was trying to say as he spit up blood. Slate narrowed her eyes and saw Amat motion back to them with his head, followed by Calderoni looking that way.

It seemed he was helping Amat up when four guys came running in the near distance. Calderoni dropped Amat, looked back at the guys, then fired once, killing Amat. Walt shut his eyes and lowered his head.

Slate gripped the tree tighter and closed her eyes, tears fell down her cheeks. Her eyes were still closed when Calderoni addressed the men.

“One went that way, and the other went that way.” She opened her eyes to see him pointing in the opposite direction, then another wrong one. “Run, you can still catch them.” The smaller group quickly broke off, leaving Calderoni alone again.

“Stay behind me.” Walt orders as he aims his pistol at Calderoni.

“You out there Walt?” Calderoni takes a step closer, also ready to fire. Then another, the two men inched forward. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Walt asked, his eyes glued on him.

“What you made me.” He paused. “If you hadn’t cut me off, I could have warned you this would happen. They found the transponders two days ago. You walked into a trap. But you wanted to go your own way.” Another pause. "He deserved to walk away Walt, they all did. But they were never going to. You made sure of it.”

Slate moved over slightly; a sliver of her face came into Calderoni's view.

Calderoni raised his chin, his brows tensed as he looked at her. He released a heavy sigh, then shifted his eyes back to Walt.

“You should have been the one to die tonight, Walt. But I’m going to let you live.” His eyes moved back to Slate. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t stop walking until you hear them speak English.”

Slate took a step back and gently placed a hand on Walt's arm. They had to get the fuck out here, there was no winning. Even if they could get a shot at Calderoni, dozens of men would descend upon them, and they had no chance of surviving that.

Walt slowly stepped back, his face eventually disappearing from Calderoni’s view.

Late that night at the warehouse

Slate trudged up the dark staircase behind Walt. With the rush of adrenaline gone, the pain in her leg came back full force. Her skin is coated in dirt, sweat, blood; hers and others.

“Who else made it out?”

Daryl appeared first; Walt walked right past him. Slate stopped in place and made eye contact but couldn’t find the words to speak. Her eyes then darted to Sal, who stepped into the room next.

Daryl’s eyes landed on Slate again, then Walt.

“Walt! Who else made it out?”

Walt pulled out a chair at the desk and sunk down into it with a silent breath. He looked broken, completely broken and more fragile than she’s ever seen him before, even counting the times she was around him back home.

Slate sniffled and shook her head, no, to Daryl.

Walt put the gun down, and when he finally spoke his voice was shaky and low, “ eveyones gone.”

Daryl paced, hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief. Sal sat on a nearby bench, slouched over and lowered his head, his hands clasped together.

Slate leaned against the nearby wall and looked up at the ceiling, swallowing the lump in her throat and trying to will the tears in her eyes to stop.

-Five days later-

Slate tapped the rim of the glass and watched as the bartender refilled the drink.

“Thanks.”

She quickly knocked it back and lowered the glass to the counter. They were out of Mexico in less than a day. Since being back, it’s been meetings and other bullshit, but to a lesser extent than whatever Walt had to do, since this was his operation. After her last meeting, Slate put in her request for extended leave; she turned down her reassignment papers.

It felt wrong, being back. Maybe she was supposed to die out there. She hasn’t slept much because all she sees is dead friends, especially Amat and Ossie. Then there’s another ghost haunting her waking and sleeping hours. The man she shared a bed with and later watched as he shot her friend and teammate dead. A man she snuck off to see two more times before the trip to Belize and Juarez, a man she had a weird comfort with she could never describe or explain away. A man she now hated with every bone in her body.

She felt betrayed by him. Even if he had a point, even if playing both sides was the only way to get shit done there. Even with that understanding, she still felt angry, and hurt.

Though they all knew death was a possibility when they didn’t walk about that room, none of them deserved that. Not even the ones who had to do sketchy shit in the past. They did not deserve to die; not Ossie, not Amat, not Danilo. From the brief conversation she had with Walt, Ossie and Amat were denied what he promised them, and written off as criminals.

Three weeks later

Slate got out of the elevator and turned left to her new apartment. She wasn’t sure how much it would help, a new city and a new place, but she was desperate at this point to shake the events of Mexico.

Two doors away from her own, she stopped cold in her tracks. A familiar face stared back at her, dark brown eyes, hair combed back, his arms crossed.

The moment their eyes met, he uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, using a calming tone to speak, “you’re a hard woman to find.”

Slates heart rate sped up with each step toward Calderoni. “Get the fuck out of here!”

He called her by her real name and raised a hand, in an attempt to calm her down. “Take it easy.”

“Take it easy! Take it easy!” She rushed toward him and shoved him hard in the chest, he barely budged, and remained rooted on the ground.

Slate shoved him again, this time tears coming to her eyes. He grabbed her shoulders and lowered his eyes to hers.

“Calm down. Can we talk? Inside?”

She wants to shoot him, to take every bad feeling in her body and mind out on him. Down the hall, a door opened, someone stepped out.

Slate cursed under her breath and tore herself away from his strong grip. After fumbling with her keys, she got the door open, went inside, then slammed it in his face.

Distraught, she headed to the Livingroom and sat on the couch, covering her face with her hands. When the door opened, she jumped to her feet and retrieved the gun she kept hidden behind a desk.

Calderoni didn’t budge at the sight; or show any signs of worry.

“I can’t stay long. Put the gun away.”

“No! You set us up!”

Calderoni stood directly in front of her and pried the gun from her hands. He clicked the safety back on and put it aside.

“Listen to me, “he lowered voice, “I did not set you up.”

Slate stared at him; he could see her mind going a mile a minute. She was also trying to decide if she believed him or not.

“It’s not as simple as you, Walt, and those agents who try to help think it is. Everyone, even the good guys, need to be bad and make some grey calls. It’s the only way. You’re smart, you know that Slate.”

She pulled her eyes from his and sat on the couch again.

“Those guys didn’t deserve that, I meant what I said.”

She shook her head and pressed her palms into her knees. “Why didn’t you warn us? Me?” She raised her eyes to his.

“I would have, you heard what I said out there. I was telling the truth.”

Slate rounded her shoulders, getting smaller on the couch. She shrugged weakly and stared at the floor.

“Hey,” Calderoni took a seat next to her on the couch, “I hoped you weren’t there. That you were smart enough to say no and go home.”

She turned her head to shoot him a dark look, “and abandoned the team? What kind of person do you think I am?”

Calderoni started to speak, then stopped himself. It was properly for the better, Slate was nearly shaking with anger now.

“We’ll talk about this, if not now, later, when you’re ready.”

She clenched her jaw, speaking through gritted teeth, “I never want to see you again.”

Calderoni lowered his gaze. He reached out and carefully placed a hand on her thigh. Her eyes dropped down to his hand, but she didn’t move it.

“Tell me to fuck off in the morning, but for now, “he raised his eyes to hers, “let me be here for you, even if it’s in silence.” he forces a small smile. “Keep the gun close if you want.”

Slate scoffed and stared at the table before them. Calderoni stood, retrieved the gun, and put it in her hands before sitting back down.

He watched as she looked it over, turning it, then placed it on the table.

Shooting him could feel cathartic, or it could make her feel worse.

Slate exhaled and closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, “I don’t want to look at a fucking gun again for a while. I’m so fucking tired - I’m tired - “she let her head hang low.

A moment later she felt his hand on her back, caressing her in a slow circular motion. At first, she stilled to his touch, then, she relaxed into it. With his right hand, he slid two fingers under her chin, angling her face to his. She opened her eyes.

Slate wanted to scream, to yell, to kick him, to use a time machine and take saying yes to this job back; but she couldn't. She couldn’t do anything but sit here right now, as her body felt everything at once, anger, rage, disappointment, grief, loneliness.

Maybe she would yell at him tomorrow, tell him all the things she wanted to say, but for now, she doesn’t have the energy. Calderoni wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him.

Slate leaned against him with a sigh and let her eyes fall closed.

More Narcos

Masterlist

#Commander Guillermo Calderoni #not the real guy #the show!#narcos Mexico #Calderoni narcos Mexico #Guillermo Calderoni #my longest oneshot ever #Ossie Mejia #Amat narcos #Daryl narcos #Danilo Narcos #sal orozco

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proceduralpassion · 6 months

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Side Eye

Day 26 of Narcoctober- Pick a quote from the show that you love and use it as inspiration for your fanwork. Then share what the quote is at the end of your post.

Character(s): Walt Breslin x Sal Orozco; Walt Breslin x Dani

WC: 403

A/N: Something humorous and fluffy bc I'd love to see Sal as a low key wingman for Walt.

“...So, you’re not gonna do anything special?”

An awkward silence had hit the car about thirty seconds earlier and Sal’s question didn’t do too well in relieving the tension.

Walt finally shrugs in response, his eyes jumping as his mind runs a mile a minute. His words are unsure when he speaks, “I mean, dating anniversaries don’t really count anymore once you get married, does it?”

Sal sighs, “I give your marriage six months.”

Walt grunts with indignation, “Who the fuck still celebrates their dating anniversary after they’re married?! My friend’s parents have been married for decades and I’m pretty sure they don’t celebrate two separate anniversaries.”

“Well, you haven’t been married for decades, that’s one,” Sal pops in, “And two: you even said that Dani’s been sad with the both of you working all the time. Maybe, a nice dinner out or something special might put her in a better mood?”

Walt gives a tired sigh as his reply because he doesn’t have any useful ammo to shoot back at him with. He’s right, Dani has been a little down in the dumps for the past week or so. He can tell that she’s not trying not to complain, but with her job and barely getting to see her new husband, she’s been craving more time and attention from Walt.

The quiet remains in the car and Walt’s unsure of how to navigate the dialogue. Conversations like this weren’t commonplace in the bond that the two have built as partners. The fact remains though that Sal brought up a point that Walt cannot contest and so he’s not opposed to hearing more from his perspective.

After a beat, Walt finally speaks up again, “...So what should I do?”

Sal glances over at him wearing a look of slight impatience, “She’s your wife. What do you think would make her smile?”

“She liked it when I cooked that one time…”

Walt swears he hears Sal mutter “Can’t imagine why,” under his breath but opts to pretend he doesn’t hear it. Instead, he only acknowledges Sal’s second statement, “Then, you should cook her favorite meal. Maybe light some candles. Play your wedding song or some shit.”

