Heat

by ROGUEFURY

You don't expect to be pulled into a heated gravitation with Agent Javier Peña, and the more you both try to navigate your lives around each other, the clearer it becomes that your feelings go beyond the torrid desires you both are able to ignite in each other. Will the heat of your passions win out against the tribulations that threaten to pull you apart?

19. Chapter 19: Fallout

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of sex, including explicit depictions of oral, protected and unprotected sex. Mentions of intercourse with different sexual partners, semi-nonconsensual sexual initiation, unrequited feelings, angst, allusions to past trauma, psychological grief, and emotional turmoil. Remorseful!Javi, Jealous!Javi, and Sad!Javi.

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Chapter 19: Fallout

The tumultuous turmoil that is your heart warring with your mind becomes something that you can't shake off after speaking to Javi, so you find yourself equally bereaved, angry and yearning for some sort of resolution. When you find none, you fall asleep, and fitfully dream a stress-induced nightmare, but unlike the recurring nightmare, this one has you running in an empty airport terminal, the loud patter of your footsteps the only deafening sound as it mimics the rushing beat of your heart. You feel the darkness chasing you as you run, the terminal at your back shuttering as if the universe is literally trying to turn out the lights on you. Desperate, you sprint, seeing tunnel vision as a figure stands alone at the top of the steps you're trying to get to, but when you try to bound up them and shout for the figure to wait for you, the darkness catches you and pulls you under.

You wake with a start, face streaked with tears as you try to regain your composure. The dark room is still, and you lie back in bed to calm yourself, but only succeed in pulling yourself into morose fretting. However, you don't get a chance to wallow in your grief for long. Not when the next day, as you and Ellis are huddled up with a team from your department discussing future expansion plans, the news breaks.

Pablo Escobar is dead.

The sprinting footsteps of people rushing to the break room where the TV is on caused you all to pause and glance up out to the main hall of your department, and when Ellis shouted out to someone, "What's the melee for?" the person skid to a halt with an ecstatic look.

"They got him! Escobar got shot – they're just announcing it," the man responds before sprinting off.

Shocked, you all rush up and follow, and when the news shows the live footage on site, you are floored, covering your mouth from how it gapes at the sight of the commotion on the street below the rooftop the head of the Medellín cartel was gunned down on. Squinting your eyes, you notice that one the plainclothes officers still on the roof, milling around with other members of CNP, is Steve.

A pang goes through your heart at the realization that Javier missed out on being part of the successful raid by a day. A goddamned day!

Needless to say, the embassy erupts in an impromptu celebration from the news. Really, all of Colombia was blossoming in relieved merriment, and the morale in the building had transformed instantly. Everyone from admins to the custodial staff celebrate – enthralled by the news. It was infectious – literally the equivalent of everyone in Munchkinland partying and shouting 'Ding-dong, the wicked witch is dead!' with elation. And you're in the middle of it all, feeling so sad for Javier.

No one else deserved to have been the one to be standing over Escobar on top of that roof more than him. No one else has sacrificed so much to get everyone else over the finish line in taking down the cartel. And now, somewhere in the states, Javier had to hear about the news, like every other civilian. It hurt your spirit, so, when the jovial masses got an impromptu early release from work to seemingly celebrate like their team won the Super Bowl, you politely decline Ellis' invite and go home.

While you're moping through the door and turning on the television to watch the coverage, Javier is drinking at a bar, by himself, sitting at an empty table while most of the crowd is at the counter, drinking and watching the Houston vs. NYC basketball game. After the day he had, he was content to just sit there with his glass of beer, his whiskey shot, and a cigarette. So, when his beeper went off with a message from Steve to call him ASAP, he had a feeling his night was going to get heavy. Finding a payphone around the corner at the back of the bar, in a narrow alcove, he calls him.

"—Jav. We got him."

"…Are you standing over him right now?" Javier asks, floored.

"Yeah. Took two sniper shots to the torso, and Trujillo put the final bullet in his head. Was standing next to him when he pulled the trigger. It's over. Adiós patrón," Steve tells him, the exuberant quake in his raspy voice sobering as he mutters, "None of this would've happened without you, Javi. You know that, right?"

Javier has to let his envy fizzle away before he responds dryly, "Well, now that you mention it…"

Steve snickers. "Picture we took will make one hell of a postcard. From Medellín, with Love," he quips, and Javi scoffs before resting his hand on the top of the payphone. "You should be proud, Javi. I mean it."

Resting the phone's receiver to his forehead pensively, Javi quickly collects his thoughts before exhaling and bringing the earpiece back. "I am – of you guys. No matter what, it was worth it," is his ruminating murmur. "Congrats, Murphy. I'll be having a few drinks in your honor—"

"Just don't drown your sorrows too hard before you call her," Steve cuts in glibly. "You have called her already, right?!"

"You are relentless," Javi deadpans before smirking as he rubs the heel of his hand over his brow. "Yes. I called her when I got off the plane – before even calling my ol' man, I might add. Satisfied?"

"Nope. I'll be satisfied when you put a ring on her finger," Steve derisively drawls before saying, "Gotta go. They're here to take the body. I'll talk to yah later."

"Steve. Thanks…for everything," Javier says earnestly.

"Right back at'cha, man. Talk soon."

Hanging up the phone, Javi takes a beat to collect his thoughts, gather his feelings, and remain objective.

Of course, it doesn't work, and he chugs the beer and plunks the empty glass on the side table before storming out of the bar into the cold D.C. night, feeling the chill invade his breath as he stalks in an unforgiving pace back to his hotel. By the time he breezes through the door, carrying the paper bag with the large bottle of whiskey he'd picked up from a liquor store on the way, he's looking forward to drinking himself into a fucking stupor. However, the masochist in him can't help turn the TV on and set it on a channel playing the news. Shedding his jacket and kicking his boots off, Javi plops the bag on the side table by the window and gets a glass from atop the mini bar before prepping his first of many doubles.

At some point, when he's forgotten what he's even in D.C. for in the first place, Javi drunkenly rolls to the side of the bed to reach for the phone, stubbing out his cigarette as he lumbers to shift so he can hold the receiver to his ear while he dials.

Curled up on the couch in only your blouse and panties, you're fuzzily stirred back awake when your phone rings, and before your brain is fully conscious, you've ambled up and grabbed the handset from the mount and pressed the button to answer.

"Mmph, hello…?" you mumble and yawn.

"See anything interesting on the news lately?"

Completely shaking your exhaustion off now, you can't help the acerbic huff of amusement surge out of you. "Funny that you ask," you sarcastically lilt, and Javi chuckles a raspy hum. Sobering, you murmur, "I'm sorry…I know how important it was—how much it meant to you to be there when it went down…"

"…I miss you."

Wilting at the sad, rough baritone of his voice, you distractedly wander back to the couch and plop down. "I miss you too," you murmur, already feeling that familiar tug in your chest as the heartache sets in like cooling lead. "I wish I could hug you to pieces," is your sudden brashly affectionate sigh, to which Javi exhales a huskily amused huff, so you chortle dryly, "Too much?"

"Not at all. Being disassembled doesn't sound too bad right now…" he slurs before noisily exhaling a long, drawn out breath. "Did I wake you?"

"I was half-asleep on the sofa. The whole country is basically in an awed daze right now – mostly celebrating," you tell him. "It sounds like you've been toasting to the occasion yourself," is your musing as you pull the fluffy blanket you'd brought from your room earlier to drape over your legs.

"I have. You're really missing out, baby. Just me, the bottle of whiskey, and this not-so-shabby hotel room," he drones lowly. "Oh, and the TV. It's a regular barrel of fun—"

"I really hate it with you get flippant," you grouse, frowning. "I'd much rather you say what you feel, Javi—"

"…I don't ever want to burden you with that," he whispers tersely. "And anyway, what's there to say?"

When you don't immediately respond, Javi slumps against the headboard and lulls his head back against the wall before thudding it idly.

"I'm sorry…I shouldn't have called," he rubs his palm over his face before mumbling, "I'm just drunk—"

"What're you wearing, stud?"

Javi guffaws a surprised laugh, dopey and endeared as he grins like an idiot for the first time since he'd last seen you. "Such a wicked little atrevida!" he warmly rumbles, flopping his long legs out askew on the bed. "Who said I'm wearing anything at all," is his saucy purr, to which you giggle. Eyes becoming hooded as he stares over at the window out to the overcast night sky across the river, Javi idly thumbs his moustache before worrying the pad between his teeth, deliberating if he should say what he wants to say.

"¿Qué estas pensando?" you ask, and he grunts flatly, so you murmur, "I can hear you thinking, guapito."

"Just…wishing I hadn't fucked everything up," he says in the most detached way he can muster. "The meeting on my fate is tomorrow. Regardless, I'll probably be going back home, with my tail between my legs…"

"Well, on the positive side? I'll get to bug you to put your dad on the phone so I can say hello," you chime affectionately, and Javi can't fight the fond smile that pulls at his pillowy lips. "Now, you need to sober up, chulito, so it's time for bed. I don't think showing up hung over and ornery is going to do you any favors tomorrow," is your sardonic musing, to which he grunts, surly-yet-amused by the thought. "…I love you."

His chest expands with his thrilled inhale before he puffs his exhale out noisily. "Querida…" he begins, but his conviction wavers, too drunk to muster the weight of how enamored he is with you right now without the fear of totally breaking down on the phone. "…I'll call you when I get home. Goodnight, cariño."

"Goodnight."

Lonesome and filled with melancholy now, Javi hangs up the phone, and sullenly sits up enough to strip out of his clothes, roll over, and pass out on top of the comforter, becoming dead to the world.

When he's standing in front of DEA headquarters the following morning, he wishes he was still dead to the world while he yanks anxiously at the knot of his tie and stalks into the building. As he waits to be summoned before the board, he itches to smoke a cigarette, but in his haste to rush out the door, he forgot his pack on the nightstand. His right hand fidgets at his side as he checks his watch for the third time, lips pressing together impatiently as he paces the hall just outside the doors. Then, the one door opens and a staffer waves him in, pointing for him to sit at a desk that faces a semi-circle of other desks, their backs against the windows. He wonders if he should've gotten a lawyer as he sits, getting ready to face a proverbial firing squad.

He does not expect to be meeting with DEA Operations.

And when the head of operations looks him dead in the eye and asks, "Agent Peña, how much do you know about the Cali cartel?" Well, all of Javi's snarky fronting evaporates.

With earnest temperance, he tells them everything he knows. Unexpectedly, the stony man who was sitting across from him stands, moseying around the desk he was at to instead sit at the edge of it and cross his arms before dropping a bomb on Javier.

