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?

38. Chapter 38: Enough

Warnings: Mentions of unrequited feelings, angst, allusions to past trauma, heartbreak, revenge, unhealthy copy mechanisms, anxiety, and grief. Remorseful!Javi, Sad!Javi, and Hopeful!Javi.

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Chapter 38: Enough

Javier had woken up hung over, still in his clothes, and feeling sick to his stomach while the sun beamed down into the bedroom through the unobstructed windows the morning after he'd gone to your place to argue with you – to plead with you to give him a chance.

It didn't hit him until he'd laboriously pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed and the wave of nausea had dissipated enough for him to think a clear thought.

It's over.

His heart sank as everything came back to him in waves, and before he could help it, he was burying his face in his hands and fighting his acrimony and disgust, self-loathing taking over now, as he warred with catching his ragged breath and staving off the anxiety that was roiling through his guts.

That sick, miserable feeling clung to him throughout the process of packing his things in the reassembled boxes he'd mechanically taped back up after retrieving them from the storage closet, and it sat like a heavy weight in his chest when he booked his flight to Miami. But it really sank deep into his marrow when he packed his bags for the airport, and found your robe hung up on the back of the bathroom door, along with your slippers misplaced underneath the bed. The knot in his throat only got tighter as he placed each into a suitcase, unable to consider discarding them. And when he retrieved all his important documents from the shoebox, he saw the photos.

The two he'd taken in Cartagena, and the one of he and his father from back on the ranch.

He felt dread in having to call him. So…he didn't.

At least not until he was out of Colombia, and not until after several days of being back stateside. Really, the only reason he was sitting on the bed of his hotel room now and dialing the house number was because he realized he'd need to explain why a delivery with a bunch of his shit was getting dropped off without prior notice.

"Peña Residence," his father greets after a few rings.

"Hey, Pop. It's me," Javi edgily greets.

"Mijo, hey! It's great to hear from you. It's been a while, sabes? Wish you'd check in a little more frequently, you know," Chucho exclaims warmly, and Javier slumps, feeling even guiltier now. "How're things?! Your cousins mentioned something they heard on the news about a big bust down there. Was that you?"

"Uh…yeah. It was," he hedges, then sighs forlornly before just blurting, "Pop, I, uh…I'm in Miami right now. I have a few loose ends to tie up on that case, and then I'm heading home. To Laredo, I mean."

"Javier…what's the matter?"

Rubbing his forehead morosely at the sound of worry tinging his father's bass-filled rasp, Javi clears his throat from the lump of emotion threatening to choke him up. "Listen, so…I called just to let you know a few boxes should be getting to the house in a week or so. I'll hopefully be there by then so you don't have to deal with it—"

"Son," Chucho intones assertively, cutting Javi off. "What's happened?"

Exhaling harshly, Javi reaches for his almost empty cigarette pack, and is busying himself with lighting one up as he rumbles, "Things are over in Colombia. I'm done. And…and once I testify on behalf of an informant this week, I'll be done at the DEA."

There's a sobering silence from his father over the line, before he exhales deeply, and asks, "What about her?"

"Pop…I can't," Javi responds dejectedly as he vacantly stares down at the cigarette pinched between the fore and middle fingers of his right hand propped on his knee, watching the ember-like heat burn out from not being puffed on since his initial drag. "I can't get into that. Not right now…"

Chucho hums, tone gravelly and concerned, but he relents, instead muttering, "Alright, mijo. Just…take care of yourself."

Javier squeezes his eyes shut and nods before answer tightly, "I will. Thanks, Pops."

"I love you, son. Be safe."

A week of debriefs, meetings with prosecutors, and many on-the-record statements later, and Javier has managed to shut off his feelings. Compartmentalized them for later self-flagellation once he's away from all the accusations glared like daggers his way from all kinds of jaded officials. But just when he thinks he'll be able to abscond from the soul-crushing need to take public accountability for his actions, a mandatory exit interview appointment that will require him to head up to Virginia in a week is drilled in by the powers that be at the DEA headquarters there. Resignation aside, he doesn't want his actions to detract from the work Feistl and Van Ness did, or taint the agents and the rest of his staff back in Bogotá, so he begins to steel himself for that bureaucratic formality and hopes he can make it a day trip.

Today, though, he's in a federal courthouse, testifying on behalf of Salcedo.

