Hello everyone! A quick announcement before the chapter: I started a simple little forum for LCDP fans. You can find it here:
I know forums are a little old-fashioned these days XD Most of fandom takes place in social media and in WhatsApp groups, but I've noticed that that isn't always the best way to have thoughtful discussions. The pace is very fast, and if you don't check in often, it's easy to miss things. So use the forum for a less chaotic experience, with a slower pace and an easy overview of what everyone has said. I think it will be especially nice for theorizing about S4 once the trailer comes out, and discussion and analysis of S4 once it airs. Come check it out and join us if you want!
I also want to thank everyone who's left a review so far (or even multiple!). It means so much, so really: a heartfelt THANK YOU!
Sergio put down his phone with a deep frown.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"You know how we're supposed to leave Europe on a ship, after the heist?"
"From a small town near Porto, yes."
"Well, the captain just called me and told me our deal is off."
She grimaced. "Damn. Why?"
"He says he's thought it over and the risk is too big. I think I may still be able to change his mind, however."
"How?"
"By offering him more money, of course. The problem is that he's going to want part of it beforehand, in case the heist goes wrong and he should get nothing. He'll want it in cash, too."
"Do you have an associate nearby that you can send to him?"
"Nobody I'd trust with that kind of money." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I think I'd better drive down there myself to try and persuade him. This is too important."
"Are you seriously going to drive all the way to Porto? Couldn't you use a fake passport and take a plane?"
He chuckled. "Yes, I'm sure the people at customs won't question why I have twenty thousand euros in my carry-on."
"Alright, good point. When would you go?"
"Right now." He picked up his phone. "It's a six hour drive. If I leave now, I could get there by seven."
She frowned. "You can't drive six hours by yourself, Sergio, that's not safe. Take me with you."
He shook his head. "Believe me, I'd like nothing better than a second driver and a little company, but I need you here. There's only two weeks left until the heist, and I won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. We can't afford to miss any more classes at his point. Would you mind taking over teaching from me this afternoon and tomorrow morning?"
Her eyes lit up. "Really? You think I could do that?"
"Of course", he nodded. "You know the plan as well as I do, and it's only revision now anyway."
"I'll try my best", she said.
He kissed her. "I have complete faith in you."
…
He set out on the long drive to Porto with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. It was essential that he secure their passage on a ship out of Europe before the heist started. It had taken him months of careful inquiries and bargaining to find this captain – if he backed out now, it could create some serious problems. The drive went smoothly, and he took care to stop at regular intervals so he wouldn't exhaust himself, but he was still very tired when he finally arrived at the small harbor town where the captain lived. He lost no time going to the man's house, but his heart sank when he got there and saw that the windows were all dark. He rang the doorbell, but nobody answered – clearly the captain was out tonight. When he called him, all he got was a generic voicemail message.
Cursing softly, he got back in the car and drove the twenty minutes to Porto itself, where he knew a small but clean hotel that would probably be able to take him last minute. He checked in, then took his bag up to the tiny room and let himself fall onto the bed, his mind already formulating a plan: he'd talk to the captain tomorrow morning and still get back to the house by dinnertime. He called Raquel to let her know she'd have to teach in the afternoon, too.
"Why didn't you call ahead and let the captain know you were coming?" she asked him.
"He would have told me not to come", he said. "He said he'd made up his mind. Better to confront him face to face with a bag of cash."
"Yes, that might sway him."
"How did teaching go this afternoon?"
"Good, I think."
"Did Tokyo give you any trouble?"
He heard the smile in her voice. "No, Tokyo has been remarkably well-behaved since I busted her out of that police car."
"As she should be", he said firmly.
They talked for a few more minutes, then she said:
"Go to bed, Sergio. You sound exhausted and you need to be rested if you're going to drive all the way back tomorrow."
"You're right", he said, suppressing a yawn. "I'll call you tomorrow after I've talked to the captain. Goodnight, Raquel."
"Goodnight, my love."
His vision was hazy with tiredness as he got into his pajamas and then between the sheets. He fell asleep instantly.