“Good idea, good idea..” he mutters.

The way Dani lights up when gets home tonight is a sight worth a hundred stars. Walt thinks to himself that maybe, just maybe, that Sal knew what he was talking about.

A/N: The "I give your marriage six months" quote is a funny comment from an episode of Chicago PD that I watched yesterday and it just kinda stuck in my head bc the dynamic between Antonio/Ruzek kinda reminded me of Walt/Sal lol. Click here if you wanna be added to my taglist. Taglist: @drabbles-mc @ashlingnarcos @asirensrage @narcosfandomdiscord

#narcos mexico #walt breslin #dani narcos mx #sal orozco

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narcos-narcosmx · 1 year

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The way this makes me happy tho - 🥰

After this is over

The fic is complete, next week both alternative endings drop.

I have not found the ideal faceclaim for Slate yet. But if anyone has pictured her a certain way, I’m very curious! What have you imaged?

#narcos Mexico #calderoni narcos mexico #Walt Breslin #sal orozco #ofc Slate

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villings · 2 years

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(...) Los oleajes se cruzan y conspiran como los visitantes en los sueños, intercambian espumas, cáscaras, amuletos y papeles cifrados y jirones, y todo tiempo inscribe su sentencia bajo las aguas de los otros tiempos, mientras viajas a tumbos en tu tablón precario justo en el filo de las marejadas. Pero hay algo, tal vez, que logró sustraerse a las maquinaciones de los años, algo que estaba fuera de la fugacidad, la duración y la mudanza. Guarda, guarda esa prenda invulnerable que cobraste al pasar y que llevas oculta como un ladrón furtivo desde el comienzo hasta el futuro. Estandarte o sortija, perla, grano de sal o escapulario, describe una parábola de brasas a medida que te aproximas, que llegas, que te alejas: tu credencial de amor en la noche cerrada.

Andante en tres tiempos | Olga Orozco

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ivanreydereyes · 6 months

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Como veis la discografía de "Sevillanos" REINCIDENTES es muy reveladora como el que empezarán grabando con DISCOS SUICIDAS..q es lo q yo considero que hizo hace un año el cantante SEVILLANO de "ANTI_HEROES" q murió de un INFARTO actuando en SEVILLA tardando una ETERNIDAD los servicios de EMERGENCIA algo que fue decisivo en su SUERTE...pues eso es lo q me parecen TODOS ESTOS COMPLICES DE $ATANA$ o IDOLOS DE ORO q os pusieron la PUTA MAS_CARILLA en BALDE O DE FORMA ABSURDA Y MALVADA

Todo esto forma parte de la PUTA ESPAÑA SATANICA APOCALIPTICA o de la falsa moral del dinero y falsa religion =AME_RICA canciones de IDA y Vuelta. Realidad Musical..cd entre DEMENTES y TIEMPOS DE IRA

Lo siguiente que permitirán estos CANTA_MAÑANAS es la ULTIMA TORMENTA..

..por cierto..murió en EL MUELLE DE LA SAL [SEVILLA] x las FIESTAS de LA VELA DE SAN MIGUEL [eso es muy poca luz y se apaga como el cd debut de ANTONIO OROZCO titulado UN RELOJ Y UNA VELA seguido del cd SEMILLA DEL SILENCIO , CD EL PRINCIPIO DEL COMIENZO q se abre con sonido de una EXCARCELACION..y cuyo productor XAVI PEREZ murió en el ESTUDIO con 43 años tras publicar cd DESTINO..luego lo haría su ex_mujer o madre de su hijo y su padre se mató en una obra tras ir a buscar la guitarra q le regalo a la TRASTIENDA DE UNA PELUKERIA]

..y os RECUERDO QUE JESUS PRIMERO ADVIERTE Y LUEGO MATA XQ SINO ACABARIAIS CON LA LUZ O LA VIDA

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andrescasciani · 1 year

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“FRAGMENTARIA" - citas ilustradas por Andrés Casciani (24/4/23)

“Era la hora en que comienzo a despertar entre los muertos con la evidencia de un anillo roto, un vestido de momia desprendido de las vendas del cielo y un espejo de sal donde puede leerse mi destino. El porvenir no es nada más que mirar hacia atrás”. (Olga Orozco)

- Ilustración digital, 2023

http://andrescasciani.com/

#art #Illustration #digital art #ilustración #arte digital #arte #poesia #poetry #olga orozco #andrés casciani

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maevesdarling · 2 years

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Walt and his team entering the airfield in Juarez

Walt and his team leaving the airfield in Juarez

#i'm sorry #i made this joke via WhatsApp but I had to share it with everyone #narcos: mexico #narcos #walt breslin #daryl petsky #sal orozco #danilo garza #amat palacios #ossie mejía

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nocturnal-milk-dud · 3 years

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Golden As They Come: Chapter Seven

Pairing: Ossie Mejía x Reader

Summary: Drugs are just a necessary evil

Warning/notes: I did "research" on the CIAs involvement in cocaine trafficking during the Nicaraguan civil war and now I don't remember any of it. I put research in quotes because it sounds so formal and all I did was Google some stuff I'm not an expert ANYWAY; this chapter might be terrible; I've only seen Stechner in three episodes so he might be poorly written; I feel like he's one not to dirty his own hands but he does a little bit here; violence; blood; murder; torture; language; lots of vagueness I'm sorry; why does our reader draw the line at drugs? Idk

Rating: R

Word count: 1231

Matta Ballesteros. You heard Danilo and Sal’s voices, but the words weren’t clicking because the pieces already had. Your food tasted sour in your mouth and you nudged the plate away, getting to your feet.

“I have to make a phone call,” you said, voice so low you were surprised when Walt gave you an acknowledging nod, his brow furrowed. You were sure he was watching you as you walked away so you were careful to take your time, slow down and relax your shoulders.

You had followed Stechner around the jungles of Nicaragua like a puppy, soaking up every word that fell from his mouth, eager to learn. He quickly became your confidante, and long conversations in his office over a bottle of whatever you could find led you to believe you had become his. He gave you just enough to make you think you knew the most, when really you didn’t know anything at all. Maybe he saw something in you. Maybe you were just eager and dumb. He encouraged you to see people as tools with buttons to be pressed and levers to work; to see bodies as diagrams of pressure points, nerve centers, pain receptors. Taught you how to use pain and fear to get what you needed.

You probably would have continued to stumble through in rose colored glasses, pieces of your humanity breaking off day by day, if it hadn’t been for the boy.

“He’s one of ours,” you said after Stechner let you take a look inside the shed. He had a Contra soldier high cuffed in the center of the room, blood dripping into his eye from a cut in his forehead. You’d seen him around a few times. He seemed kind, which was no small thing. These men were not kind. If it hadn’t been for Stechner and the fact that you were CIA, this place would have swallowed you whole the moment you’d arrived. You remembered seeing the boy make a rope ball for a group of children and sneak them candy. Turns out this place would swallow him whole too.

“And he may be the reason we lost a shipment of weapons,” Stechner said. “Either he’s very lucky, or he’s a rat.”

"He’s just a kid,” you pushed, as if you weren’t one yourself, and Stechner pierced you with a calculating stare.

“I thought I could rely on you,” he said, the smallest edge of disappointment creeping into his tone.

“You can,” you rushed to assure him.

“Then get in there and do your job.”

Hours of your torture and Stechner’s circling questioning and the boy still sobbed that he didn’t know anything, he swore he didn’t know anything, he was a coward, he’d hid, please believe him. You needed to put an end to it if Stechner wouldn’t.

“He’s telling the truth,” you said, wiping your bloodied hands on a grimy towel. Stechner conceded, nodding at the floor, and your shoulders sagged in relief, expecting the worst to be over. You were wrong. Before you could react, Stechner pulled his gun and put a bullet between the boy’s eyes. Air froze in your lungs.

“He didn’t know anything!” you snapped. “If you have a leak, it’s somewhere else!”

“I tell you how to do your job, not the other way around,” he said, voice calm, matter-of-fact. “Clean this up.” Your eyes lingered on the slack body, blood dripping into a puddle on the dirt floor.

The late night talks stopped after that, and your suspicions grew, until one night you tailed a team of Contra soldiers and found yourself watching cocaine and money change hands.

You should have handled it differently, should have made sure someone else could corroborate, but a part of you wanted to believe that the man you looked up to was still there, if he ever had been at all.

“Where’s the cocaine going?” you asked. “How much do you get for it? Who supplies it?” Stechner leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Is that why you killed him? It wasn’t a shipment of weapons that was lost, was it?”

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“He was a boy,” you said, ignoring him.

“He was a soldier. And you killed him,” Stechner said, throwing you, and you stumbled in your rebuke.

“No I didn’t.” Stechner tossed a manila file down on his desk, flipping it open. You saw your picture paperclipped inside.

“I have a detailed report from that night that says that due to an error on the trainee’s part--that’s you, by the way--the subject bled out.”

“It’s your word against mine,” you fumbled.

“I think, out of the two of us, they’ll take mine,” Stechner said, closing the file. “This can go away. The drugs play a very small role in a much bigger game here. Look at them as a necessary evil. So much of this job is a necessary evil.”

“Or?”

“Or quit,” Stechner said. “Stay and suck it up, or quit. That’s how this file stays buried.”

It had been an undoing. You would keep yourself up at night reexamining everything Stechner had ever asked of you, wondering what he’d kept hidden. Wondering the level of damage you’d inflicted.

“You know I was just thinking about you.” You could hear his jaw working slowly on the other end, your call having caught him in the middle of a meal. When he spoke again, his voice was clear, cheerful. It made you sick. “I have a bag of buñuelos right here, still warm, I know you love those.”

“It was you, wasn’t it,” you said ignoring his pleasantries. “He was right in front of you and instead of doing the right thing, you did the easy thing, like always.” You heard his throat clear, and a deep sigh drifted through the receiver. You imagined him leaning back in his chair and taking the phone from where he had it cradled between shoulder and ear.

“I made a decision for the greater good,” he said finally. “But you could never see the forest for the trees. You still can’t. You were so true red white and blue and you had your rights and your wrongs and there was no room for anything in between--”

“Stop, stop it, stop talking to me like I’m a child and I don’t understand how the world works. The fact is you had a choice, you had a choice every time and you always chose yourself, you selfish piece of shit!” You slammed the receiver down, hanging on it and resting your forehead against the box. You had told yourself that wouldn’t happen, that the conversation wouldn’t spiral out of control but why else had you called Stechner if not to yell at him? The phone rang, making you jump, and you looked out at the darkening world around you. You were alone and you couldn’t help but pick it up.