"The danger that he put himself in to ensure the success of our operation is something that cannot be downplayed. Jorge Salcedo put his life, and the safety of his family, in peril in order to do the right thing. He was instrumental to our efforts to capture and prosecute the Cali godfathers, and I believe he's deserving of this plea deal," Javi tells the closed court, making sure to be purposeful in his tone so the stenographer captures it accurately and the prosecutor knows not to fuck Salcedo any more than they have to. It was bad enough he needed to plead guilty to felony conspiracy charges, after all.

Once Javier has left the stand and exited the room's gallery, he's assertively striding out into the expansive halls of the federal courthouse, in a rush to leave and be a couple meetings closer to not having to think any more about Cali.

"Hey, Peña!"

Javi skids in step, just several paces shy of the large staircase, and turns to see Steve sauntering over to him. The wry grin and irreverent quirk of his brows is enough to make the brooding hostility dissipate from his demeanor and for his shoulders not to feel as weighed down as they'd just been by his self-loathing.

"Well, shit. You keeping tabs on me?" Javi quips as he strides over to meet his old partner halfway.

He doesn't expect Steve to pull him into a big hug. "You wish! Nah, I was meeting with a prosecutor on an interagency task force, when I heard through the grapevine that you were pissing off the feds up here," Steve jokes after stepping back from the hug to roughly clap Javi on both shoulders. "You look like shit."

"Hmph, just following your lead, you fuckin' hillbilly," Javi drawls acerbically, earning a scoffed laugh from the other man, so he gives a glib, two-finger shove into Steve's tan-suit-clad shoulder before asking, "How're Connie and Olivia?"

"Doing great! Although, they're both trying to wear me down on getting a dog. Olivia's already cajoling, 'Maybe Santa will bring a puppy,' so yeah, I'm screwed," the blond agent huffs amusedly before checking his watch. "Hey, you free now? Wanna grab a drink?"

Stiffly, Javi puts his fidgeting hands in the pockets of his gray slacks before muttering, "I got one more stop to make."

"Alright, what about tonight? Come over for dinner?" Steve proposes, brows raising in query when Javi starts shaking his head. "C'mon, Connie'll get a kick out of seeing you—"

"Thanks for the offer. I just…" Javi interjects a little sharper than he'd intended, so he clears his throat and scratches absently along his jaw as he diverts his gaze mildly, before musing, "Raincheck?"

Steve can see pushing him won't do any good. "Sure, Jav. Stay in touch, ok?" he remarks coolly before patting Javi on the shoulder.

With a curt nod, Javier gives him a firm handshake and pat on the back before he makes his exit, descending the staircase in a rushed clip while Steve sighs and heads the opposite way.

By the time Javi traverses the corridor towards the deposition rooms, he feels a little less like a shit heel for rebuffing Steve, but not any better about the last meeting he wants to check off his list for the day.

When he's escorted into the meeting space and finishes exchanging introductions, he's then led into the room occupied by an IRS official, a lawyer, and Christina Jurado.

He hasn't seen the woman since she balefully yelled at him after he'd informed her of Franklin's death, and by the stunned look in her eyes, he knows she never thought she'd see him again.

As Javier sits on the opposite side of the deposition table with the DOJ lawyer next to him, and the IRS official adjacent, he listens as the lawyers dispense with the pleasantries, giving quick greetings before detailing the purpose for Javier's involvement.

"—He's willing to go on-the-record that you weren't party to your husband, Franklin Jurado's, money laundering activities, which, I will say truthfully, Mrs. Jurado, would be a lucky break for you. Especially since my office is not inclined to dull out any arrangements with someone who cannot help corroborate our case docket against the Cali cartel. However, this matter with the IRS uncovering some discrepancies on the property attestations under your name, coupled with the joint account they'd frozen since your husband went on the lam, is something that puts you at a level of complicity we're not so sure we can ignore. However, Agent Peña has produced a report detailing your abduction by the cartel and captivity under FARC, and has asked for leniency on your behalf."

The entire time the DOJ lawyer is speaking, Christina stares wide-eyed at Javier. He, however, keeps his gaze fixed to the glass of water sat in front of him. When the lawyer asks Javier if there was anything he wanted to add before signing his statement, he declined, accepted the pen offered to him by the IRS official, and signed, initialed, and dated all the appropriate documents before standing to shake everyone's hands. Still shocked, Christina remained seated while they shook hands, but when Javier made for the exit, he could feel her staring at his back, so he hustled his pace to traverse the long corridor out and practically zoom for the exit.