In the early hours of the morning, he awoke suddenly with the feeling that something was very, very wrong. He sat up, his entire body alert, and automatically reached out a hand to the place beside him – then he realized what was wrong… she wasn't sleeping next to him. He let himself fall back into the pillows with a sigh. He'd been so exhausted when he fell asleep that he hadn't really been aware of anything anymore, but now he was wide awake and faintly but insistently uncomfortable. They hadn't spent a single night apart since they'd first started sleeping together, and lying in this bed alone was just deeply weird. He wondered how he'd gotten used to it so fast, in just a few short weeks, after having slept alone all of his life. He tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, but it was a long time before he managed to go back to sleep.
…
The next morning, he went to the captain's house and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, he tried calling him again. This time, the captain picked up.
"Salva? What do you want?"
"To talk to you. I'm in Porto."
"You shouldn't have come, I told you I've made up my mind."
"Please talk to me anyway, I came all this way."
"I'm visiting a friend in Lisbon right now, but I'll be back tonight. I can meet you in Porto for dinner at eight."
They arranged a place to meet, then Sergio hung up and drove back to his hotel. He didn't like this at all – this would mean he'd have to spend another night in Porto. He called Raquel to explain, assured her that he'd drive back at dawn the next day, then wondered what he'd do until eight. He hadn't brought anything to work on, since he hadn't thought he'd need to kill time. He went out and wandered the streets of the city for a while, until he stumbled on a tiny, dusty second-hand bookshop and decided to go in and buy something to read. He browsed the messy stacks for a while until a familiar cover struck him: a collection of poems by Pablo Neruda.
He took the book off the shelf and ran his fingers tenderly over the spine. This book – this exact same edition – was one of the few things he had of his mother. He'd leafed through the pages so often that it was almost falling apart, so he hadn't taken it with him to the house in Toledo, instead choosing to keep it in a safe location, meaning that it had been six months since he'd last read it. On a whim, he decided to buy this one and take it back to his hotel.
At eight o'clock sharp, he was at the agreed upon restaurant, waiting for the captain. The man arrived at ten past eight and they shook hands and went inside.
"I'm sorry you came here for nothing, Salva", the captain said once they were seated.
"Don't say that, Pedro. Please listen to my proposal, at least."
Pedro shook his head. "I told you, I can't do it anymore. For your safety as much as mine."
"What do you mean?"
The man heaved a heavy sigh. "The police have been sniffing around me, Salva. A friend of mine on the force has told me that they're keeping an eye on me – and they'll probably continue doing so for several more months. I don't know exactly what you're planning to do, but I'm guessing you won't want to leave Europe on my ship if the cops are monitoring it."
Sergio cursed inwardly. "No. You're right."
"But I'll tell you what. I can call a friend of mine and see if he'd be willing to help you – for the right price, of course."
"Of course."
The captain went outside to make the call. After a few minutes, he was back at the table.
"He's willing to consider it, but he wants to meet you face to face and he wants advance payment in cash."
Sergio nodded. "Alright. When can I meet him?"
"He's out at sea right now. He'll be back the day after tomorrow."
Sergio winced. That meant he'd have to stay in Porto for two more days – he couldn't very well drive back home tomorrow only to have to make the same trip again the next day. There was nothing for it, however. They needed their ship.
…
"So you're staying in Porto for two more nights?" she said, sounding dismayed.
"Three", he said apologetically. "I won't be able to meet the captain until late at night the day after tomorrow, so I won't be able to drive back afterwards."
"That's a long time", she said softly.
"I'm sorry", he said. "Are you okay teaching for so long?"
"Oh yes, that's not the problem", she said quickly. "It's just…"
"What?"
"God", she said, "I'm embarrassed to say it. It's just that I… I missed you last night."
"I missed you too", he said quietly. "I woke up in the middle of the night and I couldn't get back to sleep."
"Oh thank god", she laughed. "I thought it was just me! And I felt so ridiculous because it was only one night, but we haven't slept apart in weeks now and… I suppose I just got used to it."
"Me too."
"I thought you might be happy to have the bed to yourself for once."
"I wasn't. It wasn't pleasant at all."
"I know I steal the blankets."
He smiled. "That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."