He offers him a promotion.

Beside himself, Javi can't help laconically drawl, "No disrespect, but…are you fucking with me?"

The man gives him a crooked smirk before signaling with a side nod of his head for the other members of operations that are in the room to clear out. Once they're both alone, the man unfolds his arms so he can lean them backwards – on either side of him at the desk. "Frankly, Peña, I don't need to tell you that Escobar was a bastard, but he was just the flashy Tony Montana type. Cali? They've always been the main event. We just needed to get the showboat out of the way so we could concentrate on the bigger score," the stoic man explains. "The hyperbole of a drug queen whore is of little consequence. As far as we're concerned, it was just a blip that got eclipsed almost immediately by Escobar getting taken out. DEA are heroes, and you helped orchestrate that."

Javier doesn't know what to say, so he just stares at the man for a beat before the tenacious part of him inquires, "And this has the blessing of all the players?"

"It does, with everyone that matters here. I don't imagine it'll be a hard sell down there, though," he tells Javi before pushing off the desk to approach him. Silently prompted, Javi stands and shakes the man's hand once he's offered it. "The paperwork is already in the works as we speak. Once things at the embassy have cooled down, give us some time to coordinate the transfers, and set up things for you. In the meantime, I believe you've accrued plenty of personal time. Go home, unwind – enjoy the time with family. I'll be in touch once everything is ready to go so we can align on a rotation date for you."

Nodding, Javi is escorted by the man out of the conference room and down the floor-polished halls to the elevator.

Intrepidly, he gives the man one last appraising look before asking, "No interference from CIA?"

Grunting acerbically, the man comments, "Fuck CIA."

The gloating smirk quirks Javier's expression as he punches the button to call the elevator. "Fine by me," he mutters dryly and nods his head at the man.

Just as he was about to turn and stroll away, the head of operations remarks, "Oh, by the way? Be sure to keep this classified. No one outside of Operations and DEA superiors know yet. Part of that coordination endeavor I mentioned. The announcement ain't likely to be made wide until you're back in-country. Just new protocols."

The elevator dings before the doors slide open. Javi steps in, nodding at the man before ruminating how in the hell he dodged this bullet, brow furrowed as the doors shut.

Meanwhile, you're pensively staring off to the side of your desk, looking unseeingly at the tucked in corner of the wall and reminiscing about you and Javi's first kiss there. You can't believe how long ago that seems now, after everything that's occurred, but you let the fond pining distract you long enough to not notice Ellis lope over to your side before he loudly clears his throat.

Startling, you grumpily glare up at him. "What's up, space cadet?" he teases, shoving his hands knowingly in his pockets.

"I'm just thinking—"

"About someone?" he interrupts, glibly. "Because if that's the case, I think you're going to enjoy happy hour tonight! All the fellas are back, and I know a certain suitor who is dying to be in your good graces again—"

"Ellis Yancie Rose," you grit out, pinning him in place with the use of his full name. "I've told you plenty of times now to quit trying to meddle in my affairs. And if Luke is putting you up to this, I'm going to cuss him out—"

"He's not! I just really think it's time for you to quit being stubborn and let the man court you properly," he sulkily mutters, adding pushily, "Just put your flaying knife down and enjoy some friendly company."

At the bar later that night, you try to keep his cajoling from annoying you, which ends up being easier than you expected thanks to everyone being in great, lighthearted moods after the historic takedown of Escobar and the Medellín cartel. Everyone is in great spirits, so it's easy to fall into the camaraderie of it and enjoy the animated conversations.

You even relent and smile at Luke from across the bar. However, all musings about the field operations analyst are scrapped when your ears perk up at hearing, "Yep – Murphy asked to be rotated back to the states. He already cleared out his desk and ships out Monday."

For his part, Steve has been dealing with a strange, surreal duality.

The feeling of accomplishment tipped by the ambivalence of what it took to get there. It's what's been lingering with him the whole time he packed boxes, literally getting ready to ship his life back to Miami. Walking around the apartment now, he makes sure that he didn't miss anything before he picks up the first of the boxes to start stacking them outside the front door in anticipation of the movers.

Taking a break to swipe at his brow with the back of his hand a while later, Steve stares over at the dining room table where he and Javi spent many-a-night pouring over files, looking for ways to sabotage the cartel. He's lost in thought when the sudden knock on the door snaps him back to reality.

"More boxes in here, but you can start with the ones stacked out in the hall," he calls out as he picks up a box with some mementos he'd collected during his stay.

"I hope you didn't pack the kitchen away already."

Stilling, Steve turns around and sees you standing in the threshold of the hall, across from him. You're wearing a flower-patterned lilac blouse and fitted pair of white capris with ballerina flats, hair loose and fanning down behind your shoulders - smile warm. His blue eyes widen and his expression morphs into surprise when you hold up a tray wrapped in tinfoil.

"Heard you're heading back home, so figured I'd bring over a bon voyage lasagna," you jovially declare as you waltz over and set it on the kitchen counter.

The look on his face is priceless. Steve hastily places the box in his hands back down so he can marvel at your offering before pulling you into a platonic hug. "I have been dying to have your lasagna," he chuckles impishly, smiling as he pulls back and squeezes your shoulders. "How've you been holding up, hun?"

You give him a lopsided smile. "I've been fine. Keeping busy…anyway, I'm popping this in the oven just to heat up a bit. You got any plates and cutlery that aren't boxed up?"

Smirking, Steve nods and sets out to gather what two people would need for a scrumptious lasagna meal. Around the time you're easing the tray into the oven, the movers show up, so Steve makes quick work of directing what they need to take down. Once it's ready, his apartment is now empty of all boxes but filled with the savory aroma of lasagna. He seems a little lighter now that the movers and clutter are gone, so you both partake in amiable banter while you serve the lasagna slices and go to sit at the dining room table. He joins you once he's gone into his empty fridge for something to drink.

"Only have some soda bottles left," he mumbles as he sets one down next to your plate and sits across from you. You smile as he digs in with gusto, laughing when his eyes roll back in his head as he hums delightedly. "That asshole was holding out on me. You know he refused to share even a little piece?" he scathes amusedly.

"Yeah, he told me," you chuckle, eyes softening as you lean your elbow on the table, becoming pensive. "Have you heard from him?"

Steve arches his brows as he wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Not since the other day," he retorts, and sees how you divert your eyes down to your plate and pick at the remnants of your meal. "He's likely just tied up until he gets back to Laredo," he assures, trying for affable as he adds, "If I speak to him, I'll rub it in his face that you made me a whole lasagna, just for me."

You laugh, soft and light, eyes twinkling with humor. "I never got to properly thank you for helping me surprise him. I know it was risky business, but…" you pause, and glance away, sad smile pinching your lips as you murmur, "It ended up being the last time we were together, so, it means a lot."

Steve feels like a second-hand asshole. He had no idea whether you and Javi had gotten a chance to discuss your relationship – whether it would become a long-distance thing? Would you pursue something at all? And knowing his former partner, Steve doubts Javi would've had the balls to define anything after getting rotated out. The idea of asking you strikes him as the wrong thing to do. After all, he doesn't want to upset you, or set the wrong expectation by saying anything that would make it seem like you should expect or not expect more.

Frowning, Steve glances at you and instead of getting into that quagmire, drawls, "I'm sorry we never got to do a couple's double date."

Cracking a crafty smile, you brush your hair behind your ear before leaning forward on your elbow to muse, "You read my mind. I regret not getting to meet your wife. Something tells me Connie would've been an excellent ally."

He comically grimaces. "Yeah…I suspect Jav and I would've been screwed with the two of you teaming up on us," he charms derisively, grinning when you bounce your eyebrows wickedly at him and smirk. "Hey! I heard you're gonna get promoted?"

You demure and shrug, glancing out the window pensively before muttering, "Embassy gossip is the worst. Nothing is a done deal. I'll find out this week what the plan is. Most people are still on a high from the big bust," you pause to sit back in your chair and smile at him, but you catch him awkwardly fidgeting in his chair, clearly anticipating the itchy praise he's never been a fan off. You think then that he and Javier were the perfect duo to be partnered up together. "You'll be working at the DEA field office in Miami?" you ask him, and when he looks up at you, surprised, his gaze softens into a grateful smile at being spared yet another conversation about the manhunt, about Escobar – the whole thing.

"Yeah, there's still plenty of work there. It never really slowed down. I just really wanna get back home where I don't look like the big dumb gringo anymore," he chortles, voice raspy with humor as he reaches over to collect your empty plates and take them to the sink.

After spending a little while longer chatting – which includes Steve showing you a photo of Connie and Olivia he keeps in his wallet while be gushes about them, you find yourself at ease, but missing Javi. You can't help wonder what it would've been like to have been a normal, unbothered couple that didn't sneak around – that hadn't spent so much of their time hiding their relationship from others. When you decide you've imposed on Steve enough, you find yourself reaching for the pen and notepad left on the counter.

"So, since you're liable to hear from him before I do, I'm hoping if he decides to do anything dumb, that you'll call and tell me?" you muse authoritatively as you scribble in clear script your office and home phone numbers before ripping the bottom slip of the paper, folding it, and handing it to Steve. You give him the same imperious, 'I will not take no for an answer,' stare you'd leveled him with in Medellín before drawling, "You know as well as I do he's a lot of work, after all."

Steve snorts at that and accepts the paper. "That, he is," is his quipped mutter, smirking at you.

Once he's walked you to the door, you feel a bout of glumness, realizing that while your friendship was brief, you really will miss it, so you turn and surprise Steve with a heartfelt hug.

"Take care of yourself, Steve. And thanks for everything."

Touched, Steve hugs you back this time while he recalls how Javier had told him almost the exact same thing last time they'd spoke. He can't help think how perfect for each other you both are, fondly wishing that you'd find your ways back to one another. Standing at the doorstep, he waves as you turn down towards the staircase and offer him one final nod goodbye before loping down the steps. Closing the door, Steve glowers, hoping that wherever Javier is, that he isn't doing anything stupid.

If he knew his former partner was currently coming to, groggily sunken into the back of beat up couch in a low-lit basement rumpus room and on sensory delay, he probably would've gone to Texas just to kick the man in the ass.

Javier's struggling to open his eyelids and focus on where he is – trying to figure out his surroundings and just why he feels so drunk, yet so good at the same time. It isn't until he shifts his legs and they bump into the kneeling figure between them that he exhales a broken sound and stills. The woman moans around him, the velvet heat of her mouth now the only thing his alcohol-addled brain can focus on.