He came out to the crowded sidewalk of the balmy day and was eager to find a taxi to head to his hotel and decompress, mind already swirling with uncertainty, when he heard the quick clicks of advancing heels behind him.

"Wait!"

Javi felt the cold dread needle in his gut as he got to the curb and was just short of flagging a cab.

His shoulders squared up, but he turns to look at Christina Jurado as she catches her breath after seemingly having sprinted after him.

"Those lawyers didn't tell me you would be doing that," she begins, shifting her purse strap higher on her shoulder as she frets with the cuff of her pale blouse's sleeve while the bustle of the crowded sidewalk and avenue beyond continues as an absent din around them both.

"They rarely do. I'm sure yours didn't either in order to make it clear to the official that there was no improper appeal on your behalf for my help," Javi remarks, and glances down at his shoes as he adds, "Anyway, it should all be resolved soon now—"

"Did you interfere because you thought that would make up for everything?"

Derailed by the icy accusation, Javier looks up at her, perplexed. "No…no that's not it at all—"

"Good, because there's nothing, absolutely nothing you could do to make up for it," the blonde woman levels crisply at him, cheeks flushed and eyes clear with her vindictiveness. "I didn't ask for your help, nor did I want it, so whatever 'good deed' you thought you were going to achieve here? I want you to know it doesn't absolve you of anything—"

The entire time she spoke, Javier felt something loathsome simmer in his gut and radiate mortified, scalding outrage to flare up to the back of his neck, before something sharp pulled at his recollections.

"If that's the case, then I'm sure you told everyone in that room after I left to disregard my request for leniency, right? Told them to forget about accepting any help, and that you'd take the original plea they'd offered for your crafty tax evading?" Javier snaps in a low tone, eyes intensely staring at her now as she wavers in shock, mouth bobbing for something to say. When she finds nothing, he deadpans, "I thought so. Because let's be clear: You were not some naïve, oblivious little wife in this. You knew what kind of man Franklin was, who he was beholden to, and were content to let him charm his way into banks with your U.S. Passport in hand while you hung off his arm and kept your nose powdered in between your extravagant getaways and shopping sprees."

She is incredulous. Javier firmly saying what she knew to be true all along has her floundering for a retort.

When all she can do is fluster a befuddled scoff, Javier levels her with, "You can blame me all you want for what happened, but that doesn't change the fact you were complicit in it, and just as responsible for what transpired."

With that, he turns and heads for the curb, hailing a cab while she's left reeling in the truth that no one had ever hit her so scathingly with before.

Javier gets in the cab, and doesn't spare a backwards glance as the driver nods after being given his destination and heads into the flow of traffic with the rest of rush hour.

As he sits in the air-conditioned backseat, an intrepid part of him reminisces about the time you'd blown your stack at hearing what Jurado's wife had said to him, and that part wonders if you'd be proud of him for how he'd set her straight this time.

As soon as the thought strikes him, though, the miserably loathsome part of him roils. As if she would care jack-shit about anything you've done now, after what you did…

It isn't until several days later, when he's coming out of his exit interview, that the longing pulls at his seams.

He'd gone in and told the exit interview committee made up of a member of each high-ranking bureaucratical department within the agency exactly why he'd resigned, and did not mince words about what he'd intended by giving the interview, on the record. They'd made note, asked a few follow up questions, and then concluded with a canned statement about how his assignment had made a difference.

In an ambivalent fugue state, he'd wandered over to a memorial wall just off from the main lobby. It was an inset wall, flanked on one side by the American flag, and the Department of Justice flag on the other. The words 'These are the men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice for a drug-free society' was engraved above three rows of over a dozen small frame photos of agents who'd died on assignment. Each had a placard beneath, detailing the agent's title, name, and date of death. As he stares at the photo of a Special Agent at the center, Javier can't help think that if things had gone differently, his photo could've been on this wall.

It gives him little solace to know that he'd been 'one of the lucky ones' to make it home.

Stewing deep in thought, Javier doesn't immediately sense the arrival of Mike Spencer, the head of Operations at the DEA.

"You knew him, right?" the man asks. "Agent Camarena?"

"Of him. My first assignment out of the academy was a task force that searched for him in Guadalajara," Javi answers evenly.