"Call me tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"Goodnight, my love."
"Goodnight."
That evening, he tossed and turned in his bed, unable to fall asleep. He just missed her next to him: the shape of her, her warmth, the way she draped a sleepy arm over his chest before she fell asleep or curled up against his back in the middle of the night. He'd fallen asleep every night to the calming rhythm of her breathing and now the silence was deafening. The empty space next to him was deeply unsettling, and he kept waking up throughout the night with the feeling that something was missing – something important, something he couldn't afford to lose. Finally he gave up sleeping and watched the pink light of dawn creep in through his window, wondering if she was awake too, and if she was thinking about him.
…
That day, he had nothing to do, so he spent a large portion of the day just roving aimlessly through the city, trying to leave behind the worry he felt about not being with his team this close to the start of the heist. But beside that worry, there was another thing tugging at him: he couldn't stop thinking about her. They hadn't been apart for any length of time since they'd gotten together, and he hadn't been aware of how much she had seeped into him, how deeply he'd become enmeshed with her, how she'd become part of the very fabric of his being. But he noticed it now, acutely, in the constant, raw feeling of incompleteness that made him unable to focus on anything else. He walked the streets without taking in any of the sights of the city. He stopped to eat, only to realize after the meal that he hadn't tasted a single bite.
Finally he went back to his hotel and opened the copy of Neruda's poems that he'd bought yesterday. His mother had clearly loved these poems – in his own copy, there were copious markings and underlinings from her hand. He'd read the book so often that, even in this unmarked copy, he knew exactly which passages she'd marked. He knew the poems must have carried a deep significance for her, but it had always eluded him – night after night, as a teenager, as an adult, he'd pored over Neruda's words, yet they refused to yield their true meaning to him. They were just words to him, flat, empty, lifeless. He'd always wondered what his mother had seen in them that he simply couldn't.
He didn't expect the poems to reveal their secrets to him now, either, but he greeted them as old friends, soothed by the familiarity of their imagery and cadence. He flipped through the pages at random, skimming one poem after another, not really paying attention. Then, his eyes opened wide as a passage suddenly struck him with unexpected force.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
He stared at it. He knew this passage so intimately, but it suddenly seemed to him like he was reading it for the first time, because, for the first time, he recognized himself in those words. How was this possible – how had Neruda captured the experience of his day with such simple clarity? Excited, he leafed through to another passage, and another, and another, really paying attention to them this time, seeing if other parts of the book would also hold a new significance to him.
They did. It was like a lifelong fog had lifted and the words suddenly revealed their meaning to him, clear and smooth and true. With trembling hands, he sought out the passage that, in his own copy, his mother had underlined so much that her pencil had broken through the paper. He wondered if he would finally, finally be able to grasp why.
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."
Yes – yes – he knew what that felt like. The feeling of her hand on his chest until she seemed to melt into him, until he could no longer tell where he ended and she began. This love that had seemed to come out of nowhere, inexplicable, just there. A love so complete that it seemed to erase the boundaries of personhood.
He wondered if his mother had loved his father like this, with the same sort of love that he felt for Raquel. God, he hoped so. He hoped it so fervently, that's she'd known that kind of love before she died, that she'd experienced the heartbreaking beauty of it, the burning intensity, the softness. He felt a new closeness to her now, knowing they shared this, and he started to get an inkling of why people liked to read poetry: to see the universality of their experiences affirmed, to have that moment of intimate recognition of the self in the other, to connect to others across space and time and even death. He stayed reading deep into the night.
…
When the new captain called him the next day and told him that he'd hit some bad weather and would be delayed another two days, he wanted to cry with frustration. The heist was only ten days away now, and he wanted – he needed – to be in Toledo with his team, with her. He felt a tight, hot sense of panic constricting his chest when he thought about the heist coming closer and closer while he wasn't where he needed to be – in control of the situation. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that Raquel was there, and that he trusted her. He knew she would be steering the team capably through the last of the preparations. When he called her to deliver the bad news, however, he heard his own dismay echoed in her voice.
"Another two days?"
"I know, I'm sorry. Will you be okay with the team?"