What the fuck is happening?! On delay, his thoughts start to collide against each other in the dark, syrupy thick room of his mind. He's so drunk, it's almost like his senses are doing backstrokes in his booze-marinated tissue. Unfortunately, the only thing having no issue right now was his throbbing cock, currently in this corkscrew-curly-haired woman's mouth, in the dimly lit room, while the muffle sounds of music, reveling, and loud conversations were droning from the ceiling.

Then, it hits him. The quicksand of recall as it sinks him back down into his body.

He'd barely been back home for a day before his former best man and his core group of buddies who still lived in town had driven up to his Pops' place and cajoled him to come out to the bar. "—Mr. DEA Action Hero! No mames, you're coming with us," his buddy had hassled as he'd practically shoved Javi into the backseat between Ted and Dave, who he'd known since junior year football, while Manny and Rich – his friends since elementary – were upfront in the truck.

The crew had taken him to the bar they'd spent a ridiculous amount of time in during their college days, as well as when Manny and Javi had been working at the sheriff's department, so the homecoming wasn't the worst feeling. They'd all taken turns hassling him good-naturedly, buying him shot after shot, bragging to other patrons what a fucking big deal homegrown hero he was, and Javi had internally cringed, rolling up the sleeves of his black, button shirt to set his elbows on the bar top and hide his face behind his folded hands while they went on. When they weren't getting the hint, Javi started slinging the whiskey shots back, hoping they'd dull the mortification.

After a good while just catching up with the fellas, Javi was content to take his tipsy ass back home, but they'd refused, with Rich saying, "Nope. We're going back to my place. Jaime's bringing barbecue home, we got a garage fridge stocked with Buds, and the kids are at their granny's – we're fucking partying!"

And man, Rich wasn't lying. He'd expected a little spread in the backyard, maybe to sit around a fire pit and fall asleep in a lawn chair. But when Ted had produced a comical roll of condoms and hastily shoved them into Javi's shirt breast pocket, he knew he'd miscalculated what this party would be.

Instead of a quaint cookout, the house was brimming with people. Most were familiar faces from back in the day, all friendly and excited to pat him on the back, kiss him on the cheek, or shake his hand for a job well done coming home a badass hero.

Javi hated it. He was a good sport though, and the more he drank, the less annoyed he became. It all came to a head though when he started feeling that weird pressure once he found himself in a crowded room, and everyone seemed to have him in their sights. It was so overwhelming, that when he told Dave he was going to go take a leak, he instead found a door that led down into the finished basement, and as soon as he shut the door, and the quiet pushed in around him, a sense of relief washed his anxiety away.

Settled into a mellow, drunk haze, he must've moseyed down the steps and over to the broken-in sofa, sat on it to catch a breath, only to end up passing out for a spell.

Which brings him to the woman with his dick in her mouth.

"—Mmmph-f-fuck…h-hey," Javi rumbled as he shifted the cant of his hips and fisted a hand in her thick curls before giving a tug to ease her off. She makes an intrigued sound around him before kneeling back and letting his cock slip out of her mouth with a wet pop. And the instant he sees her flushed cheeks framed by the girlish curls, and the lowlight coming from the lamp in the corner catches in her expressive, rounded eyes that look up at him all doe-like, Javi recognizes her and slurs, "…Tina?"

She smiles up at him, her thick curls bouncing with her swaying movements as she purrs in a throaty musing, "Don't be mad. I saw you come down, so I came to check on you. Couldn't help it…you looked so inviting."

Javi's features burn with shame, sluggish recall still scalding enough to remind him of what feels like a time he'd been unworthy of.

"Fuckin' hell—your brother's upstairs!" he snarls and tries to shift back into the couch enough to drunkenly shimmy his jeans up from where they're bunched at his thighs.

"Pfft, so?" she counters and shoves his hands away. "You ain't complaining," she teases and glances at his hard-on, still stiff and pulsing against his stomach. "This is a lot more comfortable than fooling around in a closet—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Tina—" Javi begins to grouse, but she silences him when she scoots closer in order to bow and swipe a long, wet lick along the underside of his cock. "F-Fuck—" he groans despite himself, and when she purses his lips over his tip, Javi stutters his exhale and arches his head back against the top of the couch.

It takes him a delayed minute to realize he's fisting his fingers into her thick curls and rutting up into her mouth, and when the debauched urge claws up in him and settles like hot coal in his belly, Javi can't take it. In a swift shift, he yanks Tina off him and from the floor to manhandle her onto all fours on the couch. She lets out a thrilled yelp and quickly hikes up her polka dot-patterned blue dress as Javi hitches up behind her and drunkenly fumbles to shove his jeans and her panties down so they're out of the way. With a raspy mewl, Tina bucks back against him as she clutches the sofa armrest in front of her while Javi remembers the roll of condoms stuffed in his shirt pocket.

Tearing one free and open, he manages the intense focus required to get the rubber on and secure before he palms his fingers along her soaked pussy from behind. She moans and ruts against his digits before he recedes them, having gathered her wet excitement in order to rub the slickness over his dick. With a deft thrust, Javi fucks into her tight cunt and grips her waist. She shrills a shocked sound before Javi starts pounding into her roughly, stealing her breath as he punches up into her fluttering sheath.

With primal focus, Javi fucks Tina with zeal, drunk, but hungry to chase carnal gratification. His grunts are rough and guttural as he burns up enough booze to really get into it, and the need to quench something desperate in him has him slamming with vigor into her. She moans in approval, spurring him on to achieve the searing bliss of pleasure. He can taste it, is rushing to capture his completion after going without it for so long.

After going without you for so long.

"Ah-oh fuck—fuck, Jav, right there! Don't s-stop!" Tina pleads, fingers digging into the upholstery of the armrest after Javi grips her hip with one hand and anchors the other at the back of her neck as he sped up his pounding pace. The room fills with the sounds of their labored breathing, feral groans and the slapping of his hips slamming into her ass while the party continues on above, no one the wiser. It isn't until Tina whimpers, "Oh Javi, fucking ruin me—!" that he does, railing his cock into her with such unforgiving force that he can feel her cry out and climax before he's even realized he'd practically doubled her over the armrest – hands clutching at her waist while his cock swells inside her.

The sight of her cunt fluttering around him is what has Javi hunching over her with a baleful shout as he comes.

When he comes down from the dizzying, drunkenly prolonged high, he's sweating and trembling as he eases his cock out, relieved to see the condom full and in one piece before he sits backwards on the opposite end of the sofa.

With much inebriated-yet-bemused effort, he removes the rubber, ties it off and drops it in a wastebasket next to the side table while Tina recovers and yanks her panties up before unfolding herself to plunk down onto the couch next to him. He snatches a nearby box of tissues on the side table and grabs a few for himself before unseeingly offering it to Tina.

They both clean up, and Tina amusedly glances over at him when he discards his tissues. "Way better than fooling around in a closet." Javi's just finished pulling his jeans up and fastening them closed with clumsy fingers, so he's shaking his head ruefully, and Tina can't help add on a sultry giggle, "So glad to see whiskey dick isn't at all a concern."

He can't even look at her right now. The shame he feels is seeping out of his pores, making him feel depraved and unworthy. "…I'm gonna head out," he finds himself droning flatly as he lumbers off the couch and wavers on his feet before collecting himself enough to glance back at her and mutter, "If your brother punches me in the nose – again – for this—"

"For cryin' out loud! I'm a grown woman on my first divorce, Jav," Tina scoffs before yawning and stretching out on the couch to dreamily, albeit extremely tipsily, stare up at him as she drawls, "Richie ain't gonna punch you in the nose. At least not inside his house," she pauses before giving him a crooked smirk and adding, "But out in the yard? It's possible."

Shaking his head, Javier stalks towards the stairs, tone snarky and gruff as he grumbles, "Great seeing you, Tina."

Once upstairs, Javier mills through the crowd and spots Manny. He gives the fellow law enforcement agent the look that spoke volumes between them, and right now? It was demanding, 'Get me the fuck out of here, hermano.' After he's in the man's car, he can't help succumb to the peppering of questions, and immediately regrets answering.

"—I knew it! The minute I heard Jaime say Tina was in town, I knew she'd show up looking for you," Manny is guffawing, sober and smug as he drives while Javi is slumped in the passenger seat, wishing for the earth to swallow him up. "What ever you did to her during 7 minutes in heaven at that party made her wild for you—"

"…Shut up…" Javi croaks and clasps his hand over his face before moodily massaging at his aching temples. "And if you tell Rich—"

"Why would I tell him?" Manny chortles comically. "I'm not the one who banged his sister, so if anyone should tell him, it ain't me."

It's the most raunchy he's ever felt in a while, so the moment Javier ambles out of the car, into the house, and up the steps to stumble into his bedroom, all he wants is to forget this night. He manages to wrestle out of his boots before giving up on taking off his clothes, instead succumbing to drunken exhaustion and passing out cold on the bed, sprawled out on his stomach. When he wakes up next, he's disoriented and unsure what time it is. He struggles to sit up and laboriously push off the bed, but once he's finally on his feet, he forces himself to go downstairs in order to get something to quench his thirst.

His father is sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper in his hands, so that means it's just after 6am? Glowering, he grumpily trudges to the fridge, blearily squinting at the little light as he reaches in, grabs the carton of orange juice, and proceeds to down it in several chugs.

"You stumbled in quite late," Chucho drones, unbothered as he turns the newspaper and continues reading. "Well, I suppose early this morning."

Javi grunts and shuffles by his father to toss the now-empty carton into the trash. "Sorry if I woke you," he mumbles and keeps his gaze downcast. "You need help with anything?"

"I can manage. Got an appointment at the barber in the afternoon. From the looks of that mop of rizos, you could use a trim," his father comments neutrally, but glances at him over the top of the newspaper. With a sardonic smile, he adds irreverently, "You smell like a mule, mijo."

Snorting, Javi nods and makes his way back the way he came as he mutters, "Thanks, Pops. I'll go hose myself down…"

Once showered and somewhat a human being again, Javi decides it's time to at least call Steve and let him know he wasn't thrown in a hole somewhere after the Los Pepes fallout.

"—Christ, man! Where the hell have you been?!" his former partner harangues, and Javi winces, still feeling hungover. "You can't fall off the grid like that after all the shit we went through—"

"I know, I know…listen, I'm fine. Back in Laredo for a while," he retorts guardedly before clearing his throat and muttering, "I, uh, I'm just taking a pause, I guess."

"Well, is there a reason no one here will tell me what the hell happened? It's top secret—"

"Yeah, so…I can't get into it yet, but as soon as some stuff falls into place, I'll definitely fill you in," Javi interjects, trying to not be too annoyingly evasive. "Anyway, you miss Colombia yet, gringo?"