“By the way,” Stechner said, not waiting to find out if it was you on the other end, “I heard through the grapevine about your recent exploits. You have a bad habit of leaving bodies in your wake.” The line went dead.

A wall came down after that. You returned to the safehouse with a hard focus, with the intent of doing your job and nothing more.

Taglist: @artemiseamoon @arellanofelixboys @thesolotomyhan @mcrmarvelloki @revolution-starter @tori-reads @acrossthesestars @spleeniexox @mesmorales @maevesdarling @unicorn-cloud

#ossie mejía x reader #narcos mexico fic #narcos mexico #ossie mejía #walt breslin #juan matta ballesteros #danilo garza #sal orozco #bill stechner

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drabbles-mc · 9 months

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The Weight of It All

Walt Breslin x Sal Orozco

For Day 21 of @narcosfandomdiscord's July Smut Alphabet: underwater

Warnings: 18+, smut, language, smoking, angst

Word Count: 2k

A/N: What is the sadness of canon without a little smut thrown in there? Sometimes they're fighting cartels and sometimes they're in an ambiguous gay relationship. The duality of man etcetc

Narcos Mexico Taglist: @ashlingnarcos @narcolini @garbinge @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @artemiseamoon @proceduralpassion @southotheborder (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

After the way it all went down, Walt felt like he lost the ability to even be able to look at himself. And if that was how he felt about himself, he could only imagine how Sal felt about him too. Saying that it was a sad state of affairs wouldn’t have even begun to scratch the surface.

It took a lot to force himself to leave the safehouse. It felt like all he had the energy, the ability, to do was sit, chain-smoke, and kick himself for letting it all happen the way that it had. But eventually every pack of cigarettes runs out. So, when it did, he forced himself up out of his chair and got to his car to head back to the motel. He made sure to grab the pack of smokes from his car before getting out—there would be time for more chain-smoking later.

Walt had expected to come back to an empty room. He expected to find all of Sal’s belongings gone, Sal gone with them. He couldn’t blame him for it. If Walt had the ability to leave himself, he would, but he knew that he was always going to be stuck with himself, no matter how much he didn’t want to look in the mirror and see it.

What he hadn’t been expecting, though, was to open the door to their motel room to find Sal there, all of his things still strewn about the room with Walt’s. It made him freeze up in the doorway for a moment, trying to accept not only that he had been wrong, but that being wrong meant he was going to have to face Sal. In the moment, the thought of that seemed more daunting than having to face himself.

Sal sat on the end of the bed he’d claimed for himself out of the two that were in their room. It was still perfectly made, the way that it always was in stark contrast to Walt’s which had never looked put-together except for when the two of them first checked in. Sal sat, elbows pressing against his knees, face buried in his hands. He and Walt were both still in their clothes from the day, the ones stained with dirt and sweat and blood that wasn’t their own.

Even though he’d heard Walt open the door and walk in, Sal only lifted his face from his palms when he heard the door click shut again, heard the sound of the chain lock rattling into place. As if Walt hadn’t already been feeling bad enough, the sad look in Sal’s deep brown eyes nearly brought him to his knees.

“Walt,” Sal forced out when he realized that the man wasn’t going to look him in the face unless Sal made him.

It didn’t matter—Walt still couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eyes. He shook his head as he tossed his gun over onto his own bed. “Not now.” Walt wanted it to sound angry, definitive, but the words came out sounding just as broken as he felt.

“Walt—”

“Not tonight,” he cut Sal short, knowing that he only was going to be able to say no to Sal so many times before he ran out of resolve. “Please.”

He hesitated. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted from Walt, what he was even planning on asking him. All he could think was that it felt like one of them should be saying something, doing something in the wake of all that had happened that night. He understood the urge to shut down, to tap out of the fight, especially after what they’d just gone through. But they couldn’t. He’d known Walt long enough, knew him well enough, to know that he was going to either retreat so far into himself that no one would be able to find him, or throw himself so much into the next thing that there would be no separating him from the next plan. Neither were ideal, but at least one of those outcomes kept it so that Sal could still reach him, still try to at least.

“Don’t,” Sal finally said.

Walt shook his head, not enough mental capital to try and read into what Sal wasn’t saying. “Don’t what?”

Sal sucked in a deep breath, but his voice still came out quietly despite it. “Whatever you’re thinking, just, don’t.” He pressed his lips into a thin line for a moment before saying, “Take a beat before you do anythi—”

“Right,” Walt said, already knowing where the rest of the sentence was going and not wanting to hear it. He continued across the room, tossing his gun onto his bed as he made his way towards the bathroom. “Takin’ a fucking shower.” He was too tired to let all of the anger in him shine through, so the, “to wash all this fucking blood off me,” never made it out into the room.

Sal got himself up off the end of his bed, his steps quiet but quick as he closed the distance between him and Walt. Walt was about to swing and slam the bathroom door shut when Sal’s palm flattened against it, stopping it. He didn’t think it was possible, but Walt seemed to deflate just a little bit more at the action.

Walt finally made himself look Sal in the eyes for a moment, fleeting as it was before they dropped back to the floor. “I cant do this right now, Sal.” He rested his forehead along the edge of the door, eyes shutting. “Don’t make me fucking do this.”

“Do what?”

Prying his gaze from the floor, he looked at Sal, working harder than he’d ever admit to not let the look in his eyes make him crumple beneath the weight. “I can’t stand here and talk about it.”

Sal gave a shake of his head that anyone but Walt wouldn’t have been able to catch. “I didn’t ask you to stand here and talk about it.” He paused, pushing the door open just a touch more. “Don’t talk to me like I don’t know you.”

Whatever argument Walt had been looking to start and ultimately get out of as quickly as possible, died on his tongue at Sal’s statement. He gave a short nod. “Right.”

Walt waited for Sal to have something else to say, but no more words came. He was only able to hold Sal’s gaze for a couple more seconds before everything started to feel a little too heavy, a little too real, all over again. He stepped away from the door, not making any attempt to slam it shut behind him this time.

The hot water that was beating down Walt’s back and shoulders could scald away the sweat and grime, it could wash away the blood that was staining his fingers and palms, but the weight of the loss was one thing that wasn’t ever going to swirl away down the drain. He rested his forehead against the tile, the ceramic smooth and cool against the one small patch of skin it touched while hot water and steam engulfed the rest of him.

He didn’t flinch when he heard the shower curtain move. He peeled himself away from the tile, putting his head back under the stream of water and eradicating any of the lingering coolness that had stuck to his skin.

Then he felt Sal’s hands against his skin, the warmth emanating off of him making the water streaming from the showerhead seem frigid in comparison. The touch was soft, familiar, fingers curled gently over his shoulder, and yet Walt still worried for a moment that it was going to break him.

Walt hardly noticed that Sal had turned him around. But then Sal’s lips were on his and the rest of it suddenly didn’t seem to matter so much. Sal’s palms were the only rough thing about him as he cupped Walt’s face, fingertips pressing and raking through the stubble on his cheeks, water droplets running down his arms.

Sal had Walt’s back pressed against the tiles, cold shooting down his spine while the warmth from Sal’s skin coursed through his chest. Walt’s hands rested on his sides for a moment before his arms wrapped around him, hands spreading across as much of Sal’s back as he could possibly touch. Sal’s lips were still on his as he opened his eyes. Water was dripping from Sal’s hair, the pads of his thumbs running across Walt’s cheeks—it was so much easier for Walt to look at Sal when he wasn’t looking back.

“Sal,” Walt whispered against his lips. Sal pulled away, eyes open as he waited for Walt to continue, to say something else. Walt didn’t know where his sentence had been going, though. He didn’t know if he was going to say something, ask for something. It all got lost somewhere along the way.

Sal saw it, too, the way that he had so many thoughts and no way to get them out, all those feelings and nowhere to put them. So Sal did what he’d always done, and tried his best to pull them out or at least push them away for a little bit longer.

He kissed Walt again, rewarded with the feeling of Walt’s muscles slowly starting to relax. One of Sal’s hands drifted from the side of Walt’s face. His fingers dragged down the side of Walt’s face and neck, down his chest and stomach, picking up water droplets the entire way down.

Walt pulled Sal a little closer, kissed him a little harder when he felt Sal’s hand wrap around him. His movements were slow at first, it almost would’ve felt like Sal was teasing if the circumstances had been different. This time, though, it just felt like Sal was trying to make sure that Walt was there with him, not miles away hours ago when it’d all gone wrong.

It became impossible for Walt to think about anything else but the man pressed against him as Sal started to speed up his motions. Sal pulled his lips from Walt’s pressing their foreheads together. His eyes drifted shut, focused on the feel of Walt in his hand, the way his hips bucked against him. He could’ve lost himself in the feeling of that alone, but then he felt Walt’s hand slip between their bodies.

Sal’s other hand flattened against the tiles beside Walt’s head, one of the only things keeping him upright as Walt wrapped his fingers around his length. He let out a quiet, shuddered, “Fuck,” right before he brought his lips back to Walt’s.

There was a moment when all Walt could feel was Sal, his hand, his lips, the water from the showerhead splashing off of Sal’s skin and onto his own. And in that moment, all the heaviness was gone. It was just him, and Sal, and the tiles against his back that were no longer cold and the water from the shower that was starting to run lukewarm. He could feel the shift in Sal’s breathing the closer he got to release, and Walt knew that he wasn’t far off from it himself. There was part of him that wanted to drag it out just a little longer, make the moment feel a little less fleeting. Because while he knew it wasn’t a cure, it wasn’t going to fix everything because it never did, it was so much easier to pretend that it could when Sal’s body was still pinned to his.

“Don’t stop,” the words fell from Walt’s lips with the same graveled roughness he always had, and all Sal could do was listen.

For a brief second when they were done, it felt like the entire world was just Sal slumped against Walt, Walt slumped against the shower wall while they both fought to catch their breath. Sal still had one hand against the wall, his forehead pressed to Walt’s shoulder. Walt let his head drop to the side, resting it against Sal’s. The water was running closer to cold than was comfortable for either of them, but neither of them could bring themselves to move just yet, because once they did, they were going to be back under the full weight of everything else that existed outside the shower walls.