"Yes, we're fine, we're steadily reviewing the plan. But Sergio… I don't want to sound clingy, but I miss you. I miss you like crazy."
His heart lifted, hearing her say that. "I know. I miss you too."
"I hate that we have to spend this time apart so close to the heist."
He knew what she meant: what little time they had left together – the only time that was still guaranteed to them, since nothing was certain once the heist began.
"I hate it too", he said softly.
They talked for a long time, both unwilling to hang up and break what little connection they had.
Falling asleep that night seemed impossible. Missing her had turned into something that felt alarmingly like withdrawal – his entire body ached, physically ached, with the need to hold her. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that a person couldn't possibly feel so bad because of the simple fact of someone's absence, yet here he was. To try and distract himself, he started thinking about the heist, but as the night progressed, his thoughts turned increasingly darker.
Watching two am come and go, he was slowly filled with a deep, chilling sense of dread. He'd always known that there were three possible outcomes of the heist: he'd been hoping for success, resigned to death, but he'd never given that much thought to the third option. Now, however, it rose up before him like a specter. Prison. A life sentence, most likely. It hadn't worried him too much before – he hadn't seen much difference between a largely empty and ascetic life between the walls of his apartment or in a prison cell. But that had been before. Now, prison meant something else entirely: it meant loss, it meant separation, it meant living without her, and the thought of it made his stomach turn. This week had been just a small taste of what that would be like, and the experience had been unexpectedly harrowing. Time had gone by so slowly over the past few days, the hours of the night especially dragging their feet, and all throughout there had been this pervasive, piercing sense that the most vital part of himself was missing and he desperately needed it back. How could he possibly face the empty years without her?
He became painfully aware of the risk he was taking with the heist. It hadn't mattered before – he'd had nothing to lose. Looking back on it now, he recognized how barren his life had been, how empty, how colorless. Somehow, he realized, he'd managed to live a lifeless life, dry as old parchment. But then, miraculously, he'd been given this gift, this perfect, shining happiness that was irrevocably tied to her and her alone, and he felt like he was holding it in the palm of his hand, a fragile, fledgling thing that could grow into something so solid and strong if only he let it. Yet instead of protecting it, he was rushing headlong into danger, like an idiot, walking – eyes wide open! – into a situation where his newfound happiness could be snuffed out of existence in an instant. One mistake. One error. One miscalculation and she'd be gone.
And they'd had so little time together. Mere weeks. He wanted more – he wanted so much more – he wanted everything. He wanted all of her days and all of her nights, all of her smiles and her joy and her heartache too. He wanted her good days and her bad, every high and every low, every hue in the colorful kaleidoscope of her personality. He wanted her old age, too, every line and every wrinkle his to cherish. Would they ever get that? Would they ever have more than these few weeks? Or would the heist rob them of everything that could have been? He'd seen his father after his mother died – a broken man, never the same again. Was the same fate waiting for him? He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling for a long, long time, his mind filled with thoughts of love and loss.
…
When the captain's ship came into port and he was finally able to meet with the man, the actual deal was quickly made. The sight of twenty thousand euros in cash, accompanied by the promise of more, was enough to make most men forget their scruples, Sergio had found. They spent half an hour figuring out the details, then they shook hands and parted ways and he was finally done with the matter. Outside the café, he checked his watch – it was eight o'clock. He should go back to his hotel, have a good night's sleep, and leave for Toledo in the morning, when he was rested. On the other hand, if he left now, he would be with her in seven hours. It really wasn't much of a dilemma, he thought, as he walked back to his hotel, packed his stuff, got into his car, and drove off.
…
It was three am by the time he got to the house, but he wasn't tired at all. The thought that he was mere seconds away from holding her again made his pulse race, his entire body feeling like there was electricity running through his veins. The house was dark and silent as he quietly opened the front door and made his way up the stairs. He went straight to her room, feeling his heart in his throat, only to feel a distinct sense of disappointment when he opened her door and saw an empty bed. Where could she be, at three o'clock at night? Then he smiled and walked down the hall to his own room – and sure enough, there she was, fast asleep in his bed. He quietly closed the door behind himself and kneeled down next to the bed, drinking in the sight of her face in the moonlight. He suddenly noticed what she was wearing – it was one of his shirts, and he felt such a rush of tenderness for her that it took his breath away. He couldn't wait anymore, he had to wake her.