"Pfft! Not gonna lie, it's been hard to leave it behind and remember I don't have to look over my shoulder every few minutes," Steve muses, then chuckles, "But, I did get one hell of a going away surprise. By far, the best lasagna of my life."

Javi cracks a smile before feeling throttled by his sense of guilt, which coils up in his chest. "Oh, is that a fact?" he drones in a sulky tone, huffing when Steve laughs at his expense. "…How was she?"

"I'm telling you, Jav. You're an idiot if you let her go. She was so tough but sweet, wanting to hide how worried she was for you. Made me take her phone numbers and promise to call her if you do anything stupid," Steve muses good naturedly, and sighs. "I hope you two can make it work."

Javi, for the millionth time, feels like the biggest asshole in the world – no, the universe, for yet again having to keep you at a distance. He'd made the decision after his promotion offer that it would be best not to reach out to you until he was back in Colombia. For one, he had a suspicion that calling you in any capacity wouldn't be safe. Not with the stunt Stechner pulled on him. And another thing was he didn't want to risk tipping anyone on the Cali side off that he was heading back, for fear they might decide to use you as leverage after all.

"I hope so too," Javi finds himself declaring, clearing his throat when he hears his father walking through the house towards his location. "Do me a favor? If she reaches out to you, tell her all is well," is his instruction to Steve, and when his friend starts to protest, he presses, "It's part of that stuff I can't talk about yet."

"Hmph. Alright, Javi. Take care of yourself and keep in touch," Steve drawls in his raspy twang before they both say their goodbyes and hang up.

Javi senses his father standing in the hall just behind him, so he calls out, "Ready for that trim, Pops."

In a humored tone, his father turns towards the front door and muses, "Good. I'll let you take the chair first. Barber's got a lot of work to do…"

As the days turn into weeks without a call or any communication from Javi, you find yourself going through the five stages of grief towards what you feel is an undeniable breakup. Early on, you'd been in denial, with a spell into bargaining. Sure, even though it'd been a week since you'd spoken to him and he surely was already back home, that didn't mean he was avoiding you. What if he was just settling in? What if he's just waiting for the best time to call you?

What if you'd dropped everything and gone with him…?

You're surprised when Murphy calls you to vaguely let you know he'd spoken to Javier and that 'all was well' before assuring you he'd likely call you soon. The hoping and pining goes into full tilt after that, but then…he never calls. The heartache starts to become a malaise – one that has you crying when you're alone in bed on cold nights, fitfully dreaming nightmares when you spend an entire day worrying about him, and a sharp pang of hurt that you carry like an arrow wound, close to the vest.

But, what time do you have to pine and wait by the phone, or torture yourself with all the unrequited scenarios? Not much after the big meeting with the ambassador and the head of operations. Ellis and you had been floored by the announcement that Clerical Operations was getting absorbed by General Operations in order for a new department to be formed: Information Technology & Innovation Solutions.

And if finding out the exact plans you'd come up with for future goals comprised this new department's call to action wasn't astounding enough, you'd be the Director of IT+IS. Ok, yeah, the acronym wasn't great, but still – it was monumental, and with Ellis as your deputy at your side, you had a lot of work to do. In that time, sure…you thought of Javi. You'd even gotten around to reading The Miami Herald article. But, aside from validating all your suspicions about how compromised he'd been, you hadn't batted an eye at reading how involved he'd been in handing Los Pepes what they needed. You know that says a lot about you, but really, you're a skilled compartmentalizer, so it was nothing that gave you pause. Not when you'd stumbled into the next stage of breakup grief.

Distraction, which yes, while all the new work and leadership responsibilities were big ones, the main source of distraction came in an odd source. One late night in your new department, once you'd finished a boatload of onboarding and processes, you'd locked up your new office and strolled down to the elevator banks. When the elevator doors slid open, you found yourself being greeted by the smug, smarmy smile of the CIA station chief, who made a showy sidestep and arm sweep to invite you in. Stoically, you waltzed in and hit the button for the lower parking level.

Once the elevator doors had shut, the silence was fizzling with something, but you refused to acknowledge the gloating glance you could see him inclining over at you.

"Congrats on the promotion," he mused, appraising stare lingering on you until you glanced over and gave him a placid smile before going back to staring at the ticking floor levels. Then, unprompted, he drawled, "Oh…for what it's worth? It is difficult to tap inter-agency landlines. Fortunately, station chief comes with the clearance access necessary."

You feel as if you've been dunked in ice, but mustered a withering glance over at him as he put his hands in his pockets and started to watch the floor numbers count down.

"Luckily, the chatter was benign, albeit entertaining. Hopefully he's learned his lesson," Bill Stechner, facetious asshole extraordinaire, chimed before the elevator stopped and opened at the lobby, allowing him to stroll out and give you one more parting glance before intoning derisively, "Goodnight, Ms. Director."

The ride down and the rushing pace to your car gave you enough time to assess what just happened.

Bill Stechner is the reason Javi was rotated out. He's responsible for the criminal informant quoted in The Miami Herald article. And he just told you he did it all, purposely trying to get a rise out of you. Why? Because he's an asshole, surely, but also because under the new organizational structure in the embassy, your department would have access to data and files exchanged within other agencies for archiving and operational alignment purposes. This? It was his not-so-subtle way of warning you to stay in your lane. Instead of getting a rise out of you, or scaring you, though, he succeeded in something else.

He's made you very angry. Not the kind of angry that Javi would make you. Oh, no. This is the kind of angry that fuels your ambition, and when your ambition is beholden to your need for retribution?

Well, that's for another day. Right now? You've shuffled the stages of breakup grief, moving into sadness at not having been able to salvage things, or help Javi. That sadness gives way to cold acceptance one odd night when you looked at your desk calendar and realized it'd been a month since you'd spoken with Javi. He hadn't reached out in any way, and finally, the resolute, unflinching part of you called it.

He never meant to keep in touch. That's why he'd been so surprised when you'd suggested it. His intent had been to let you down gently, and you stupidly expected more.

Still, the intrepid part of you tried to hold onto the hope that he had called you because he'd wanted to make it work. He did promise to call you once he was home…

Then, the angry part of you, though, decided that a month was enough indication of his intentions. He didn't have the decency to call and let you know he doesn't want to keep in touch or hear from you anymore! Stop fooling yourself and realize it was never gonna work out with him anyway.

It's that sentiment that sticks with you when Ellis cajoles you into happy hour, only to walk in on a celebratory cheer. Everyone at the bar was congratulating you both on the new positions, and the drinks and conversation flow so well that you forget the state of your battered personal life. And, when Luke musters the gumption to march up to you? You are amenable to his presence, especially after he leans in, kisses your cheek, and gravels, "Congrats, Miss Cuba Libre. Or should I call you Madame Director?"

You smile, and it dazzles him long enough that you shove him by the arm playfully, but keep your hand on his bicep to affectionately squeeze it. Properly toasty and feeling sultry, you lean sidelong into him as you murmur, "Which one do you think will sound better later tonight?"

Luke's expressive eyebrows shoot up with surprise before his eyes lower at your alluring glance, smile cresting his lips as he murmurs in your ear, "I've always been partial to what ever the lady wishes…"

Needless to say, at the end of the night, with an approving nod from Ellis, you let Luke take you back to his place. You both buzz with the urge to lean in and kiss, but you manage to control yourselves as you ride up in the elevator, walk down the hall, and enter his handsomely well-appointed bachelor pad. Before he can finish helping you shed your coat, though, you become demanding in your need and curl up against his tall, broad frame to capture his lips. He groans and hurriedly peels his jacket off to wrap his arms around you and start walking backwards with you in tow towards his bedroom, but you're too impatient for that. So, you steer him to the sofa and shove him down onto the plush surface before letting him watch you strip out of your blouse, then your skirt before you step out of your heels and climb onto his lap.

"Mmm, you sure, gorgeous?" Luke is muttering between kisses as you yank his belt undone and unfasten his pressed slacks.

Sitting back on your haunches, you unhook your bra and toss it, getting turned on by how Luke's hazel eyes darken with lust and his expression etches with want. Taking his hand, you guide his fingers to touch you between your legs, showing him how wet you are. "If you don't want to, I can just go home—"

Your taunting purr is snuffed by him sitting up to ravenously kiss you while his hands yanked your panties off before he hastily shoved his waistband down to wrap your hand around his shaft and start to stroke his warm, pulsing erection while he fished a condom out of his pocket. Snatching it from his fingers, you rip it open and expertly fasten it over his throbbing dick. Luke arches and stretches out from the sensation before hastily kicking the rest of his clothes off. Satisfied by his hungry stare, you undulate to angle your hips over him and start to teasingly rut over his cock before you've gotten him nice and slicked up with your arousal in order to plunge down onto him.

Luke makes a throaty moan and rolls his hips under you. "S-Shit, you feel so incredible, baby," he praises as he grips your thighs and arches with a reedy groan of, "Please, ride my cock—"

"How hard can I ride you?" you ask, purposely stilling and just letting his cock throb inside you while you smile provocatively down at him when he growls. "Tell you what? I'll ride you hard, but eventually, I want you to fuck me silly, Luke."

His cock pulses wantonly at that, and Luke peels his polo shirt off his head and nods, voice rough as gravel as he purrs, "I will, firecracker."

With that, you use Luke for your pleasure, hands pressing into his pectorals for purchase as you fuck yourself on his cock, hips rolling, walls clenching, and core tingling with the effort, and the burning desire in his expression fuels you into a needy orgasm that has you arching and crying out, hair tossed back as you ride your climax out and Luke clutches at you under the onslaught of being strangled in your heat.

But before you can recover, he sits up and holds you, kissing your sweaty skin and petting your hair back from your features as he rumbles, "Get on your hands and knees for me."

You make a titillated sound before doing as you're told, and when Luke shoves his cock back into your aching pussy from behind, your mind flashes to how good Javi would fuck you. The sound that escapes you is incandescent, and it entices Luke to buck hard into you. "F-Fuck, tell me if I'm too rough—" he begins to husk.

"Oh god, please, fuck me hard," you whimper and emphasize your need by rocking back onto him brusquely and mewling. "M-Make me yours," you find yourself hitching in a tight exhale.

Luke obliges, grunting in approval when you get on your elbows from his next punishing thrust before he sets a pace that is deliciously rough and what you need in order to drown out the grief and pain of feeling so lost and alone without Javi.