#narcos mexico #narcos mexico fanfiction #narcos: mexico #nmx #nmx fanfiction #walt breslin #sal orozco #walt breslin x sal orozco #sal orozco x walt breslin #nffalphabet #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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cregan-starks · 2 years

Text

Taquito | Beholden

Summary: Magnussen returns to Guadalajara.

Words: 3,395

Pairing: Walt Breslin x OC (not really)

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of sexism, mention of communism, mentions of food, smoking, alcohol, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: As always, apologies for taking so long to update. This chapter’s lighter than the previous ones, but I hope y’all still enjoy it. If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.

Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes 💛 and to my darlings @cleastrnge 💜 and @qoedameron 💓 for the Mexican Spanish translations!

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MARCH 6, 1986

GUADALAJARA, MEXICO

Obscure fun fact: sometimes, the DEA experience involved sneaking barefoot out of a parking lot, at 1 a.m. Completely sober, too. Holding her shoes in one hand and her lit cigarette in the other, Magnussen sauntered towards her apartment building, accompanied by the sound of crickets. Against her better judgement, she stopped near a streetlamp to finish her cigarette. Bugs had flown around the top, drawn to its light. The current state of affairs did have a reasonable explanation. Barely two hours into her six-hour drive from Mexico City to Guadalajara, Magnussen’s feet had begun to hurt, so she had taken off her heels. In hindsight, it had been a shitty decision. The temperature had dropped significantly – causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin – and the rough surface of the sidewalk underneath her feet created a slight discomfort. Magnussen took a drag from her cigarette, relishing in the view. The night sky served as a canvas for the shy, gleaming stars. A couple of blocks away, a dog barked as a car quietly drove by.

Magnussen remembered a similar evening, sitting on the fence of the Consulate with Kiki and smoking, after he and his team had failed to lure Gallardo across the border into the U.S. and arrest him. Kiki had been so adamant about Gallardo knowing his name. He had felt exhausted, demoralized, defeated. That operation had been the closest they had ever gotten to capturing the Godfather, and he had slipped through their fingers… again. Kiki had longed to go home. It had seemed like he had finally been willing to abandon the hunt… and he should have. Back then, Gallardo had been wanted for being a notorious narco-trafficker. Now, he was also wanted for Kiki’s torture and murder. A sour reminder that a flame can transform into a wildfire.

Worse, the men tasked with bringing Gallardo to justice didn’t even give a shit about Camarena. Magnussen gritted her teeth in frustration. She had taken Leyenda’s pulse, and she had been left rather disappointed. How was she supposed to work with them? Petski was auditioning to be a mime, Mejía was an arrogant toe, Méndez and Álvarez were yes-minions, Orozco was Breslin’s mustached parrot, Garza’s favorite hobby was waterboarding – or spitting on puppies – Palacios hadn’t developed a personality yet, and Breslin was a narrow-minded redneck. He probably wouldn’t budge on the Azul situation. Typical Yankee; loved to hear himself speak, rejected anyone else’s input. Whatever. Magnussen was too woman for her opinion to matter. Morales had been the only one whom she had genuinely liked. At least he had had the decency to introduce himself and welcome her to the team… although, as far as Magnussen was concerned, he must have had ulterior motives, too. Severe lack of trust among coworkers. Off to a great start…

Give it time, she reasoned. Loosen some of that Eastern European pessimism. Magnussen dropped her cigarette on the ground, instinctively moving her foot to put it out before pausing in realization. Dodged a burn. She crouched and used the heel of one of the shoes that she was holding to extinguish the cigarette, mumbling “ridiculous” to herself, then headed into the complex. Magnussen peered to distinguish shapes in the dark in an attempt to not trip and fall flat on her mug as she tiptoed up the oddly dirty and sticky stairs. She cringed internally at the mere idea of navigating her apartment in this condition, already tired. Throw in hunger and an agonizing need to pee, and you could guess Magnussen’s general disposition.

Maybe contemplating building her own network within the operation would serve as a distraction and cheer her up a bit. She couldn’t depend on her colleagues forever. In fact, she didn’t fancy relying on them at all. Administrator Lawn had gotten one thing right. Magnussen was no team player. She refused to let Calderoni off the hook, too. She demanded answers, and she was certain that the Commander was in possession of one or two of them. Calderoni had potentially upgraded to triple agent, bumping elbows with the Mexican government, the U.S. government, and the Guadalajara cartel. When Magnussen had told Breslin that Leyenda required somebody on the inside, she had meant it. Commander Calderoni was the perfect candidate for the job. Her plans didn’t end there, either. She also wanted to set up surveillance on Tómas Morlet – a DFS agent who had actually been placed at the scene of Camarena’s abduction and the man responsible for Kiki’s neighbor’s execution – and the low-ranking assholes who just so happened to be on Leyenda’s hit list. Happy coincidence.

Magnussen curled her fingers around the handrail, for support, the sound of her rings clinking against the metal echoing. Apologies, neighbors. Unfortunately, they will have to adapt. You never knew what you were going to get, with Magnussen. Judging by the crusty sensation in the corners of her eyes, her makeup had betrayed her as well, becoming smudged. Magnussen was eager to eat, sleep… definitely drink… and wash her feet. She made it past the second floor. Almost there. So close, yet so far away. Magnussen even entertained the idea of crawling on all fours to avoid smearing the floor and carpets in her apartment. Who was she kidding? She would undoubtedly pass out immediately. Anything else belonged to the realm of speculation.

Fuck.

Magnussen froze in her spot, startled by a door swinging open, nearly clutching her shoes to her chest.

‘¡Oh, mierda!’, exclaimed the intruder, equally stunned, ‘Me espantaste.’ (Oh, shit! You scared me.)

You and me both, honey. The apartment’s light flooded the hallway, further confusing Magnussen’s fragile state of mind.

‘Pérdon,’ she mumbled, discreetly studying the woman in front of her. (Sorry.)

Big, dark eyes stared at Magnussen with concern. Her turquoise nails contrasted her smooth, brown skin, and her thick eyebrows were darker than her lengthy curls. She wore a beige cardigan over a white undershirt, her voluptuous chest distracting Magnussen only a little… as did her plump lips and curvy hips.

‘¿Estás bien?’, inquired the woman, visibly worried. (Are you okay?)

Poor soul. Magnussen couldn’t blame her. She was roaming the hallway, barefoot, at one in the morning. Don’t sweat it, she could’ve seen worse.

‘Totalmente,’ assured Magnussen, calmly, ‘Solo tratando de llegar a mi departamento.’ (Totally. Just trying to get to my apartment.)

‘¿Vives aquí?’, asked the woman, surprised, perking up, ‘No te he visto antes.’ (You live here? I haven’t seen you before.)

You shouldn’t exactly be seeing me now, either. That’s a story for… never. If you’re fortunate, you won’t run into me in the future.

‘Me mudé ayer,’ clarified Magnussen, hesitantly, regarding the current time, ‘O hace dos días. ¿Porqué estás sacando la basura a esta hora?’, she interrogated, referring to the trash bag that the woman was holding. (I moved in yesterday… or two days ago. Why are you taking out the trash at this hour?)

Forget about my suspicious behavior. What about yours? The woman’s demeanor did not suggest that she was deceiving Magnussen. Alas, her investigative skills after midnight should be deemed dubious, at best.

‘Estaba afuera con unos amigos,’ explained the neighbor, the memory fond, ‘Ah, tú eres la que pone Judas Priest a todo volúmen.’ (I was out with some friends. Ah, you’re the one who plays Judas Priest loudly.)

‘Sí,’ confirmed Magnussen, unsure how to feel about the label, ‘Esa soy yo.’ (Yeah. That’s me.)

Spotted on day one, and already effortlessly built a reputation for herself. How long would laying low have lasted, anyway? She couldn’t not talk with sentient beings.

‘Soy Guadalupe,’ introduced the woman, friendly, extending her free hand, ‘Llámame Lupita.’ (I’m Guadalupe. Call me Lupita.)

‘Bonito nombre,’ complimented Magnussen, shaking her hand, mindful of her shoulder holster peeking out from her jacket, ‘Santo. Soy Antonia. Llámame Toni.’ (Beautiful name. Holy. I’m Antonia. Call me Toni.)

Another lie that she would have to maintain. I gotta put them on paper, eventually.

‘Gusto en conocerte,’ commented Lupita, offering a small smile, ‘¿De dónde eres?’ (Nice to meet you. Where are you from?)

Shit.

‘Es un poco complicado,’ excused Magnussen, awkwardly, grimacing, ‘Vivo en Nueva Zelanda... pero nací en Rumanía.’ (That’s a bit complicated. I live in New Zealand… but I was born in Romania.)

‘No sé mucho de Rumanía,’ admitted Guadalupe, sounding disheartened, ‘Nunca he estado ahí.’ (I don’t know much about Romania. Never been.)

‘No te preocupes,’ enunciated Magnussen, waving dismissively, ‘No te pierdes mucho.’ (Don’t worry. You didn’t miss out on much.)

Unless you count communist repression, minimum respect for human rights, secrecy, propaganda, occasionally hideous infrastructure.

‘¿Cómo es que estás en Guadalajara?’, questioned Lupita, politely curious. (How come you’re all the way in Guadalajara?)

Attempting to bring justice to my deceased friend, who was tortured and murdered by a drug cartel, in collaboration with the Mexican government – allegedly. So, the usual.

‘Yo, uh, tengo un internado,’ disclosed Magnussen, mentally congratulating herself for her duplicitous reflexes, ‘En el consulado de Estados Unidos.’ (I, uh, have an internship… at the U.S. Consulate.)

It’s a classified internship. Please, don’t press the issue. It’s a difficult period for me.

‘Que elegante,’ noted Guadalupe, half impressed, tugging her sweater over her chest, to keep warm, ‘Yo estoy intentando tener un título de Artes. Trabajo en un salón de uñas.’ (Fancy. I’m trying to get an Arts degree. I work at a nail salon.)

Glancing down at her feet, Magnussen curled her toes, to prevent them from falling victim to frostbite. “Fancy” is not a word I would use to describe my “internship.” Arts are always approved of. Artists are the soul of society.