"Raquel", he whispered. "Raquel… wake up."
She slowly blinked open her eyes and looked at him, a soft, sleepy look.
"Sergio? Am I dreaming?"
"No", he smiled. "No, I'm really here."
"You are?"
"Yes. I drove back as soon as I could, I couldn't wait another day to see you."
She reached out a hand and touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, feeling like he could cry. Something inside him shifted, and the feeling of displacement that had been with him all week faded, to be replaced with a powerful sense of rightness, pure and strong and unshakable. He was back where he belonged.
He leaned forward and kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the bed with her, and the relief he felt when he closed his arms around her was beyond measure.
"You're here", she kept whispering between kisses, like she needed to convince herself that it was true. "You're here, you're finally here."
She pressed herself close to him as he worked his hands underneath the shirt she was wearing, and his brain flooded with bliss at finally being able to touch her again, making him feel rather light-headed and happier than he had felt in days. The worries that had been plaguing him all week disappeared in an instant as she pulled him effortlessly into the present. Getting their clothes off was tricky, because they were unwilling to break apart for even a second, so there was a lot of fumbling and muffled laughter, and by the time they were finally naked they were both breathless and giddy with the joy of being together again. He couldn't stop smiling as he pulled her in for yet another kiss, and she was so soft and warm and lovely in his arms, the feeling of her skin against his an inexpressible delight.
He rolled her onto her side and came to lie close behind her so he could hold her, one arm beneath her head, the other tightly wrapped around her waist, their bodies connecting. She fit so perfectly in his arms. He pressed kisses to her neck and shoulder, reveling in the mere fact of her closeness, breathing in the familiar sweet scent of her skin. He would be perfectly content to just stay like this all night, to hold her and hold her and hold her and then fall asleep with her in his arms, but when she pressed her hips back against him, his body responded immediately with a desire to be even closer to her. He started stroking her slowly, first her shoulder and arm, then he ran his fingers down the side of her body, making her shiver. He cupped a breast and smiled as he felt her nipple harden against his palm. He brushed his lips against her neck as he gently squeezed it, and she sighed and pressed herself even closer to him. He loved her every mood in bed – when she was playful, when she was passionate, when she took charge – but he particularly loved it when she was like this: soft and sweet and pliant under his hands, surrendering herself to him so willingly, all smooth curves and soft sighs. He let his hand move down and she opened her legs to him, inviting him to explore further. She let out a small whimper when he touched her, and he closed his eyes at how wet she was. He would never get over the way her body reacted to him, never, not in a hundred years.
"Are you ready?" he murmured in her ear.
"Yes", she breathed, pressing her hips against him again. "God yes."
Oh, how he loved her enthusiasm – he wanted her so badly he could barely breathe. When he entered her, he gasped at the sudden sensation of it, so intense that it threatened to overwhelm him, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to come at the very first thrust.
She turned her head to look at him.
"You holding up there?" she smiled.
"Barely", he laughed, taking deep breaths. "I haven't seen you all week and you feel so, so good, Raquel."
When he felt like he was in control of himself again, he started moving inside her with slow, deep strokes that made her sigh with pleasure. He closed his eyes, and as he gave himself over to the feeling, he was filled with wonder. Somehow, in that week apart, he seemed to have forgotten exactly how amazing it was to make love to her, and he eagerly rediscovered it now – the unique intimacy of it, the way their bodies moved together like one, the sheer and utter joy of sharing this experience. He dipped his hand between her legs and she moaned softly as he found the right spot. She put her hand on his to indicate pressure, and he picked up the rhythm of his movements, taking her faster and deeper, making a whispered 'oh!' escape from her lips at every thrust. Nothing in his life had ever given him the satisfaction that he felt whenever he made her come, quivering under his hands, her most intimate moments his alone to witness.