His mouth suckles on your neck as he practically mounts you and fucks you so hard you are muffling your cries into the couch cushion, hands wringing into the plush foam as you flood over with a strangled climax that has Luke moaning, "Oh, f-fuck, I'm gonna come—!" right before he does. The hoarse sound he makes as his hips slam home is smothered against your nape, and you feel him flex and throb inside you. "Holy…f-fuck me," Luke stammers before laboriously pulling out and off of you, panting and gasping as you unfurl and lay askew on the couch, recovering with your eyes closed and trembling from the sexcapade.

At some point, you feel Luke get up from the couch, and an undetermined amount of time later, you're being lifted into his arms and carried to his bed. The rum coursing in your veins has you swimming into a sated sleep, one so good you only stir when you faintly hear a door open and feel the condensation of a hot shower start to waft into the room. Uncurling and rolling over, you open your eyes to slits and blink at the sight of Luke.

He's only in a towel, wet tendrils of hair dangling in his eyes as he retrieves a pair of sweatpants from a drawer. You're on delay when you realize you've spent the night. The curtains are drawn in the bedroom, but you can see daylight spilling in from the doorway out in the living room, so you sit up and grunt from the effort. Luke glances back and smiles. "Morning, gorgeous," his tenor drawl is like melted gravel as he takes you in. Hair mussed, looking sleepy-yet-lovely while you absently pet your hand over your wild mane and hold the sheet to your décolletage, he can't help want you all over again.

"Hah, I highly doubt I look gorgeous right now," you chuckle and stifle a yawn. "Sorry…for just falling asleep on you like that."

Luke hums charmingly and tosses his towel from around his hips down onto the foot of the bed so he can pull on his sweatpants. It gives you the perfect vantage point of a morning after, swagger filled man with a great broad and defined torso, light sandy skin stretched over muscles, and a light dusting of hair in a trail below his belly button down to his apex. Once the sweats are on though, he catches your stare and smirks before flopping down on the bed beside you to admire you with a debonair look. "I've told you before that you could stay," he charms and combs some rogue strands behind your ear for you. "Now, I'm gonna make some coffee and see what I can scrounge up for breakfast. You relax and take a shower," is his affectionate musing as he caresses his hand to your waist and gives you a flirty squeeze.

Smiling, you comb his tendrils back from his forehead and kiss his cheek. "All right, Rico Suave," you tease and give him a playful nudge for him to get up from the bed so you can slink over to the side, and on aching legs, strut into the bathroom. Luke's eyes drink in your nude form like a man mystified by a mirage. "Could you bring my clothes for me?" is your meek ask as you pop your head out and catch his staring.

"…If I can manage to find them," he quips and shrugs, so you roll your eyes amusedly and shut the bathroom door.

When you emerge from the fantastic shower, you find that Luke's set out a large, olive green Army t-shirt for you – nothing else. Snickering, you put the oversized shirt on, finding it swallows you up, but the cotton is so worn and soft that you feel very comfortable in it. Loping out to the main room, you find him at the stove, and the wafting aroma of really good coffee makes your nose twitch happily. There's a low drone from somewhere in the apartment that sounds like a machine at work, so you have to get his attention.

"You really couldn't find my clothes, soldier?" you chime as you waltz up and plant a hand on your hip, leaning your weight into it and squinting your eyes admonishingly at the handsome man.

"Heh, well I put the tender garments to wash. Popped them in the dryer a few minutes ago," he remarks and gestures to a closet by the front door as he gives you an appreciative look. "Help yourself to the coffee. This is almost done," is his tenor purr.

You pour yourself a cup and marvel at the coffee maker, impressed while he sets the scrambled eggs on two plates with the strips of bacon and pops some sliced bread in the toaster. "You are quite the scavenger," you joke as you sip the coffee and let it relax you to lope closer when he leans his hip into the counter to wait for the toast.

As you get into range, Luke loops a hand around your hip and tows you to lean into him so he can brush his nose along your damp hairline. "I can't cook a damn, but breakfast is easy enough," he murmurs, kissing your temple when the toast is ready and tapping your hip tenderly as he rumbles, "Go sit. Take a load off."

You do so, parking yourself at the couch and try to not fixate on the recollections of what happened on it last night. Luke joins you with the plates, handing you one. For a few minutes, you eat silently, relishing the meal and delicious coffee as you try and collect yourself. Before you can figure out how you should handle this post-hookup scenario now, he exhales and sets his plate on the coffee table before pivoting to sit sideways so he can gaze at you. "Listen…I know how you feel about this, but I can't pretend I don't want to see you again," Luke states in a halting tone, watching your expression. "I like being with you…and I'd like to pursue that further."

You press your lips together and set your plate aside on the coffee table so you can fold your legs under you and sit closer to him. "Luke, I just…I feel really bad. I haven't been fair to you," you find yourself parceling out and glancing down at your hands when you can't hold his hazel gaze. "I'm just not in a good place. I don't…don't think I'll ever be."

There's a pause, where you feel his gaze on you, so you glance up at his bare chest and focus on the expanse of his sculpted collarbones before you notice he reaches for your hair to comb his long fingers through it, coaxing your bemused stare up to his. "There was someone else, right?" he asks, tone neutral while his expression only betrays curiosity. "All those times…I don't know. I kind of started to think you were seeing someone else."

Expression softening, you nod. "I was. It…it was really complicated. On and off," you murmur and grimace deprecatingly as you elaborate, "It was never gonna work out, but we kept getting back together. It…didn't work out – been over for good, and I think…I just don't think I'm meant to be with anyone."

Luke listens, handsome features quirking thoughtfully – surprising you when he rumbles, "I think you shouldn't give up on yourself like that. You're amazing, firecracker."

His eyes are warm, stubble-peppered defined jaw softening from the smile he gives you when you can't find a response, so you just scoff and shove playfully at his chest. The fact he doesn't ask you about who you'd been seeing, or really seem to care, endears him to you in a new way, making it easy for you to slink up close and breathe in his crisp, clean scent.

It's very easy to lean in and kiss him. And it's even easier to melt into him when he kisses you back and pulls you close, humming a rugged sound as he caresses his hand up the back of your thigh.

"Would you be mad at me if I asked to go down on you, beautiful?" Luke husks against your jaw when he slips his hand up his shirt you're wearing and feels how wet you are. "Please? Wanna make you come with my mouth while you're in my shirt."

You nod vigorously, and before you know it, Luke's got you on your back on the sofa, with his face between your thighs and his tongue buried inside you.

Needless to say, you fall into an easy thing with Luke. So easy, in fact, that you spend a lot of your free time away from work at his place, where you get lost in the feeling of being wanted and not having to worry you'll lose yourself in it. Aside from Ellis knowing, you both keep it private, and after almost a month of seeing each other, you're surprised when Luke pops into your office one afternoon, looking quite serious. He asks if you both can skip happy hour later, the unspoken 'and just go to my place' clear from the rise of his brows. At first, you think it's just him playing at being earnest to not be obvious to the rest of your staff that you two are together, so you agree, and when you get to his place, you totally expect him to pick you up and carry you to his bed.

Instead, Luke takes your hand and walks you over to sit on the couch.

"Sweetheart," he begins, squeezing your hand in his as he declares, "I'm being reassigned."

Your expression becomes a stoic mask, smooth as marble as you absorb that and stare with openly disarmed heat in your gaze. "Did you ask for the new placement?" you find yourself asking.

He seems to have been expecting you to ask something else, so he hesitates before answering, "No. Not at all. Lou and I are getting reassigned to Panama. Nador and Benson are going to stay and be the on-site assets here for the agency field office expansions," he pauses when you divert your gaze out the window. "I'm leaving at the end of the week…"

You exhale a bitter sound – an acerbic scoff before you admonish yourself and turn back to Luke. "I'm sorry, I-I just don't know what to say…" you remark flatly before receding your hand from his to fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "Are you ok with the decision?"

Luke cups your cheek and tips your countenance up to his. "Hey, don't think that. I'm not happy about this. This isn't me taking off. I—" he pauses, trying to find the right words. "I know it's crazy but, if you wanted to, I…I would want you to come with me—"

"No."

The words fly out of your mouth before your brain has even registered it. You see the hurt in his eyes, so, crestfallen, albeit determinedly, you take his hand from your cheek and lace your fingers in his.

"I just became director. I've worked very hard, and I want to see this through for as long as I can. I can't leave Ellis to hold the bag either. Not with what he and Anita are going through," you explain emphatically, and Luke nods, understanding. "Plus, I highly doubt even Lou can justify stealing me away to the Panamanian embassy and not having it look punitive," is your silly joke, to which he snickers, but the smile doesn't reach his expressive eyes. "…I'm sorry."

He shakes his head and puffs out a cleansing exhale. "Don't be. I was a prick for even suggesting it," he tells you and stands, unlatching his hand from yours as he paces over to the window.

Your heart is heavy when you both part – having decided it was best not to spend the night and just start the process of transitioning back to what you were to each other before, and at the end of the week, when you say goodbye to Luke, you find your heart hollow. Ellis and him give each other a manly hug, razzing each other about staying in touch, and when Luke vacillates on how to say his farewell to you, you roll your eyes and hug him, kissing him on the cheek before whispering in his ear, "Don't be a stranger, soldier. Being friends is better than nothing."

He snorts at that. "Your logic is forever unimpeachable, captain," he jibes before pecking you on the cheek and turning to lope down the steps towards his waiting ride to the airport.

It's easy to fall back into the depression after that, but you war with it, struggle to keep afloat while you're adrift, so when the chance to go to the IBM headquarters in the states comes up for a DOS tech showcase, you are happy to volunteer, needing to get the hell away from Colombia and all the lonesomeness. You make the arrangements and coordinate with Ellis to captain the proverbial ship, looking forward to the change of scenery for a bit.

Meanwhile, since he'd gotten to town, Javier had been on pins and needles about the upcoming assignment, and the fact he couldn't tell anyone about it had him stuck with only his thoughts swirling turbulently in him. Of course, his father knew something was up, but had the reserved sense to not cajole him for details. After weeks go by, he manages to at least open up and tell him the cliff notes on what happened in Colombia. Nothing too specific, but enough to make it clear he doesn't want to divulge the heavier details. It's a weight off his shoulders to have the wisest, most patient man he knows assure him he was still proud of him, at least. And once that burden was shed, he wished he could tell him about the promotion, but knew it would open up a can of worms he wasn't ready to reflect on, even with himself. But, one cool night as they both sat on the porch and just talked, his father had produced something from his jacket pocket and grunted over for his attention. Sagely, he held up the last letter Javier had sent him.

"I've been meaning to ask you about her," Chucho murmurs in his gravelly drawl, smile ghosting his mustachioed lips while he adjusts his glasses over his nose. "Where did you leave things? Can I finally look forward to nietos?"