"It all started there. Before him, we didn't even know we were in a war," Spencer remarks. When Javier doesn't say anything or glance over in acknowledgement, he looks sidelong at him and muses, "Another hot one down there for you, huh? You took down the big players in Colombia."

Fighting the impulse to glower at that, Javier drawls, "Yeah, well…we'll make new ones."

Unfazed, Spencer retorts, "Don't turn a victory into a defeat, Javier. The Colombian super-cartels are gone. And whoever comes next are going to be fighting amongst themselves for years. They're still only going to be a shadow of what Medellín and Cali were. And now it's time to take the fight to the real enemy in the war of drugs. Mexico."

That's when Javi spares a glance his way. "'The real enemy'?" he quotes in a dubious monotone, eyeing the man reservedly.

"Let me put in a few calls. I'll make this bullshit resignation go away," Spencer assures confidently, and when Javi stares at him cynically – a hint of equivocation in his dark eyes, he adds flippantly, "What else is a guy like you gonna do?"

When Javier has no rebuttal, Spencer gives him an assured smirk and lopes away.

The question keeps echoing in his mind. It peels away at his dejection, and by the time he's back in his hotel room, pacing the length of the space and smoking a cigarette, he's at a loss for what to do with himself. Frustrated, he pours himself a whiskey from the minibar, and sits moodily at the desk, rubbing tensely at spot between his brows before grinding the heel of his palm into the center of his forehead.

Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, he reaches for the phone and dials his father.

He tells him everything. What happened with Cali, how everything was rigged against him, the fallout of his decision to expose the corruption, how he'd resigned from the DEA before he'd gone on the record for the reporter, and that once everything was put in motion, he'd left you in the dark. That you'd found out what happened after it was all done, just like everyone else.

That you'd felt betrayed and hurt by his decision, and that you'd lost trust in him.

"…She doesn't want to see me anymore," he croaks now, eyes watering as he pictures how dismayed and distraught you had been while fighting back tears while you stood incredulously in front of him at his apartment.

Chucho is silent for a beat, before he clears his throat to rasp, "Did she say she didn't want to see you anymore?"

Scoffing, Javier scrubs his hand angrily over his eyes before dragging it down his face in exasperation. "She didn't have to, Pop—"

"You love her, dontcha?" Chucho presses.

Exhaling tersely, Javi shakes his head stubbornly, as if his father could see him telepathically.

Grunting when Javi doesn't retort, Chucho insists, "Unless she told you she doesn't want to see you anymore. That she is through and moving on, and has no interest in continuing your relationship, then it's your responsibility to go back there and work it out. At the very least, you owe her a definitive conclusion, so that neither of you walk away with regrets."

Javier listens to his father, and his mind wracks with recollections of everything said that day, and then a fuzzy recall of standing at your door and pleading with you to give him another chance eclipses the rest. He can picture your angry expression, and his mind strings together the sequence from the drunken daze of that night.

"Just pretend I'm a loose end you can skip trying to resolve."

Your cutting sneer reverberates across his thoughts, and just as the melancholy begins to wrap densely around him, he presses his forehead into his propped palm and leans into the desk.

It triggers a sense-memory.

The cool feel of your door resting against his feverish forehead, and suddenly, the words return to him.

"She matters to me. I love her," he murmurs unguardedly, confiding, "I told her I would keep trying to fix things…to win her back. She'd already closed the door on me because I'd upset her. But I think she heard me."

He can recall the muffled sound of your retreating footfalls, and what he thinks was the sound of you sobbing, and it makes his chest tighten.

"Javier," his father rumbles, pulling him from the mire of his thoughts. In a determined baritone, he asserts, "Go to her. Keep your promise, and see if you can win her back."

"Pop…what if she doesn't want to forgive me. What if…what if she can't, and doesn't want to ever see me again?" Javi mumbles distraughtly as he grips his hand to squeeze at his temples, palm over his eyes dejectedly while his breath catches in his throat.

"Then, you'll know. And you'll come home, take time to regroup, and move on," his father tells him sincerely, without a hint of coddling in his tone. "Now, sleep on it, and let me know, alright?"