‘Buena suerte,’ she replied, unable to omit the most precious fact, ‘¿Salón de uñas, huh? Que suerte la mía.’ (Good luck. Nail salon, huh? Lucky me.)

‘Eres bienvenida cuando quieras,’ asserted Lupita, leaning against the doorframe, ‘¿Estás libre este fin de semana? Deberíamos salir.’ (You are welcome anytime. Are you free this weekend? We should hang out.)

Despite her initial cynicism, Magnussen gradually realized that she would need to interact with people outside of her Leyenda circle, otherwise she would lose it and commit atrocities.

‘Aún no lo sé,’ began Magnussen before interrupting herself to address the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that emerged from Guadalupe’s apartment, ‘Oh, hola.’ (I don’t know yet – Oh, hello.)

Lupita quickly moved her foot to block the dog’s path. Its round, black eyes watched Magnussen with a sweet, gentle expression, and its lengthy, fluffy ears framed its face. The dog sported a silky, classical Blenheim coat – rich chestnut markings on a clear, pearly white ground.

‘Esta es Taquito,’ revealed Guadalupe, evidently not having anticipated the dog’s presence, ‘Debería estar dormida.’ (This is Taquito. She should be asleep.)

Taquito – excellent name, by the way – can do whatever she wants.

‘Es un amor,’ countered Magnussen, affectionately, crouching to scratch the dog behind its ears, ‘Tráela contigo cuando salgamos.’ (She’s a darling. Bring her with you when we go out.)

‘Los perros no están permitidos en bares, Toni,’ reminded Lupita, playfully. (Dogs aren’t allowed in bars, Toni.)

‘Que se jodan,’ declared Magnussen, adamantly, petting Taquito’s head, ‘Iremos a un parque.’ (Fuck them. We’ll go to a park.)

Taquito showed her endorsement by wagging her tail, excitedly.

‘Le encantará eso,’ chuckled Guadalupe, weakly pushing the dog back into her apartment, ‘Di buenas noches, Taquito.’ (She’ll love that. Say good night, Taquito.)

‘Buenas noches,’ said Magnussen, standing up and waving to Taquito. (Good night.)

‘Realmente tengo que tirar la basura,’ recalled Guadalupe, cautiously shutting the door once the dog was inside, ‘Nos vemos luego.’ (I really have to throw away the trash. See you around.)

‘Cuídate,’ quipped Magnussen, amused, observing her depart down the stairs. (Take care.)

Alright. Scram, Scout. Forth, on to your lair.

Magnussen kicked off her slippers and leaned back against the couch – mindful of her filled wine glass – stretching her legs before resting her feet on the edge of the coffee table. Fleetwood Mac’s Spare Me a Little of Your Love started to play quietly on the stereo. She sipped her beverage, the spice inundating her taste buds, urging her nerves and muscles to finally relax, since the immediate burdens had been lifted off her chest; she had relieved her bladder, washed her feet, removed her makeup, changed into her pyjamas, and eaten… dinner? What meal do people have at two a.m.?

Her eyes lingered on the telephone laying on the table, conflicted. She should have dealt with this yesterday… or two days ago. She itched for another cigarette, but that would require getting up, walking into the bedroom, retrieving the pack, and cracking a window to get rid of the smell and smoke. Open windows at night were a no-go. Magnussen was on her own. She downed her wine – setting the glass aside – and grabbed the telephone. Magnussen checked her wrist watch as she dialed the number, estimating that it must have been eight in the morning in New Zealand. Here we go.

A few seconds passed, and the prolonged dial tone seemed to be in sync with her heartbeat. Magnussen absentmindedly pulled on the loose thread of one of her fuzzy socks, hoping that the noise would cease – though she was unsure about her preferred outcome. One where I don’t get shamed for suffering from chronic hesitancy.

When the dial tone abruptly stopped, the words died on her tongue, her throat dry. A funny feeling settled in her stomach. Anxiety butterflies.

‘Hello?’, answered Maia’s robotic voice, casually.

Any trace of thoughts vacated Magnussen’s mind. She glanced around the living room, fixating on nothing in particular.

‘Uh, hey,’ she greeted, stiffly, scratching the nape of her neck, ‘It’s me.’

‘Well, well, well,’ articulated Maia, and Magnussen braced herself for the upcoming snark, ‘La Llorona didn’t find you yet. I hear you’re serenading me.’

Magnussen involuntarily looked at the stereo. The song neared its end.

Spare me a little,

Spare me a little of your love.

‘Compensating for my silence,’ she huffed, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards, ‘Sorry about that, by the way. What’re you up to?’

‘In the kitchen,’ informed a grumpy Maia, ‘Drinking coffee before work.’

‘First cup?’, inquired Magnussen, smugly proving that she knew Maia’s morning routine.

‘Second,’ corrected Maia, apparently fumbling with cutlery in the background.

‘Oh, so, I caught you at a good time,’ joked Magnussen, leaning over the couch arm to turn off the stereo.

‘That depends,’ teased Maia, flirtatiously, ‘What’ve you got for me?’

‘I just got back to Guadalajara,’ droned Magnussen, the reminder causing her to feel tired again.

‘Isn’t it late there?’, checked Maia, confused, the frown in her tone palpable.

‘Early, according to some,’ countered Magnussen, humorously, producing a small piece of paper from the pocket of her pyjama pants, ‘I had a meeting with the team.’

Morales’ note. She scanned the neatly written names and numbers, barely paying attention.

‘And how was it?’, interrogated Maia, evidently curious.

‘I’m not,’ began Magnussen, carefully, searching for the appropriate term, ‘Too impressed. They seem like a bunch of yes-men. In it for a medal and a few bucks. Only Morales talked to me afterwards. Genuine or not…’

‘There’s that pessimism, alive and well,’ observed Maia, fondly.

‘It’s not that,’ grumbled Magnussen, shoving the note in her pocket, ‘Breslin’s already stepping on my tail.’

Romanian saying. Maia would get it. She always does.

‘Who could’ve anticipated that?’, falsely lamented an amused Maia.

‘He has ego cramps because of the airport thing,’ dismissed Magnussen, sinking into the couch.

‘Do tell,’ encouraged Maia, interested.

An opportunity to complain? She would be a fool not to seize it. Maia proceeded to sip her coffee, loudly, forcing Magnussen to briefly remove the telephone from her ear, annoyed by the noise. Maia was doing it on purpose.

‘I randomly saw him struggling to light his cigarette,’ explained Magnussen, feigning innocence, ‘So, I offered him my lighter. Made small talk.’

‘You didn’t tell him who you were,’ concluded Maia, incredulously.

‘Of course, I didn’t,’ scoffed Magnussen, offended by the implication, ‘Said my name’s Sofia, faked an accent. He was probably suspicious, but I doubt he figured out what was really wrong. We met a second time in Heath’s office.’

‘Gross,’ deadpanned Maia.

Magnussen wholeheartedly agreed.

‘I didn’t know Breslin was gonna show,’ she clarified, placing the telephone between her ear and shoulder to reach for the DEA badge on the coffee table, ‘He didn’t know I was gonna show. It was funny. He was so pissed.’

‘Barbie’s boyfriend must have been confused as hell,’ posited Maia, chuckling, ‘What did he do?’

‘Nothing,’ shrugged Magnussen, bitterly, ‘It’s not in his job description. He still pretends to have a spine. He didn’t stay long. I can’t tell if he feels any guilt over what happened.’

She studied the pretentious-looking object, attentively, her nail lightly digging into the eagle – the U.S. – proudly sitting atop the badge’s sunburst-shaped body, grasping an olive branch and arrows – the federal government’s authority over peace and war. Atrocious.

‘It’s not in the job description,’ echoed Maia, somber, ‘He doesn’t have to.’

‘Hopefully, D.C. will be merciful, and I won’t have to deal with Bureaucrat Ken’s existence moving forward,’ claimed Magnussen, gloomy, tossing her badge on the table, ‘Anyway, I bumped into one of my neighbors. Lupita. She has a dog named Taquito.’

‘Congratulations on socializing,’ jested Maia, condescendingly, ‘A reason for you to go out more. Don’t forget to smuggle Taquito into New Zealand when you come back.’

‘If I come back,’ corrected Magnussen, reflexively, then subtly attempted to change the subject, ‘I thought we were getting a cat.’

‘Hey, don’t talk like that,’ scolded Maia, refusing to take the feline bait.

Magnussen provided no response, instead shifting into a more comfortable, apathy-compatible position, lying down on her side, balancing the telephone over her left ear.

‘How’re you holding up, so far?’, murmured Maia, concerned, as if she were reaching out to tenderly squeeze Magnussen’s shoulder.

A lump formed in her throat, preventing the truth from bursting past the surface. I wish things hadn’t been like this. I wish Kiki would still be alive. I wish I had been a child for a little longer. Lying to Maia would be pointless. Magnussen swallowed hard and counted the seconds, pondering when would be the right moment to say something. She sniffed, gradually sobering up.

‘I don’t know,’ confessed Magnussen, at last, voice wavering, ‘It’s strange, being here, not having him around… The city hasn’t changed much, but everything feels different. I’m starting to understand what Jaime meant.’

‘You need time,’ offered Maia, compassionately, ‘Going back was never going to be easy. You’re probably not going to like this, but I think you’re doing this for yourself as much as you’re doing it for Kiki… Take it easy.’

Historically unsustainable for me.

‘You might be creating problems where there aren’t any,’ continued Maia, surprisingly civil, ‘Heath, Breslin, Morales, whoever the fuck. You’ll be fine. You can handle them. They have no idea what’s coming.’

‘The cartel or the DEA?’, quipped Magnussen, managing a smile.

‘Both,’ replied Maia, decisively.

‘Okay, enough about my bullshit,’ interjected Magnussen, her allergy to compliments manifesting, ‘How’s everything on your side of the world?’

‘Long version?’, recited Maia, aggressively setting her mug in the sink, ‘Up to my neck in work. O’Connor is driving me up a fucking wall. I don’t know who hired him, and I don’t know why they won’t fire him… Short version? I can’t wait for the weekend.’

‘Amen, sister,’ yawned Magnussen, stretching her legs that didn’t remotely touch the opposing arm of the couch.

‘Alright, I have to go to work,’ announced Maia, adopting her Mom Tone, ‘And you need to sleep.’

‘Mmmyeah,’ mumbled Magnussen, drowsily, rubbing her eye, ‘I miss you.’