Javi tenses at the mention of grandchildren before he scoffs and crosses his arms moodily, chewing heartily on the nicotine gum in his mouth now. "…I haven't spoken to her since before I left D.C.," he remarks guardedly, knee bouncing nervously as he weighs how much to disclose. "We…it was always complicated, with how different our work was. The embassy is a sieve when it comes to gossip, so we kept the relationship secret," Javi explains, dark eyes crinkling as he thinks about the last time he'd seen you – sitting next to him in the jeep and smiling lovingly. "I, uh, had a reputation, so she was hesitant in pursuing anything. When I left…I didn't get to see her before, so we didn't talk about what would happen," is his careful explanation.

Grunting perceptively, his father reclines in his seat, idly tracing his fingers over the envelope. "Why haven't you called her since?" he asks, without judgment.

Javi sighs and grumpily props his elbows over his knees as he buries his face in his hands. Wringing his features tersely, he grumbles, "Because I know she's going to ask me what's happened, what's going to happen…and I don't know what to say to her. I don't want to lie to her…"

Watching his son wrestle with his frustration and try to wrangle his self-loathing down, Chucho decides to let the subject fall away, and a sobering silence blankets them, filled with the chitter of crickets and other nocturnal calls that ambled from their acres of farmland. But, the morning of Javi's cousin's wedding, the phone rang, and before Javi could march up to answer it, Chucho had picked it up.

With a stony glance, he nodded and handed the receiver over to Javi. "I'll go grab my hat," he announced, nonverbally communicating that he would give him privacy.

"Peña," he answered, standing straighter when the head of operations greeted him and declared that all the arrangements would be completed in a few weeks, and wanted to assure Javier that what they'd discussed was still the agreement. "When can I get back?" Javier asks, leaning his shoulder into the wall.

"As soon as your visa is issued, which is the very last step, per the new protocol I mentioned. We want to keep it as hush-hush as possible, due to some political jockeying that needs to be sidelined with the locals. You can be back in Bogotá a little under a month from now," the man explains before reassuringly adding, "You still have plenty of personal time, Peña, so by all means, use it and let us know—"

"I'd like to be in-country as soon as the stamp on the paperwork is dry," Javier interjects. "Another month sitting around is plenty of personal time," is his flippant quip.

Javi is fussing with his hair in the hall mirror when his father saunters out of his room with his hat in hand and the little gift he's taking to the wedding reception. He spares his son any questioning, at least until they're both driving out from the church after the wedding to the reception hall.

"You're heading back?"

Javi glances at him and huffs, aggravated. "Yes…we're going after the Cali cartel. I'm…I'm not gonna be a field agent though. They promoted me to DEA country attaché," he answers tersely as he pulls into the parking lot and eases the pickup truck into a spot underneath a tree. When he can feel his father's stare intensify on him, wanting to hear more, he grips the steering wheel and tensely exhales. "Por favor, Papá…no puedo decir nada más," he grumbles broodingly and glances at him, soulful brown eyes etched with trepidation.

Thumbing his moustache thoughtfully, the man gives him a curt nod before exiting the car.

Javi's mood doesn't improve much once they're sitting at their table, watching people dance to the boisterous music. He gets up to get himself a beer as soon as he can, and when people clap suddenly, he spots the bride and groom come in and start dancing, setting the tone for everyone else. He's hit with the nostalgia of easier, carefree days, and marvels at how his kid cousin was now a Marine and married. He's suddenly itching for a cigarette, so he digs into his pocket for his nicotine pack and pops one free and into his mouth. He chews it testily for a bit while he waits for the bartender to hand him a cold Budweiser bottle.

His father is amiable as people come by and pay their respects, greeting him and then immediately gushing over Javi – shaking his hand and declaring how proud they are of him. Javi smiles and gives thanks when he really wants to dig a hole and bury himself in it. And just when he's trying not to stew on that, he spots Lorraine.

Boy, was approaching her the dumbest thing he could've done.

She was civil and easygoing, and the proverbial kick in the gut she gave him about how better off she was by being left at the altar by him – how grateful she was that they hadn't ended up marrying – really punctuates his self-loathing, revving his melancholy up. But mostly, when he walked away and looked back to see her happy and dotingly coddling her kids, it settled something aching and raw in his chest.

It was the pang of realizing he was losing something bigger with you. Hell, he couldn't help wonder if he'd already lost it.

By the time the reception is winding down, Javi is half in the bag and in no condition to drive, so Chucho takes the wheel. While he drives, he assures Javi that he knows he didn't like all the attention, but people just wanted to pay their respects because he was a hero to them.

"I'm not a hero," is his cross deadpan, dismissive and dour as he clasps his hand over his eyes and massages at his temples.

Pulling over down a little side path from the main road, Chucho parks the truck and turns the engine off. "Will you tell me something?" he begins in Spanish, and when Javi tersely snaps his seatbelt off and impatiently fidgets, he adds, "What happened to you over there?"

"I don't know, pop. It just got complicated—"

"But you want to go back?"

The question weighs in the air, so Chucho reminisces to Javier. He begrudgingly listens to his father, before remarking in a snarky drawl, "It was right here, wasn't it? The last time we had this conversation?"

"You didn't listen to me then, either," Chucho remarks dutifully.

"Nope." Javi tilts his head and stares aloofly at his father, eyes goading.

Chucho grunts amusedly. A beat of silence passes before he drawls, "So, Cali."

Javi nods firmly, getting loose once his father relents in his previous line of questioning and lecturing. "Cali," he repeats musingly.

Another grunt, this one pensive, before he glances over at him and smiles. "¿Y ella? ¿Me vas a traer de vuelta una nuera?"

Sputtering a terse exhaled huff, Javi shakes his head ruefully. "How long have you been waiting to ask me that?" is his rhetorical drawl before he grumbles a quickly muttered, "She's not the marrying kind, Pops. I'm lucky she ever gave me the time of day…"

Amused that Javi emphasized how you weren't the marrying kind instead of saying he wasn't marriage material – which was his usual excuse, Chucho claps a large hand on his son's shoulder and gives him a sardonic shake. "Well then, you'll just have to go back and prove yourself to her again. She sounds like she's worth getting back into her good graces for, mijo, so don't louse it up," he chuckles warming, grinning when Javi can't suppress his smirk.

It's the best pep talk his father's ever given him. When his visa is issued, he books a flight to Colombia, says goodbye to Chucho, and sets out to not only take down Cali, but to salvage things with you.

As soon as Javier has landed back in Bogotá, he's impatiently giddy with the impulsive urge to see you, so after he's presented his new apartment keys and drops his luggage off, he gets a taxi and drives over across town to your apartment complex. His heart is racing, blood running hot under his skin as he exits the cab and hoofs it across the courtyard and up the steps. With a fortifying breath, he knocks on your door, buzzing with excitement. The anticipation of you opening the door and staring in disarmed awe at him has his hands fidgeting at his sides.

You don't come to the door. Sobering in his expectant thrill, he knocks again, but there's no answer. After he waits a minute, listening intently for any signs of life inside the apartment, he realizes you're not home. Crestfallen, he finds himself dimly walking down the steps and heading for a walk to an avenue where he can hail a cab. He doesn't have a satellite phone yet, so once he's back in his new apartment, he goes to the landline and dials your number.

After the line rings for several tries, Javi's about to give up when the line picks up and your voice states your full name and recites, "—I'm currently unavailable, but please leave your name and a brief message, and I'll return your call as soon as possible," in English before repeating the same message in Spanish.

Javi's first day back at the embassy is a surreal experience. People shake his hand, some acknowledge him with bright expressions, while others whisper to each other when he walks pass. He absolutely hates it. Meeting Stoddard doesn't improve his mood. The guy follows him around like an eager puppy, and seems pretty much useless other than being a clerical reference point for all the stuff he needed in order to jump right into things. And when he meets with the ambassador? He gets a sobering reality check. Crosby lets Javi gush about Cornerstone and the asset that's in play, and then seamlessly quashes his enthusiasm, making it very clear that Cali was not going to be like Medellín. Once Javi's demeanor sobers, the man goes to his desk, retrieves something, and returns to hand him his satellite phone.

The memories that flood him at having the piece of tech in his hands again are definitely to be stowed away for later.

He spends the rest of the day in his new office, digging through the boxes and rifling through files until he looks up and finds the entire department quiet – empty of his staff. When he calls out for Stoddard and gets no reply, he wanders back to his desk, trying to find something to do to justify staying longer.

Phone cradled to his ear, he's dialing your office number before he's registered the impulse, hoping you're working late. He ends up bewildered when an automated message chimes that the number he's dialed is no longer in use. Befuddled, he bounds out of his department and strides up the steps to get to the Clerical Operations offices. When he gets there, he finds that the cubicles are different and the placard reads 'General Operations – Clerical Division' now. Frowning, he wanders back down to his office to collect his coat and keys, dejected, and needing to drown his sorrows. Javi doesn't expect to find the bulk of his office staff, including his deputy country attaché, at the bar he's strolled into, eager to drink himself into a mellow sulk. Once he's rebuffed his deputy's offer, he plunks down at the bar and gets his first whiskey. He hasn't even gotten to nurse his drink much before the warm buzz hits his veins, and he finds himself glancing over and catching the gaze of the tall leggy brunette from the office.

She's got nothing on you. Sure, she's young and clearly interestedly stealing looks over at him, but he's coyly ruminating about what you would look like sitting at a table across from him. Would you wear that silky blouse with the clasp buttons he likes? Tight pencil skirt? Hair sultry and silky as it cascades down your shoulders and frames your stunning face—

"Pretty girl."

And just when he doesn't think his first day can't get any worse, fucking Stechner sits in the stool next to him, obscuring his daydreaming line of sight at the spectral version of you he'd been imagining. It takes everything in Javi not to punch the man in the throat. Especially when he gives him that gloating, prodding smirk of his.

"Welcome back, Agent Peña."

By the time Stechner finishes feeding Javier his new agenda of bullshit capitulation and grandstanding, dashes his hopes on Duffy and Lopez's operation being a success, and pats him on the back like nothing nefarious awaits him this time before fucking off, Javier is simmering with angst – seething with impotency. So, he drinks and stews before his dark eyes wander back over to the leggy brunette.

Half a bottle of whiskey pours later and a heated glance over at Katie leads to him paying both their tabs and taking her back to his place. She's a meticulous, albeit sexy thing who takes her clothes off after she shoves him to sit at the foot of his bed, lays them onto the leather chair tucked in the corner by the window, and tosses her purse onto the shelving of his headboard before getting on her knees and going down on him with allure. Before he can get too worked up, he pulls her up and tosses her onto the bed so he can retrieve a condom from his wallet, undress, and get his drunken frustrations out in the best stress relief he's had in weeks.