His father's sage advice is something he's received often, but hasn't always followed. However, this is one of the few times Javi is intent on following it, so the next morning, he grabs his bags and heads to the airport. He flies out of D.C. in order to go nonstop to Bogotá. Surprisingly, his visa is still active, so he's able to breeze fairly quickly through customs and hails a taxi to a hotel. It's a blustery late afternoon, so he opts to skip lighting up a smoke and pockets his hands into his dark leather jacket while he waits for a cab, and then crosses his arms tightly to stop his hands from fidgeting while he's driven through the bustling traffic.

While he arrived fairly late in the day, it's not near the time you'd typically arrive home from work, so he opts to get a room; not wanting to show up at your door with his suitcase and duffle as if he'd presumed arrogantly that you'd just let him stay without first talking things through.

As soon as he's checked in and has left the bags, he glances at his watch and heads down to grab a cab to ferry him to your side of town, unable to wait any longer. While en route, Javier thinks about how much time has lapsed since that night he'd drunkenly beseeched you to give him another chance. It upsets him to realize how much trauma you've experienced in such a short time, and now he judges himself harshly for having caused any more heartache and hurt for you.

"…I'd never felt so safe – never trusted anyone else so much in my life…"

The words you'd spoken echo in the recesses of his recollections, and now Javi yearns to repair and recover what you had entrusted him with, so the moment the taxi pulls up to the curb, the driver hasn't even come to a complete stop before Javi shoves the fare amount into his hand before he's jumping out of the car and rushing up the walkway to cross through the courtyard. He bounds up the steps two at a time, heels of his boots clanging loudly as he goes and the railing he grips as he ascends reverberates from how forcefully he's hustling to your door.

The sun hasn't set yet, and in his haste, he hadn't noticed if your car was parked out on the street, so he knocks on the door and waits with bated breath.

There's no answer after a few quiet seconds, so he knocks again and leans his hand into the doorframe as he strains his hearing to try and pick up any sounds from within the apartment. Grunting, he knocks again and listens more intently, picking up the way the knocking echoes with more resonance in the interior than he remembers it doing so prior.

Perplexed, he checks his watch before raising his right hand to knock again, when a voice from down in the courtyard shouts over, "Hello up there! Can I help you?"

Confused, Javi turns and peers over the banister of the staircase to the patio of the apartment adjacent the courtyard. He sees your neighbor – the one he's met before, looking up concernedly at him as he clears his throat and greets, "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to be loud, ma'am. Do you happen to know if she's come home yet? If not, I'll just wait—"

As he spoke, her eyes softened with recognition, but her expression only deepened into a frown. "Doncito… she doesn't live there anymore," the older woman tells him woefully, adding, "She moved out last week, and put up the apartment for rent."

Javier is gripping the banister and staring agape, completely incredulous. "What?! Why? Did something happen?! What about her job—?"

Dismayed that he doesn't know, which makes her worry she shouldn't be telling him any of this at all, the woman absently cups her cheek and assuages, "Nothing bad has happened, no, but she no longer works at the embassy. I'm sorry…"

He balks at this new information and whirls around the balustrade to sprint down the stairs and bound towards her. "Please, if you know where she is, or how I can get in contact with her, I would be so grateful—" he pauses when she looks at him like he's raving desperately, so he collects his composure and plaintively stares at the woman, explaining, "I made a mistake, and I've been regretting how things were left the last time we spoke. I came back to make things right…to try and win her back. So, please, if you can tell me where she is? I just want to fix it."

The woman is touched, but exhales a weary sigh. "The last I spoke with her, she was leaving Medellín, and asked me to forward any mail to her prima's house…" she goes on to tell Javi that movers had come and taken everything out of the apartment, and that you'd gifted all of your potted plants to her, as well as passed over all the canned tuna and the dishes you'd use to feed the little black cat. "…She didn't tell me a phone number I could reach her at besides the house's in Medellín. I'm sorry, but that's all I know for now."

Heartbroken, Javier dimly nods, eyes downcast as he thanks her and apologizes for disturbing her. She watches as he wanders back towards the steps and sits on the fourth one from the bottom before propping his elbows onto his knees and burying his face in his hands. It's such a sad sight, that she leaves her little patio and goes back into her apartment, feeling like a busy-body; like she was witnessing something she wasn't really privy to.

All alone now, Javi reels in the silence of the breezy courtyard, overcome with a tumult of emotions and unsure what to think, let alone how to feel. He sits there and collects his ragged breath, trying to recover from the vertigo of having everything go upside down on him in a matter of a conversation.