‘I bet you do,’ sassed Maia, readily.

‘Mahuika,’ warned Magnussen, vaguely threatening.

‘I miss you, too,’ reassured a sly Maia, ‘Call me at more decent hours.’

‘Attempts will be made,’ bargained Magnussen, doubtful, ‘Good… morning.’

‘Good night, honey,’ chirped Maia.

Magnussen lazily shifted on her back, allowing the telephone to fall next to her, on the couch cushion. She stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, contemplative, before she realized that the unwashed dishes awaited her, in the kitchen. From the bottom of her being, Magnussen released a deep, heavy sigh.

Fuck.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic @amidalaraan @artthurshelby @buttercup--bee @cleastrnge @dameronology @frodo-sam @itssmashedavo @kalondarling @ladygangsters @maevesdarling @maevemills @maharani-radha @mitchi-c @moonlight-prose @nicolettegreen @pascalisthepunkest @queenofthefaceless @revolution-starter @sullho @themangolorian @tisbeautifulfreedom @qoedameron

END THE WAR ON DRUGS: Equity Organization & Drug Policy Alliance

READ MORE: Mahuika, DEA badge, to step on someone’s tail = to annoy/upset them

#narcos fanfic #narcos mexico #narcos mexico fanfic #walt breslin #walt breslin x oc #walt breslin/oc #walt breslin x reader #walt breslin/reader #ossie mejía #danilo garza #daryl petski #sal orozco #amat palacios #scoot mcnairy #tori's beholden

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artemiseamoon · 2 years

Text

Pt 2: In the aftermath of everything

Slate (ofc) & Walt Breslin & Sal Orozco | ft. Calderoni and an Omc

Words: 5,970

Warnings: vague sexual content, language

About: Slate reunites with Walt and Sal, and continues to navigate life after Mexico. Walt and Slate have a bonding moment.

Fic info | Read pt one here ** important to read this first | part three

Read on A03

An: This has taken on a life of its own! I did plan out the oneshot, after the idea wouldn't leave me alone. Now, the story wants to grow. I am merely a vessel so here we go. The weather forecast is predicting angst and longing. No Calderoni in this chapter, but we do find out what happened soon! We haven’t seen the last of him yet. - Next chapter is up! And he’s featured in it.

3 months later

“Hell of a reunion.” The words barely left Walts’ lips before he slid a cigarette between them. He's doing his lazy smoking, when the cigarette is dangling loosely from his lips. Somehow, it never falls, at least not yet.

“You know that shit makes me nervous, Breslin. Watch the cig.”

Walt chuckled. There wasn't much energy behind that either, it's low, just like his voice, “all the shit you’ve seen Slate? And this makes you nervous?” He glanced back at her, his eyes concealed by his shades, same as everyone in the car.

“Yep.” Slate grabbed the cigarette and pretended to throw it out the window.

Walt grinned, took it back, then slipped it between his lips. In the driver seat, Sal chuckled quietly, his eyes still fixed on the house ahead. Only a minute or two pass in silence before Sal speaks, “target on the move.”

That evening

Walt returned to the table and placed a drink before Slate and Sal.

“Thanks man.” Sal raises his to his lips,

Slate responds with a small nod then does the same.

“Thanks for coming out, I wanted people I can trust on this.” Walt said as he settled into the spot next to her.

“For you, “she traded a glance with Walt, then Sal, “and you, I’m in. No matter what.”

They raised their glasses then proceeded to drink.

Conversation was light, and no one forces anything. In the background, modern rock plays from the speakers mixed with some classics. Slate people watches as she drinks, and soon round two makes it to the table, this time on her dime.

Back at Walt’s place, late that night

Slate dropped down on the couch with a sigh. With three rounds of drinks in her system, she's feeling a little drunk and thankful for her newly cleared mind. Walt plopped himself down next to her. By the time Slate looks at him, he’s got a lit cigarette between his fingers.

“Thanks for letting me crash here, Walt."

“Least I could do.” He put the lighter on the side table.

Slate examines his face closely and grabs his chin, Walt stilled under her touch. “Hey, you sleeping?”

“I sleep fine.”

“Okay, sure,” she releases his face and moves her attentions to her socks. Rising one leg at a time, she peels them off as Walt watches.

Walt clears his throat, then settles his gaze on the cigarette smoke. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“Nah, it’s your place, couch is fine.”

Walt took a long drag of the cigarette, then blew out a puff of smoke, “take the bed.”

Slate shifted on the couch so she could face him, "fine, if you insist.”

She studies his profile as he stares at nothing. He looks dead tired, but Walt never looked refreshed either, not really. He got close a few times and looks like a new man when he does get some sleep and a diet consisting of more than beer, scotch and cigarettes. A couple years back, he had about 10 more pounds on his thin frame. He was sleeping better too.

Slate understood better than anyone how stressful their job is. It has a way of taking its toll on everyone; physically, emotionally, mentally. As she studied him, Walt turned his head to look at her, his body is still facing forward.

One of the things Slate noticed about Walt early on is his large brown eyes, puppy dog eyes. Over the years they've been weighed down by so much stress, pain, and whatever else Walt buries deep within himself. His eyes hold back a turbulent storm of emotions and memories, all held in place by sheer will and stubbornness.

For those who know him well, Walt has another layer to his eyes. He always seemed on the verge of wanting to say something more than he does. Like part of him wants to open up, just a little. There’s this burning need deep inside of Walt and sometimes Slate just hugs him, unprompted, because he really fucking needs it.

So that's what she does next, she inched closer to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Walt laughed awkwardly at first, then breathed into it. Walt closes his eyes, then gripped her arm with a little squeeze. He inhaled deeply, savoring the contact, and the scent on her skin and hair.

“That bad huh?”

“Yeah, it’s just radiating off of you. Sad boy vibes thru and thru Breslin.”

Walt's eyes remained glued to her, “fuck off.” A hint a smile appeared, then disappeared from his lips.

“Yeah, fuck you too.” She smirked then released him from her arms.

Walt continues to regard her softly as she stands. “You have anything other than old take out and beer in the fridge?”

“Properly not.”

“Of course.” Slate shouted back as she headed into the kitchen.

It’s viewable from the living room, and Walt continues to smoke while watching her.

Slate closes the fridge and opens one of the cabinets, inside is a half empty bag of tortilla chips. “This will do.” She grabs the bag, a bowl, then returns to her spot on the couch.

“We’re going food shopping tomorrow; your skinny ass needs to eat.”

Walt laughed, “I do eat.”

“Cigarettes and beer, scotch for dessert. The Walt Breslin diet.”

“Asshole,” he nudged her with his elbow.

“I have one day left here, and we’re eating real food. Once I leave, you can go back to your shitty diet.”

“Thanks for looking out, I guess.” Walt chuckled and leaned into her, pressing his arm against hers.

She poured the chips into the bowl and before she could grab one, Walt grabs a handful. He grinned then shoved them into his mouth.

The two snacked in silence for a while. Eventually Walt gets up and leaves the room. When he returns, he’s carrying pictures in his right hand, the small kind you use for files.

“What's that?”

“Figured you want 'em, maybe for your picture wall or something,” he sits and hands her the photos, they’re all face down. Slate takes them. Her eyes lingered on Walts a little longer before she glanced down at the photos. “"I've seen that stack of photo album you have.”

“Hey, I love photo albums okay, don’t judge me, “she turns the first photo over. Instantly, her smile drops to a frown and Walt wonders if this was a mistake.

His intention was to do something nice; he was never really good at reading women or knowing what to get them, friend or more. Send him to another country to take down some bad guys, he's in his lane. But anything having to do with gifts, or women, or being emotionally open; he’s pretty rough around the edges there.

Slate swallows hard and sets the other photos down, her eyes are fixed on the same photo she now holds in two hands.

“Shit, I fucked up.” Walt reaches for the photo; she moves her hands out of his reach.

“No, it's- it's okay I,” she blows out a breath and looks Walt in the eyes, “I just, haven't seen his face since - he drove into a fucking tank…” she forced a laugh, “more metal than I’ll ever be, fucking asshole.”

When she blinks, a single tear rolls down her cheek. They both take the deaths hard, and though Walt had history with Ossie and knew him longer, once Ossie and Slate met, it was like long lost friends getting back together. It was hard to imagine they didn’t know each other already. They were instant best friends, and his death really fucked her up. Slate didn’t talk about the deaths, nor did Walt. They're alike that way.

“I miss this fucker, “Slate gently places the photo down on the coffee table in front of them. Ossie's grinning in it, fresh off some arrest and just smiling like he won the fucking lotto, classic Ossie.

Walt laid a hand on her shoulder, “I can take 'em back.”

“No. I want them. I want to remember their faces, “she meets Walt's waiting gaze, “add them to a photo album 'cause you know, I’m sentimental. “

A thin smile curved on Walt's lips; he gives her shoulder a little squeeze before taking his hand away.

“Thank you, Walt. For the photos."

Walt rubbed the back of his neck as relief washed over his face, “it was touch-and-go there, wasn't sure if I did good, or if you were about to clock me.”

“Maybe both?” She teased.

Slate breaks eye contact first and Walt continues to stare at her, “hey, is Sal leaving tomorrow?”

“Day after, same as you.”

“I have an idea," when she paused, Walt notices her eyes land on the photo again, "dinner, all three of us. Before we disperse into our little corners of the world again.”

“Then we definitely need take out. Have you ever seen me over a stove?” Walt raised a brow.

“I’ll cook, and no, you’d properly burn the kitchen down. You can be my sous chef.”

He scrubbed his hand over his chin, “I’m good at a few things, cooking isn't one of them.”

“That’s why you’ll be sous chef, leave the heavy lifting to me."

“Speaking of, still seeing that chef guy?”

“God no, that's done, he was more of a mess than I am.” Her eyes meet Walts, “Speaking of love lives, are you seeing anyone?”

Walt drops his eyes to his hands, he's fiddling with the lighter now, “no.”

Mexico was four months ago now, and in that time, Walt’s been keeping as busy as possible. His new job started out shitty, mostly paperwork. But when he finally got some foot action, it improved things, gave him less time to think. Less time to feel all the shit he doesn't want to feel.

In that time, he did reconnect briefly with an old associate and the two hooked up, twice. Walt tried to hold on to the comfort of those nights; having someone in his bed, a body next to his, warm soft skin to touch. The brief fling was a much-needed release for all his pent-up energy. Walt tried to not think about it, but he made amends with being a lonely guy a long time ago. Just, after Mexico, he’s feels lonelier than ever.