The morning after, though? He wakes and immediately feels like shit when he rolls to peek over his shoulder at the sleeping woman. How the fuck had he managed to screw up already – less than 48 hours back in town? Was he just destined to sabotage himself if enough liquor was in play? Aggravated, he decides he needs a cigarette, but realizes he doesn't have any, so he stealthily reaches over, snags her purse, and plucks it over so he can fish out a slim cigarette and lighter. The taste of the smoke and the nicotine give him comfort as he moodily rests the heel of his palm to his forehead and broods about what the fuck he's going to do.

He decides to sneak out of bed and into the bathroom, where he stares at himself in the mirror over the sink and really doesn't like the man he sees, so he runs the lit end of the cigarette under the faucet before stepping into the shower. By the time he comes back into the bedroom, hair damp and countenance stinging from the fresh shave, he finds his bed empty. Katie did him the favor of avoiding the awkwardness of post-hookup unease, especially seeing as she slept with her boss. Shit, he really didn't think about that last night. Javier makes a mental note that he cannot do that again, and the recall of your pointed rejection of him early on reminds him now how messy it is to go home with someone from the office for frills-free sex. Annoyed with himself, he hurriedly gets dressed, combs his hair, and haphazardly fusses with the knot of his tie from the time he leaves his apartment to the moment he steps off the elevator to saunter into his department.

Stoddard is already at his side with his daily itinerary, reminding him of Simon the Chipmunk, both in enthusiasm and know-it-all-ness, as he runs down some of his bigger meetings and hands him the org chart for each. He pauses in mid-stride to his desk when he sees the new department name third down, and sees your name at the top of it. He can't help smirk proudly as he resumes his lope to around his desk.

He's very disappointed when he walks into the IT+IS department two floors away from his and finds only Ellis Rose waiting for him in the conference room. Javier has a stoic poker face though, and shakes the man's hand before glancing out the glass partition that looks out on the bustling department before he asks, "Where's your better half?"

"Hah, she'll be back sometime this week," Ellis retorts before gesturing for Javi to have a seat.

He can't help be impressed in hearing all of the innovative processes and responsibilities your department is in charge of, and by the time he's heading to his next meeting with Mil Group, Javi is fondly thinking of you, wondering when he should reach out to you next.

"Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns," Nador remarks and does a slow clap as Javi walks into the department.

This meeting is one he could do without, especially after Benson walks in, claps him on the back, and the two men fill him in on the regime changes. Good news is Col. Wysession and Luke Samson got reassigned soon after he'd left Colombia. Bad news comes from Nador snickering, "Poor guy finally got to romance that badass little filly, only to get shipped off to Panama a month into it. Just goes to show you there ain't a point at pursuin' love out here."

Javier's gut is twisted up the rest of the day. Love? He'd been gone for months, and sure, he had no right to think you'd have waited for him, but Luke Samson?! After everything? Could you have fallen in love with the man thanks to the void he'd left between you?

His head is pounding by the time he gets back to his desk, so the last thing he needs to deal with is a call from Duffy telling him he and Lopez have been compromised in Cali. Right after that call, he gets a summons from the ambassador. "It's only my second fucking day…" Javier mutters to himself as he stalks to his door and marches out of the department.

Finding out he has to get pissed in his ear the next morning by CNP for the botched unilateral op and the upcoming smear piece on the cover of El Espectador in the morning does nothing for his ornery mood, so he stops at a liquor store on the way home, stocks up on booze and gets a carton of cigarettes.

While he's settling in on his couch with a bottle of whiskey, a clean glass and a pack of cigarettes with some Cali research folders for the night, you're coming off the elevator onto your department's floor, rollaway suitcase in tow as you stride into the quiet space and head for your office. You'd spent a week visiting the other field offices before your trip to New York for the Department of State conference with IBM. As you lope unhurriedly, you can't help reminisce about the whirlwind of the last few days.

Once your business trip had been completed, you'd had a few extra days to spend in the city. You'd made the rounds to your favorite spots of your youth, visited your dear mentor at NYU, and even penciled in some shopping and a hair appointment. After you'd gotten roped into having a lady's lunch with the ambassador's wife around the time of your promotion, she'd boldly suggested that you spruce up your wardrobe, maybe even zhuzh up your look. "You're a director now, dear. Wouldn't hurt to look the part," she'd chimed amiably over her spiked Arnold Palmer. Taking her advice, you found yourself with almost a whole new repertoire of clothing ready to go back to Colombia with you. And you'd been in such a good mood, that you even reached out to your aunt – your father's youngest sister – and seen if she'd like a visit.

She invited you to a snooty and posh lady's tea room on the Upper East Side, where she pleasantly filled you in on what your spoiled brat and self-centered cousins were up to in Europe as they trot around on her late-husband's well-squirreled-away-dimes. You'd even humored her when she pressed you to reach out to your father. "—He would love to see you. I think this estrangement has gone much too long, colorá," she'd needled, using your least-favorite nickname to try and get a rise out of you – get your cheeks burning and temper flaring like when you'd lose it as a little girl and flush red with anger.

Instead, you smiled primly and mused, "Maybe I'll call him on my mother's anniversary, tía gitana." The haughty purse of her lips at being referred to as your gipsy aunt is your little victory, seamlessly ending the conversation about reconciling with your father.

Your familial duty – somewhat – completed, you'd headed back to your hotel, taking a leisurely walk through the park on the chilly winter day before loping across the street towards your elegant hotel's entry to cross the intricately tiled lobby before a front desk clerk called out your name and flagged you to come over. "Miss, sorry to disturb you, but a gentleman caller left this for you and requested we pass it to you upon your return," the polite clerk explained and produced a sleek business card.

Thanking him, you read the name on the card and rolled your eyes amusedly. "May I use your phone?"

Once the clerk produced the glossy, black phone and placed it on the reception counter for you, he stepped away to attend another guest while you quickly dialed the number.

"Mmm, well, so glad you weren't too busy to call me, ketsele," the deep, velvety husk is very self-satisfied, so you scoffed coquettishly so he could hear it. "Tell me you're free for dinner and fun with a dear old friend?"

"Sasha, how the hell did you find out I was in town?" you'd murmured, brushing your freshly cut and styled hair over a shoulder.

"I'll tell you once you come back out and hop in my car."

With that, he ended the call, and you couldn't help coyly smile and saunter back out the lobby to the curb in front of the hotel, where an opulent Lincoln limousine with tinted windows sat idling before the driver hopped out and dutifully rounded to the back passenger door to open and hold it for you.

"Nice to see you again, Nikolai," you greeted the stone-faced driver-bodyguard, who nodded curtly at you as his only greeting. Once you'd slid into the dark leather interior, you pursed your plush lips over at Sasha. "Well?"

The elegant and handsome man with the devastating blue eyes smiled wolfishly at you before he slid over from the longer bench seat that spans the length of the limo to sit next to you and kiss your cheek. "Irina, obviously," he purred and smirked as he eyed you appraisingly. "Really love the hair, and that lipstick? Oof," he complimented with honey on his tongue, purring, "You looked good strutting over from the park—"

"Sasha," you'd warningly mused and swat his brawny thigh in the ridiculously tailored black trousers, trying not to admire his trimmed beard and dark lanky-haired brushed back with glossy care, or how his slim-fitted vest accentuated his barrel chest hidden underneath the periwinkle dress shirt with the open collar. His chest hair peeked out a bit thanks to the open collar, so you couldn't help brush your fingers teasingly over it. "Thought you were into waxing that these days?" was your tease.

"Eh, it's been cold as balls," he rumbled thickly before turning to the lowered visor partition to call out in Russian, "To the spot, Nikolai."

Shaking your head humorously at him, you drawled, "I told your sister not to let you know I was in town—"

"You know, that wounded me, quite deeply," he charmed huskily and pouted, soft pink lips looking plump and inviting. "You're still as imperious as ever, ketsele—"

Getting riled by the playful 'little kitten' Hebrew endearment, you shot him a blazing glance. "I just know you're supposed to be focusing on curating three exhibits right now, and all you've ever needed is the excuse of a distraction to screw off on your responsibilities," you couldn't help scathe and arch a sharp brow at him when he just quirked his lips in that aloof way of his.

"There are always exhibits. But there's only one you, and I want to spend time with you whenever you're in town. Is that so wrong?" he charismatically retorted and planted a kiss on your temple after he wrapped his arm around your shoulders to affectionately nestle you into his warm side. "Nope. I don't think so."

You relented and rested your head on his shoulder, taking in his expensive cologne as it curls fragrant notes of woody and smoky heat pleasantly over your senses. "Ok, but no un-platonic stuff, bub," you'd sighed and relished his furnace-like warmth while he grunted a charmed sound.

Dinner at the Russian Tea Room led into drinks and dancing at Tunnel, and once you're properly toasty and 'vibing' as the club kids say, Sasha took you back to his loft downtown, and you found yourself pulling him over by the front of his vest so he can crowd you against the elevator's wall to make out while it ascended to the top floor.

Alexander 'Sasha' Ivanov, son of a Russian oligarch father and socialite Israeli mother, was always a great time. Had been since you'd met him through his sister, Irina, in boarding school. He'd had the same wolfish grin at 21 years old when he'd helped a 17-year-old you sneak into Studio54 for the first time. Well, the first of many, but you weren't a braggart. It was purely physical attraction that had developed between you, albeit with a warm friendship that would never become romantic. He was a man of many appetites, after all, and while you did not judge him for it, sharing any lover, whether it'd be with another woman or – in Sasha's case – another man, was not to your interests. But that night? It seemed you're both on the menu for dessert, and it was a frills-free romp that was great and enthralling. When he came back from disposing of the condom, he surprised you with a champagne flute, looking like a masculine dream as he sauntered back into bed and reclined against his headboard confidently while you smiled and sipped your drink.

"You know, you saved me," he'd tipsily purred, not for the first time in all the years you've known him, so you sighed and shifted to impishly smile at him. "No, c'mon, ketsele. I'd be dead or dying of some unpleasant disease if you hadn't wrung me by the scruff and demanded I be smart and safe. All my friends…well, the 80's weren't kind to them," Sasha droned cynically and worried his bottom lip between his blunt teeth. When you sighed ruefully, he reached over and caressed his fingers down your shoulder. "So, when are we going to get married—?"