The sound of a curious mewl breaks him out of his internal spiraling to look up from where his head was bowed to blink over at the little black cat that had seemingly loped from a hiding spot to come investigate what he was doing sat in her territory. She scampers up two steps and greets him with an affectionate head-butt to the side of his left leg, meowing for him to pet her.

The ache in his chest deepens as he stares into those imploring green eyes, and before he's even registered it, he's picking up the cat and cuddling her into his chest, allowing her to perch on his lap as he pets her gently. She purrs contently and rubs her ears against his midriff, squirming bossily in order to perch up on her hind quarters and knead her front paws into the soft material of his blue button-down beyond the supple leather of his favorite jacket.

"I know, girl. I know," he mumbles to the cat, petting her head with sincere affection.

Apparently appeased, the spritely feline trills a content sound before bopping her head against his chin and vaulting out of his embrace to lope down the steps and hop the patio gate to take a new perch on the neighbor's cushioned chair. He watches her curl up for a nap, and he suddenly feels like he's overstayed his welcome.

With the sun setting, he walks pensively to a more bustling avenue, and decides to make one more stop before returning to the hotel.

It's the end of the shift, and all the custodians who're done for the day shift are filing out the side gate to head towards varying bus stops that will ferry them home throughout the metropolitan city. Javier spots Marisol from where he's been sitting and waiting across the street, and when she looks his way after saying goodnight to one of the other girls, he stands from the bench and waves at her. She looks startled to see him, but quickly shakes the surprise off, looks both ways, and hurries across the street towards him.

"Santo Cristo, Javier, when did you come back?! Where have you been?" she's asking, gripping her tote to her side and haranguing, "You pick a fine time to pop back up here. What on Earth were you thinking to leave without saying a word to her?!"

"I just got back," he assures and escorts her to sit on the bench before he joins her, inquiring, "I told her I would come back once I tied up loose ends on the Cali case. What happened? I went to her apartment, and her downstairs neighbor said she moved out. That she'd quit her job?"

She sighs shakes her head contritely. "After you left, and she found out all the truth, she couldn't tolerate how things were – felt like she'd lost trust and confidence in her work here. Once Mister Ellis left, she made arrangements to strengthen her department, and gave her notice of resignation to the ambassador. Then, she went to Medellín to finish dealing with her grandmother's estate. I called the house there to check in on her, but she'd already left Colombia, so her prima promised to pass along my message to her," Marisol details, and watches as Javi's dark eyes become creased at the edges with his profound sadness.

Right hand fidgeting the anxious energy teeming in him, Javier squeezes it into a fist he presses into his thigh as he bows his head before rumbling, "I'm sorry for showing up like this…for having repeatedly cajoled you into helping me time and time again. I—I'm very grateful for all you've done for us…for me."

She frowns and puts her hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Javier. It's high time you realize that yourself," the convivial woman tuts, patting his arm when he exhales a meek huff and nods his thanks to her. "Take care of yourself, would you?"

He ruefully smiles and leans over to kiss her on the cheek. "You too."

Marisol stands, and ambles a few feet in direction of her normal commute, when she pauses, turns, and marches back up to him. "Aren't you going to ask me what my message was?" she inquires bossily, hand on her hip as she gazes down at Javi's surprised look.

"…I figured that was private?" he retorts, but at the wily gleam in the woman's eyes, he sits up straight and focuses more intently on her expression as he asks, "What was the message?"

Triumphant, she smiles at Javi.

"That her plan worked," she retorts, winking as she drawls, "I'm sure you'll find out the details once you get back home, guapo valiente."

With that, she turns on her heel and leaves Javi bemused, albeit flummoxed. What the hell does that mean?

Needless to say, he'd been left with nothing else but to return the hotel, get his things, and head back to the airport.

The trip back to Laredo was a long one.

It's late in the evening when his father pulls up and picks him up at the airport.

The older man had gotten out of the cab of the truck and given his son a fortifying hug, one returned in kind.

However, the drive home was a quiet one, teeming with all the unspoken things the pair knew not to say. Really, it isn't until the following morning, when Javi descends the stairs and finds his father at the kitchen table, reading his newspaper, that the first word passes between them.

"I'm glad you're home."

Right hand ticking anxiously at his side, Javi scoffs deprecatingly and bows his head as he crosses his arms and struggles to find what to say to that.