“Besides, “he picks up one of the last chips in the bowl, “if I had someone, I’d probably fuck it up. Better to just be alone.”

“Breslin, that's some depressing shit.”

He sits up and looks her in the eyes. His little shrug after is the real kicker.

Sad boy Walt Breslin.

Despite the thought, Slate doesn't judge him. She hadn't made the best decisions herself, specifically the Commander. And she figured she wasn't the best girlfriend material either. She has a lot of stuff to work on, and release before she can share herself with someone.

For now, as it has been, she sticks to fleeting sexual adventures and one-night stands. If Walt knew about the Calderoni thing, she’d never hear the end of it, it’s one of her big dark secrets and she intends to keep it that way.

“I’m not much better, “her voice is so low he leans in to hear her better, “I’m damaged goods too. Properly wouldn't even know what to do in a relationship at this point.” She leaned back on the couch and brought her knees to her chest, “thank god for hot dudes who don’t need conversation or heart to hearts.”

“At least one of us has been getting laid, congrats.” He holds the chip out to her, then eats it.

Slate rests her gaze on the wall ahead.

A minute or so passes before Walt asks, “if you got the opportunity to go back, to do more, would you?”

“Hell no.” She replied swiftly. “No way.”

Walt grinned, “I can understand that.”

“We did what we did, it ended how it ended. I have no reason to ever go back.” Slate gets a faraway look in her eyes; one Walt has seen before. “You would,” Walt quirks a brow, “go back I mean. Think you’re the only one who would.”

Walt doesn’t reply, because she's right. Even if the commonsense part of his brain is telling him to stay his ass on this side of the border, he knows, if given the chance, he’d be on a plane and right back into the madness. Sometimes, Walt wondered if that was the only way he could really exist. He still finds himself struggling a bit in mundane regular life. Still, there is a part of him he keeps deeply hidden, a part of him that craves more but he won't let himself have it.

The two of them fall into a comfortable silence, both swimming in their own thoughts and observations about things. Some time passes before Slate breaks it,

“Sometimes I think I need to talk to someone about all the shit that went down, not just Mexico, before that too. “She pauses, Walt's eyes are on her again, “my family didn't believe in therapy…funny how family shit has a way of settling into your bones. Next thing you know, you're perpetuating the same patterns.”

Walt frowns, but it feels more personal to him, and whatever is going on in his head right now.

“I’m thinking about getting a therapist.”

“Hope that works out.”

Her gaze falls to his bouncing leg, “You should think about it too, Walt.”

“Nah, me and my problems are my business," Walt touches his chest, "I’m fine.”

“Walt,” She gently places a hand over his, “seriously, as your friend, you should consider it. We can do a friendship pack, make sure we stay accountable.”

He shakes his head, no, “Slate, it aint gonna happen.”

She frowns and lifts her hand; his eyes follow the movement of her hand from his leg to her own. He can see the disappointment written all over her face and wishes he had a better answer for her, but to say anything else would be a lie. He's impressed she's even considering it, it's a mature move. Walt also doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so changes the subject.

“How they treating you in New York?”

“Alright. It’s a big department, the shit jobs suck but honestly, don’t know if I can handle anything high risk right now.” she replied, taking note of his subject change but not commenting on it.

“Well,” Walt stands up and stretches, “if you ever get sick of it, I could get you in here.”

Slate smiled, “Miss having your buddies around? You know they didn't put us in the same place on purpose.”

“I know, fuck them. You, me, Sal in the same place again. Let's make it happen.” His tone raises a little as his excitement grows," think I can get Jaime on board."

Slate stands too and stretches out her legs. “No one knows me back east, it's kind of nice.”

“Can't fault you on that.”

“Well see,” she pats his arm, “maybe I'll change my mind.” they look at each other for a moment, “I'm pretty beat, going to take over your bedroom now.”

“Please do,” Walt steps aside and motions to the hallway, “changed the sheets for you and everything. “

“Wow, hotel level service at the Breslin, lucky me.” Slate heads toward the hall and glances at him over her shoulder, “nite Walt.”

“Goodnight, Slate.”

Dinner the next night

Sal ate another bite of food then dropped the fork, “Slate, you were holding out on us. This is delicious.”

“I couldn't really whip up a meal in an old warehouse, could I?” She smiled as she carried a glass of water to the table.

“Shit, we could have made it work, if we were going to eat like this.” Walt takes a big bite; he looks like a chipmunk.

“Thanks,” She takes a moment to watch them eating, enjoying the looks on their faces and the sounds leaving their mouths.

She liked to cook, didn't do it often, but when she had time, and if she was in the mood, it was a whole thing. And though only a small amount of people in her life were able to see this part of her, she knows food is one of her love languages. Making it, offering it, asking if someone ate. After everything the three have been through together, this feels extra special, and even if it's just for one night, she’s glad they get to share this.

Slate knew Sal through Walt. She met him about 3 years back after her transfer to Houston. They even worked a few jobs together, but he mostly worked with Walt. When Walt’s brother died, Sal and Slate were there for him. The two sat with him all night. Walt was gone, he didn’t talk, he didn’t cry, he didn’t say a word; he just stared at the wall and ran through half a pack of cigarettes.

-Flashback - 2.5 years ago Houston, Texas -

Slate stepped away from the car and stood before Sal, neither spoke as he raised the radio to his mouth.

“Walt, we need you at 3500 Lockwood right now.” He lifted his finger from the button.

Slate looked over her shoulder at the car again, “This is gonna fuck him up Sal.”

“ I know - “Sal paused as Walt’s voice came through the radio, they can hear music in the background.

“Sal, what is it?” Walt asked.

“It’s your brother.”

“I’m on my way.”

Slate rested her hands on her hips as she paced. There was nothing left to do, just wait for Walt's arrival.

A few short minutes later, the sound of screeching tires pulled their attention to the street. Walt’s jeep came to a stop, and he flung himself out; concern written all over his face as he makes his way through the crowd, and under the tape. After Walt flashed his D.E.A badge to the cop, he approached the crime scene, Sal and Slate walked over to him.

“Walt - “Sal started, but Walt kept walking, his eyes fixed on his brothers' car.

Sal and Slate stay closed but gave him space as he approached the car. Walt used the sleeve of his jacket and grabbed the car door. Opening it, he crouched down, and took a closer look at his brother. He's dead in the driver's seat, eyes closed, blood splattered on the window glass. Cocaine and a pack of cigarettes on the passenger seat. The red and blue lights from the police car continued to flash, coloring Walt and the inside of the car.

Sal approached first and shakes his head regretfully, “I'm sorry man.”

They continued to stare at Walts back, he went completely still. Slate swallowed then called his name. Walt got up and stalked away from the car, not saying a word or looking at either of them.

“Fuck.” Slate turned to Sal,” what do we do?”

“Nothing we can do. Not right now at least…go, keep an eye on him. I’ll catch up.”

Slate nodded then headed off after Walt.

- Flashback over -

To this day, Walt doesn't talk about that night, or his brother. But he did thank them one night as they had a few rounds,

“Thank you being there, means a lot.” Six words. Six words with a whole lot of weight behind them.

Slate knew, their shared history was only one of the many reasons he asked them to Mexico. He handpicked everyone on his team. It made the loss of their guys; Ossie, Danilo and Amat even harder. They weren't strangers, they were people Walt knew.

For Slate, she only knew Sal, and Daryl vaguely. Everyone else she met for the first time on the job. In their time together, they became a dysfunctional- functional family. Even years from now, she knows she’ll still miss them, even the ones she didn’t get to know that well.

During this dinner, as they eat, drink, joke and laugh, she misses them. She can imagine them at the table; Ossie to her left making a joke or fucking with someone, Amat across the way with a smile that reaches his eyes as he enjoys himself, and Danilo with a beer in his hand, listening but not saying much.

The ghost of their three fallen friends fills the room, they're here, she can feel it. Slate's eyes drift to the box of playing cards on the counter, and a memory comes rushing back.

- Flashback -

“Oh, come on!” Slate throws her cards down on the table. Amat smiles and sits back in the chair with a proud grin.

“I won.”

“No, best of three, let's go - “she grabs the cards and shuffles them again.

“She’s a sore loser, I warned you.” Ossie shouted from where he’s sitting, he looks like a kid hanging from a jungle gym.

Slate doesn't look up but frees on hand to flip him off. She gets a chuckle out of Sal whose reclining on the couch.

“I got the green light.” Walt strolled into the room, a coffee cup in his hand. "This is it.”

Ossie cheers before jumping down to ground level, “Whoo-hoo!”

Walt stops at the table where Slate and Amat were playing cards. Daryl comes over, a beer in his right hand. He's chewing the last of his lunch. Danilo is off to the left, but still close enough to see and hear everything going on.

“The golden ticket, the whole reason we’re down here. We know where he is, so today we go get him.”

Daryl asked, “what about the army?”

“Not leaving. We go in guns-a-blazing we’ll get eaten alive, so we gotta do this one different.”

Stale looks to Walt,” what's the play? After Verdin, shits loud. We gotta be careful.”

“I fucked up, shit got a whole lot harder. We’re on their radar, our only advantage is they don't know our identities yet. We’re in this fight, so let’s finish it.”

-Flashback over-

“Too bad Daryl couldn’t make it.” Sal commented, it pulls Slate out of her thoughts and memories.

“Smash and grab crew, back together.” Walt grins before taking a drink of his beer.

“His girl is pregnant right? Daryl?” Slate asked.

“Yeah,” Walt answers, “our boys about he be a family man.”

“Cheers to that. After everything, we deserve all the good we can get.” Sal raises his beer, Walt and Slate do the same.

Later that night

“Can't believe he's asleep already.” Slate observes Sal, he's knocked out on the couch, his mouth slightly open. She glances at Walt who’s sitting on the side of the armchair.

“Should we draw on him?” A childlike grin brightens Walt's face.

“Fuck yes we should!” Slate is first on her feet and looks around for a marker. She finds one and creeps over to the couch, barely holding back a laugh.

“He’s going to kill us.”

“For sure.” She whispered back then kneels down. She inches close to Sal's face and pops the cap off the marker. She can hear Walt in the back, trying his best not to laugh. Slate draws a curly mustache on Sal's cheeks.