"That joke is so tired and unfunny, Sasha, so please, shove it up your ass already," you'd crassly jibed and pinched his nipple for good measure, giggling when he yelped and slapped your hand away. "You do not have to marry a woman just to appease your father—"

"Darling, you know you and I are of the same mind when it comes to paternal figures," he ground out and pulled his knees up so he could drape his forearms over them. "But…I want to give ima some grandchildren. And you and I? C'mon, even you have to admit how magnificent are brood would be," he'd playfully remarked and winked at you.

"I'm sure. Too bad for you, I don't want to be in a loveless marriage," you'd snickered. "I'm not the—"

"Marrying kind. I know, ketsele," he'd deadpanned and quirked his lips precociously at you. "And I do love you. In my own way. You'd want for nothing—"

"See? This is another reason I told your sister not to let you know I was in town. When you're drunk, you get all patriarchal and obtuse," you'd cut in and placed the now-empty flute to his bedside table and got up to get dressed. With a grumpy growl, Sasha towed you back to bed and pulled you down over his broad, barrel chest, pinning you to him by cinching the sheet tight over both your forms. With a rueful chuckle, you purred, "I'm leaving late tomorrow afternoon, so you must drop me off early in the morning so I have time to pack."

"Done," he nuzzled you and rumbled, "So, I've been seeing this guy I really like, but he's a theater professor. Can you believe it? I mean, how fucking cliché, right?"

You chuckled, and spent the night hearing about his boy troubles before you both dozed off cuddled up together. In the morning, he took you to his favorite Jewish deli with the potato pancakes you love, and after you kissed and bid each other farewell, you packed your things, checked out and were at JFK for your flight with enough time to spare for kitschy souvenir shopping.

Amused with how such an unconventional outing helped revitalize you for the return to your buttoned-up drudgery, you cross over to the area where your office is nestled. When you unlock the door, you hear the squeak of Ellis' desk chair as he hops up and rushes to his office door to peek out.

"Hey, girlie! You're back early," he remarks, ruffling his unkempt hair. "What're you doing here so late?"

Opening your office and flicking the lights on, you park your suitcase by the door and head over to your desk, before plopping into it with a tired sigh. "Well, I assumed my inbox is overflowing, and – yep," you tap at a pile of memos on your desk. "That there'd be plenty of messages to get caught up on, so I came from the airport. And you? What're you still doing here, Rose?"

Ellis blows a raspberry and saunters over to your comfy sofa tucked into the corner of your windowless office. Aside from a slim rectangle partition next to the door, there's no way for you to peek in or out from your desk's vantage point, but you're satisfied that you're both alone, so you shed your tweed jacket to the back of your chair, roll up the sleeves of your silky blush-toned blouse and adjust the waistband of your jeans as you roll your eyes and recline in your seat when he drawls, "Truthfully? I forgot to sign some requisition forms, so I was just finishing that up before Estelle in billing rips me a new one tomorrow," he pauses and eyes you for a beat before lilting, "Hey…did you change your hair?"

Snickering, you toss out the bouncy tresses that now cascade down to just over the tops of your breasts rather than brushing your elbows. "Yep. Got it done while I was in the city," you remark before remembering all the souvenirs you'd packed. "Ah, I got tons of stuff. Might as well unpack 'em now so you can take them home," you muse as you go to the suitcase and wheel it over so you can sit on the couch with him and unpack it. The jetlag would probably hit you later tonight, so you figured it'd be good to catch up on some work and gossip. As you hand Ellis the packed treats, you ask, "So? Catch me up. I had no chance to log in to the network the last few days. Any updates?"

"Oh! Big one," Ellis exclaims and sits up so he can dish. "They finally filled the DEA country attaché position. It's been the talk of the embassy," Ellis states with dramatic flare, and when you finish zipping up your suitcase and give him your undivided attention with a sardonic, 'Oh?' quirk of your brows, he hits you with it. "Special Agent and DEA Country Attaché, Javier fucking Peña. And can you believe he's only been in country like, two days, and he already supposedly slept with that brunette clerical girl in their office? The dude is a dog, but what a legend—"

You feel like the air becomes as thick as molasses and starts to suction you down into the couch, compressing like liquefied gravity onto your startled psyche. Your vision swims when Ellis shakes your shoulder after your expression shutters in and your breath stutters in your chest.

"Whoa, hey—you ok?" Ellis kneels in front of you and squeezes your arm. "Jetlag?"

You shake your head and lean forward to bury your face in your hands while you rest them on your knees, trying to take deep breaths. Once you don't feel like you're going to hiccup a sob, you sit up and take a shaking, cleansing breath.

"Shut the door?"

Squinting and furrowing his brow at your hoarse whisper, Ellis gets up and does as you ask before returning to sit at your side. "What's the matter, kid?" he asks and rests his hand reassuringly on your shoulder.

Your face starts to burn with shame at how overblown your reaction is to the news. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you brush your hair back behind your ear before pivoting to sit so you can gaze earnestly at Ellis.

"I need to tell you something...never planned to ever mention it after—" you pause and realize you're about to get tangled up, so you decide to just come out and say it. "Javier Peña and I were seeing each other. It was serious, but then he got rotated out, and I haven't spoken to him since…"

Blinking, you stare up with openly raw emotion, eyes shimmering at your colleague and best friend, not sure what his reaction will be.

"…Wait," Ellis begins, on delay, eyes squinting as if his mind is making a series of calculations. Then, his eyes round, brows shooting up to his hairline as he shouts quietly, "YOU and Peña?! For how long?! Since when?! Why didn't you tell me?"

You wince, feeling the apples of your cheeks burn with embarrassment. "Like I said…on and off, since the night of that Fourth of July party upstairs?" you answer meekly, adding in a mumble, "I just wanted to keep it secret, for obvious reasons."

Ellis recalls that night, and makes a long, drawn out grunting sound when he remembers how he'd been dancing with Anita, and had looked up to see you chatting with Peña across the room. Then he remembers that after you'd left, he didn't catch sight of Peña again that night. Shocked, he clears his throat and whispers, "You've been seeing him for that long?! And you kept it a secret from everyone—!?"

"Well…not everyone. His partner, Steve Murphy, found out. And I suspect maybe one or two other people know," you mutter and tensely lean back so you can fold your arms over your chest, squirming. "I'm sorry. I just…early on, because of his reputation, I didn't want it known that we were seeing each other. And then every time I got close to feeling like I could finally tell you, something would happen; we'd break up, or things got crazy with his work, or it just didn't make sense to rock the boat by confiding in anyone new about our secret. But…if he's heading the DEA down here now, it would be wrong not to let you know," is your halting explanation, diverting your gaze.

"Hey…don't be sorry, kid," Ellis muses and puts his arm around you, giving you a fortifying squeeze. "That sounds insane, but…it makes sense. I'm so sorry for dropping that bomb on you like that," he remarks and gives you a sobering smile as he jokes, "He's gonna punch me in the mouth for ratting him out, huh."

You frown and lightly shove him. "I wouldn't volunteer that, no. But, we're not together…he doesn't owe me anything," you say, not believing your own lie as it twists a pang of hurt into your heart. "After all, I dated Luke…"

Twisting his lips in commiseration, Ellis remarks, "Don't be mad but, Luke had thought there was someone else – felt that every time you pulled away, it wasn't just because of you wanting not to be pursued by him. I used to wave it off and insist you were just a pain in the ass—"

You elbow him wryly. "Well, thanks, you jerk," is your disparaging snicker, but he does manage to get you to crack a smile as he chuckles all big brotherly. With a huffy sigh, you continue, "Anyway…I might need you to, um, run interference if we have to meet with DEA. I…I don't think I can sit across from him and pretend I don't want to jump over the desk and dropkick him into the carpet."

Ellis snorts at the mental image, and nods. "I got your back, girlie," he declares amiably before hesitating about mentioning something, but when you tilt your head and insistently stare at him, he sighs and relents. "He asked about you today. We had an intro meeting set up by his deputy, Stoddard. When he walked in, he looked disappointed before he asked where my better half was."

You feel your heart skip a beat. Nodding dimly, you smile at Ellis and declare it's time for you two to get the hell out of there. After you part ways, you can't help be aflutter with your longing all over again.

The feeling of hopeful pining settles into your chest on the drive home, and when you get into the apartment, you trudge down the hall pass the phone, but backtrack when you see the answering machine built into it blinking red, displaying two voicemails. Setting your suitcase down in your room and going back to the phone, you press the voicemail button. Once the automated drone recites the date and time of the first message, it plays your grandmother's voice.

"Hello, mija. Call me when you get home from your trip. I have some exciting news! Well, I might as well tell you here, since I can't wait. Your prima is engaged! Call me so I can give you the details. Love you."

Shocked and smiling, you are tempted to do just that, but see that it's much too late to call her now, so you half listen to the machine recite the date and time from two days ago that the second voicemail was left before it plays it.

"…Querida. I…I know you're probably furious with me. You have every right to be. I'm sorry. I know I should've…I'm sorry for not calling you sooner. I wish I could've reached out, but I couldn't disclose to anyone I was coming back. If—if you don't want to talk to me, I understand. I…I just need you to know I never stopped thinking about you. Truth is, I probably never will. I-uh…I look forward to seeing you. Hope I can see you soon."

Your heart melts down like a sugar cube under the blazing sun of your turbulent yearning. Leaning against the wall, you struggle to not dissolve into a heap of tears after hearing everything you'd pined for captured on tape. You take said tape out of the machine and reverently slide it into its case to be stored in your jewelry box for safekeeping. Before your knees give out, you strip, crawl into bed and curl in on yourself, suddenly so overwhelmed and lost on what to do – how to feel.

Exhaustion finally blankets over you, lulling you into a fitful sleep, where you dreamlessly obsess about the stress and anxiety of reunions to come.

---

Spanish-English Glossary:

Adiós patrón = Goodbye boss

Atrevido/Atrevida = Daring man/Daring woman

¿Qué estas pensando? = What're you thinking?

Guapito = affectionate way of calling a man handsome (in the diminutive term)

Chulo/Chulito = cute guy; little cutie

Querida/querido = Affectionate term, akin to expressing one's want and desire

Cariño = darling/sweetheart

No mames = Come the fuck on/Stop fucking around

Hermano = Brother; bud

Rizos = Curls

Mijo = Short for my hijo, aka my son; sonny

Nietos = Grandkids

Por favor, papá…no puedo decir nada más = Please, dad, I can't say anything more

"¿Y ella? ¿Me vas a traer de vuelta una nuera? = And her? Are you bringing me back a daughter-in-law?

Colorá = Red-faced

Tía gitana = Gypsy aunt

Mija = Short for mi hija, aka my daughter; my girl

Prima = Cousin (female)

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