Lowering his newspaper to peer over at his only son, Chucho sighs and crosses his own arms to lean back into the sturdy chair. When it doesn't look like Javi will decide between coming or going from him, he grumbles and puts his large, calloused hands on the table, drumming his fingers over the folded newspaper as he decides to level with him.

"Look, Javier – everything happens for a reason. I know this is not where you expected to be, but for the time being, it's where you're meant to be until you find your way," he tells him sagely, tone softening when those sad eyes flick momentarily up at him before deflecting to stare unseeingly out the window over the kitchen sink. In that moment, with that simmering frown, he can't help be reminded of how much he looks like his mother, and his heart aches a little. He wishes she was there to say all the things she was better at conveying than him. Instead, he relents, "I know you don't want to hear what I have to say—"

"That's not it, Pop," Javi interjects and snaps out of his faraway stare to look over at his father.

When he sees him frown, Javi huffs and goes to sit at the table with him. The kitchen still smells of the fresh pot of coffee, with a hint of lemon from the lemonade his aunt had made and left for them in the fridge. It also stirs up memories of his mother when she'd make agua fresca, and before he can get towed under by the reveries of a childhood long gone, he clears his throat and looks his father in the eye now.

He proceeds to tell his father what happened. Even goes into the conversation with Mike Spencer, and how he'd been offered to run the DEA's entire Mexico operation against the cartels there.

Chucho listens, but his expression hardens the more Javier tells him, and by the end of it, when his son just moodily props his face in his hands and huffs raggedly, there's only one thing he knows to say that will redirect his course.

"Like I said, mijo. You'll find where you're meant to be. But, for now, I'm hoping you can spare some time with your ol' man, help me with a few things during the week while your cousins finish things on their side?" Chucho remarks as he stands from his seat and pats Javi on the shoulder before grabbing his empty mug and heading to the counter to refill it with more coffee from the pot.

Scrubbing his palms over his clean-shaven cheeks, Javi grunts before retorting, "Sure. Whatever you need."

It's a few days of toiling on the ranch later that Javier finds himself bone-tired and dazedly staring off from the battered fence along the muddy embankment of the shore bordering the waterway that the failures of Cali crest right back up to swallow him under.

Seeing the lanchas ferrying with carefree impunity up the murky water towards points unknown to drop off cargo – to flood more cocaine into the U.S. – right in his literal backyard? It makes something sour become a bitter malaise in his gut. The breeze from the water under the heat of the late afternoon sun only makes him sweat and feel withered.

He's glowering against the blazing glare out at the boat in the distance, simmering with the acrimony of his failures, when his father's voice shouts over the sportscaster on the radio's play-by-play.

"You helping me with this or not?"

Javi snaps from his loathing haze and sees Chucho at the truck, winded but pluckily grabbing from the dense wood piled in the pickup.

"I thought I was getting a partner," is his father's huff just as Javi goes over to help him with the large fence post.

"Come on, Pop. Give me that," Javi grunts as he takes the post up with his bare hands and hefts it from his father's grip. "Porfiado," he mutters as he carries it over to the hole and places it in laboriously.

Chucho lets him when his attention is pulled to the river now as the next smuggler's boat jets on by in the distance.

"You can stand here for an hour and you'll count 20 of 'em goin' by," Chucho comments, none the wiser of how such a fact grinds something lowly into Javi's already battered ego.

"¿Y que? ¿Tienes que arreglar la cerca cada vez que hay tormenta?" Javi asks whether his father needs to fix the fence every time there's a storm rhetorically, pointedly changing the topic.

"Alguien lo tiene que hacer," Chucho retorts, offering Javi a can of beer before remarking aloofly, "Así es la vida."

Someone has to do it. Such is life. The rationale gives him little solace.

When Javi takes the offering but doesn't immediately drink from the can, Chucho pops the tab on his own can and drinks from the cerveza, quenching his thirst before mustering the courage to prod, "You thinking of taking them up on it? Mejico."

Javi doesn't respond or look his way, gaze having wandered back over to the water.

"It's different there," Chucho remarks, getting faraway himself now as he reminisces about life as a young man there, as he muses, "Son, let me tell you—"

"Dad."

They both turn to each other then, and his father gives him his clear-eyed attention at being called 'Dad,' not 'Pop.' Javier only ever called him that when he was being plaintive, or assertive about what he needed to tell him – what he needed him to hear him on.