When she tensed and started trembling, he kept up exactly what he was doing, and suddenly she let out a soft cry and contracted around him, shaking in his arms, breathless. He eased the pressure of his fingers to draw out her pleasure for several long, exquisite moments, then she pulled his hand away and tucked it around her waist again, and he held her tightly as he finally gave himself permission to let go. He buried his face in her hair, and the world narrowed down until there was nothing left but her – wonderful, heavenly,perfect.
Afterwards, he kissed her over and over again, unable to get enough of her, unwilling to let her go. Finally she pushed him onto his back and cuddled up to him with a happy sigh, her hand on his chest, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and he felt at peace for the first time all week. As he held her, he felt her melt into him and he heard Neruda's words echo in his mind. There is no I or you. Yes. He felt acutely how true that was: there was no I or you, there was only them, simple and true, made whole in each other's presence.
But as he stared up at the ceiling, the euphoria of seeing her again faded gradually from his mind and reality forced its way back into his consciousness. The dark thoughts he'd been having about the heist resurfaced, making something inside his chest contract. This feeling, he reflected, this connection he had with her was priceless, a treasure. And it could be taken from him so easily, just a few short days from now. Her breathing deepened as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, but he'd never felt more awake as his thoughts started racing frantically – he might lose her, he might lose her so soon. Then a sudden thought struck him with almost physical force.
For more than twenty years, his life had seemed a perfectly straight road to him, leading him straight to the heist and beyond. But now, he realized with a blinding flash of insight, he was standing at a fork in the road. One path would lead him directly to her, their future guaranteed, a small but peaceful life. The other path was crooked and dark, with many pitfalls and obstacles, its destination hidden from view. Who knew how they'd get out on the other side – if they got out on the other side. One thing was clear to him, though: this heist wasn't an inevitability, as he'd always thought – it was a choice. A choice that he could make – or not.
He turned to her.
"Raquel… Raquel, we don't have to do this."
She opened sleepy eyes. "Don't have to do what?"
"All of this. The operation. We don't have to do it."
She raised her head and shook it to clear it of the fog of sleep. "Wait… what are you talking about?"
He sat up, forcing her to sit up too, then he took her hand and gave her an earnest look.
"We haven't committed to anything yet, Raquel. We could still walk away, you and me… find Paula and get out of the country, start a life together as a family. We could go anywhere in the world. I could get a job and we could buy a small house and live a… a normal life."
She was staring at him. "Have you gone insane?"
"Why are we taking this risk, Raquel?" he insisted. "I know what I want: a future with you. And I can have that, it's right there if I want it, I just have to reach out and take it! Why are we risking that, risking everything, when we can just choose not to do the heist and start – start living now."
"What about the rest of the team?"
"They can go back to their lives. I didn't promise them anything – the outcome of this was never guaranteed."
Her eyes were big. "Would you really do that? Call the whole thing off?"
He'd never been more serious in his life. "For you, I would. If you ask me to do it, I will. Just say the word – say one word and it's off."
"Would you be happy though?" she said quietly.
"Of course I would. I'd be with you. What do you say?"
She gave him a long, long look, and he held his breath as she considered both options. He wasn't sure what he wanted her to choose – he only knew that, whatever decision she made, he would follow her.
Finally she shook her head. "No, Sergio. We can't give up now. This is your life's work – if we walked away now, you would always regret it. It would haunt you for the rest of your life, and you would end up bitter and unsatisfied with our ordinary lives. And worst of all: you would resent me for it. You've worked so hard. You've lived with this for so long. You need to do this."
"But what if we lose everything?" he whispered.
"I have faith in the plan." She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. "I have faith in you. You know the plan is good – it's really good, and I'll be with you every step of the way. If I thought this was a suicide mission, Sergio, I'd say let's do it, let's walk away now. But I think, I genuinely think that we can do this, we can pull this off. You and me together. We're unstoppable."
He felt his mind clear and realized that she was right – he had to do this. There was only one road after all. A difficult and dangerous road, but with her by his side, it suddenly didn't seem so dark anymore, the pitfalls avoidable, the obstacles surmountable. They might still stumble, he knew as he lifted her hand and kissed it. They might still fall. But it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that they'd walk this road together.