Walt peers over her shoulder.

Slate looks at him, “If Ossie was here, he’d draw a dick.”

Walt catches his laugh in his hands.

Slate opens the marker again, “I'm gonna draw a cock for Ossie.” she examines Sal, then settles on his forehead. Walt can't contain his laugher and leaves the room.

The suppressed laugh is making her body shake. After she finishes, Slate caps the marker then goes to the hallway toward the bedroom, where Walt is curled over laughing.

“What next Breslin, I’m too amped to sleep?” She tosses the marker at him.

“I know I'm not fallin' asleep on your watch, not with this fucking marker.” Walt tucks it in his back pocket.

Slate grins, “For the best, you'd wake up with something long and hard drawn next to your mouth."

“You would do that,” Walt takes a breath and glances at the clock on the wall.

“I have an idea, its genius, hear me out,” she drapes one arm over his shoulders, “let's go out, I’ll be your wingman.”

Walt moistens his lips, then smiles.

“Oh, come on, today is one of the best we've had in a long time, I don’t want it to end. I know you don't either. So, let me play wingman, I bet you 20 bucks I can get you laid tonight. “

“I really regret making that comment now.” he shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

“Oh, come on, don't be shy. I know you aren't. Let me help, I'm a damn good wingman.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement, he can't look away.

Walt considers the offer. Truth is, it sounds like the perfect way to end the day and it's been a while, not that it's the longest he's gone without, there have been longer stretches.

Slate tightens her grip around his shoulders, “Come on, it will be fun."

Walt's expression grows serious, “I don't know Slate,”

“Is it weird because it's me?” she asks.

Walt starts to say something, then stops himself. He pulls it back, deep down inside of himself. Instead, he says, "today was nice. I think I’ll try to get some sleep though. And I'm holding on to this marker." He patted his back pocket.

“Really?” she pouts.

Walt lifts her arm from his shoulders, “yes, I suck I know.”

“The nights young.” Slate tugs on his shift.

“And I'm not,” he offers a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes, “I'm taking the armchair, fell asleep in that thing plenty of times before. Bedrooms still yours.”

Slate leans back against the wall, her eyes searching Walts, a very clear grimace on her lips.

“Don't give me that face, I know, “he steps into her space and ruffles her hair with his hand. “Get some sleep.”

“Fine,” she exhales dramatically, “I’m going to use your phone, I’ll be quiet so the old man can sleep."

He laughs at the last part, “Its midnight. Who the hell you callin' at midnight?”

“Joaquin will be up; I need something to do.”

“Who's Joaquin?” Walt rubs the back of his neck.

“Oh, “she shakes her head, “just this guy."

“A boyfriend?” he asked quietly.

“I wouldn't call him that," her eyes drift to a photo on the wall, it's a generic art print, likely came with the place and Walt never took it down. She adds, "

“We hang out, nothing official.” When her eyes travel back to Walt, it gives her pause, now he looks disappointed. “Hey, massive mood shift, you okay Breslin?”

“Fine, tired.” He muttered, then turned toward the living room. “Good night, Slate.”

She watches him leave, then heads to the bedroom. Once she's inside, a flash of clarity takes over her buzzed mind. Was Walt disappointed because she mentioned Joaquin? Walt never cared about that kind of thing, and they've been friends for years. They've spoken casually about dates they've had before and he never seemed to have a reaction, not until now. Or maybe she was over thinking it. Maybe he was just put off by the phone call comment. it was midnight after all.

The next day, Slate wakes with a slight hangover, but it's easy to shake off. She finds a very pissed off Sal and helps him get the marker off his face. He eventually laughs about it, and she makes him breakfast as an apology.

Walt sleeps in, which was a surprise. But when he does wake, he seems far away and quieter than usual. It makes for an awkward morning, at least on that end. Once Sal heads out for his flight, it was just the two of them. Walt didn't say much, and instead of sticking around longer, Slate decided to head to the airport early. Walt dropped her off, and even their hug goodbye seemed off.

That Night, Slate back in NY

Stepping off the elevator, Slate stops before the mirror and checks out her outfit. Satisfied with what she sees, she takes a right and head to apartment 3C. Slate knocks on the door once more and it swings open. Joaquin peeks his head out, and drinks her up with his eyes, “fuck, I'm a lucky man."

Slate steps inside, grabs his shirt and pulls him down into a kiss. She slides one hand in his hair and shuts the door closed with the other.

"I think you missed me." He whispered as their lips parted. Slate doesn't confirm, nor deny.

The kiss quickly escalates to a heated make out. When they break for air, Slate grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head and arms. Once he's shirtless, she lightly scratches his chest and moves to his belt buckle.

Joaquin grabs her face and looks into her eyes, "How was your trip?"

Slate undoes his belt and pulls it off in one impressive movement. She tosses it across the room, "no questions, keep kissing me.”

Later

Slate watches the curtains sway in the breeze, it's a nice night out and the moon is nearly full. She stretches her arms over her head and hums, her body is still buzzing.

Javier is starting at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. "I was thinking about something."

"Yeah?" She rolls onto her side to get a full view of him.

Often times she found herself just gazing at him. Besides being a great lay, Joaquin is nice to look at, and she likes his voice, she's always been a sucker for a man with a good voice. He rides a motorcycle and looks damn good in all black and a leather jacket, as long as he didn't want more from her, she planned on keeping him around a while.

Meeting him was an unexpected treat, she was at a bar, not to meet anyone, just to drink away her Calderoni problem and say goodbye to her short lived and ill-fated tryst with the hot chef. She was at the bar about 30 minutes when Joaquin entered. He wasted no time introducing himself, and that same night they slept together for what became the first of many times.

"Hey, did you hear me?" He asked gently as he caresses her arm.

"Repeat that?" She brings herself back to the present moment.

"It's been two months now, I still don't know anything about you, except what you told me."

"I prefer to remain mysterious." She winks at him.

Joaquin sits up, opens the top side drawer and pulls something out; it's a preroll. He feels around on the table for a lighter, finds it, then lights the joint.

“Every time I light one of these up, I wonder if you’re going to arrest me.”

“I could if you want me too,” she smirked, then took a hit of it.

Joaquin watches her with a grin, "I'm going for a long ride tomorrow, want to come. Out to Hudson."

"Sure, I'm off, unless I get called in," she hands it back, "but I should be free."

"Cool," Joaquin caresses her face, "it's a plan."

Two days later

After crossing everything off her list for the day, Slate found herself thinking about the photos from Walt. Heading to the bedroom, she pulled them out the drawer she tucked them in and sat at her vanity table. She placed then down one by one; Ossie, Amat, Danilo.

- Flashback-

“Sure you’re up to this? We’re in this with our lives, if shit goes down, it could be worse for you.”

Slate continued peeling the label off the bottle. She took her time but eventually made eye contact with Danilo. It's short lived, her eyes then follow the puff of smoke from his cigarette.

“I know the risks. No way I can do this job and not know that."

Danilo nods and continues to smoke.

Slate lowers herself to the ground, sits, then knocks back the rest of her beer.

“How long you’ve known Walt?”

“Shit, about, 11 years?” She glanced up at Danilo, "on and off, we weren't always around each other the whole time.”

“Fucker gets a round, doesn’t he.” Ossie jumped in as he steps outside, wearing a joker's gin and holding a beer.

“Yeah, lots of notches on his belt.” Slate replied. Her eyes jumped to Danilo, who seemed indifferent.

“Was it dinner and a movie, or straight to fucking?” Ossie barely keeps a straight face as he asked.

“Jesus.” Danilo sighed, then headed back inside.

Ossie chuckled as he watched him disappear inside. He takes a seat on the ground beside her.

Slate twist her neck to look at him, “Dinner and a movie, I got the whole 9. You?”

“Nah straight to it, Walt's a man of little words.”

They both laugh at Ossie's response. As the laughter dies down, they grow quiet and listen to the sounds of the night.

Eventually, Ossie said, "Must feel weird, being the only chic here.”

“Naw, used to it. This happens a lot.'' She puts the bottle down between her legs. Ossie nods, then lights a cigarette, "I smell like smoke all the time because of you guys.”

“Should join the fun.” he offers her the cigarette,

Slate pushes his hand away, “Hard pass.”

- Flashback over -

Pictures in hand, Slate headed to the living room and stopped in front of her photo collage, it's full of familiar faces, friends, her youth, and more. Taking her time, she adds each photo to the collage then takes a step back to review it. As she steps away from it, her phone rings. Slate heads to the wall and answers, her ear is met with a familiar voice,

“Hey.”

“Hey, Walt."

“I uh,” from the sound of his voice alone, she can imagine Walt leaning against his counter, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “That case I told you about; the hearing was today.”

“How'd, it go?” She sat on the floor.

“Good, we got the bastards.”

She hears the excitement in his voice, and it makes her smile, “Congrats, you should be celebrating. I hope you are.”

“One man party right here, drinks and all, “Walt goes silent, and Slate just listens, waiting for him to continue.

She tried to call him when she got back, but he either wasn't there or didn’t pick up. That was three days ago now. The awkwardness in the air when she left still hasn't been addressed. She wasn't mad at Walt for not saying anything, she didn’t know what to say either.

“Slate, I was wondering’ - “Walt stops himself.

“Wondering what?”

He doesn't reply.

Slate knew this call could be one of two things, one, his way of saying he needed someone to talk to. Walt never asked for a friendly ear, instead he'd call about something else, or talk to you about work, or invite you for drinks on him. This could be one of those calls, or he could be the one ready to address their awkward goodbye.

The longer his silence goes on, the more curious she grows, “wondering what, Walt?”

“Ah, nothing, just, work stuff…it was good having you out here.”

Slate closes her eyes and rests her head back against the wall. “Yeah, it was nice Walt.”

“I’m gonna go, have yourself a goodnight.”

“Yeah, you too Breslin.” she listens for a click sound, it doesn't come. Slate can still hear him on the other side listening to her, the same as she's listening to him.

Feeling overwhelmed, Slate stands and whispers goodnight into the receiver once more before hanging up the phone.

Might be interested. If not, I can remove the tag ;) chapter 2&3 are on A03 as well @yourlocalspacewitxch @ashlingnarcos @drabbles-mc

Joaquin FC (Slates new side piece)

#Walt Breslin #sal orozco #narcos Mexico

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