Javier knows the precipice they're both at. He's been here before with him, and he decides he can't leave things unspoken this time.

So, with a forlorn scowl and unwavering stare, Javi holds his father's gaze as he declares it out loud.

"I've done enough…I'm through."

Looking away from his father, Javi cheerlessly takes a sip from the cold beer, content to wallow in his rumination.

But then, his father rasps, "Hand me that cutter," so, disheveled and worn stiff, Javi puts the beer can down, retrieves the bolt cutters, and hands the heavy tool over before pulling on his work gloves, intending to get back to it himself, but his gaze wanders back to the waterway beyond.

At seeing yet another boat going up stream, he removes his aviators and squints at it in the distance, feeling that demoralizing resentment boil up in him now as a recollection echoes back to him.

"…I've had enough with not being enough…"

Your voice is a thread that weaves around in his head, tethering a haul of memories now strung together to remind him of all the times you'd tactically warned him about the reality of his position within the tumultuous, corrupt, and unavoidable adaptability of this seedy world. How taking out one cartel would only lead to someone else filling the vacuum – to the void being exploited by someone crueler, more savvy, and organized.

That no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

---

It took a lot for you to get to this point.

However, the unspooling of your life was all of your own doing.

After you recovered from the shock and dismay of hearing Javier had moved out, you'd gone home and cried for a long while, until that intrepid little voice had tugged at your recall from the last conversation with him. At first, you're fraught as you force yourself to not compartmentalize. To instead sit in the sorrow and focus on the things unsaid and the things declared with vehemence.

He'd promised to try again…that he'd keep trying to make it work.

You hold onto that for days, but Javier never calls.

Really, you're so overwrought with your heartache, that it makes you sick. And the more time that goes by, the more your feelings wither up, and you endeavor to not keep the torch of hope lit for him. But when the time comes for Ellis and Anita to leave for Puerto Rico, you cave to the weakness of your emotions.

It also helps that Ellis hugs you tight at the airport, and whispers, "As much as I want to kick his ass for you, I think you should call Murphy and demand he track Jav's ass down for you."

You snickered dryly, but on the drive home, the seed he'd planted took soil in your longing heart.

You call early the next day, pulse racing and nerves making you fidget in your desk chair as the line rings.

"DEA office, how may I direct your call?"

Confused, you lean worriedly forward. "Oh, I thought this was Agent Steve Murphy's direct line. Could you forward me to him, please?"

"Agent Murphy is on assignment. Would you like to leave a message?"

Crestfallen, you wilt back into your seat. "No…no message. Thank you," is your response, and once you've hung up, your eyes welled over.

Looking over despondently at the corner of your desk, the article sits tucked tightly into the fold you put it in, having reread it numerous times.

On this next reading, something in you snaps.

It's afterhours days later when Stechner is exiting the elevator on the floor his office is tucked away in. He passes the janitor currently mopping the opposite hall and smugly whistles all the way to the door of his office. When he enters, he notices too late that the desk lamp is the only light on in the ample space.

"Good evening, Bill."

Turning, he seems taken aback to see you sitting casually in the swivel chair behind his desk as you turn to give him a pleasant smile head on.

"…How did…" he begins before clearing his throat and glancing back down the hall, as if something dawns on him. Grunting musingly, he closes his office door and lopes towards the desk, smarmy expression seemingly intrigued. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company so late, director? Or, can I call you—"

You seamlessly pull a thick manila folder from where you'd had it sat on your lap out of sight and slap it down on the top of his desk.

He eyes it, before flicking his blue steely eyes to you, and shoves his hands into his corduroy trouser pockets.

Standing, you flip the folder open onto the first page of a stack of documents. "You've been quite busy," is your remark as you fan out the stack, revealing logs, photos, depositions – a veritable array of documentation sourced from means you certainly shouldn't have access to.

"Now, I'll speak plain: These are not the originals. I've sent those stateside, to a contact at DOD. By now, they've, in turn, sent it along to heads of DOS and DOJ, as well as one of the Senators on the Oversight committee," you state as you walk around the desk to instead lean into the side of it when Stechner's eyes rove over a certain pile.

"Ah, yes. Afghanistan. That took some digging. Most of those Mujahideen warlords became the Taliban, right?" you remark conversationally as you give him a cunning smile, eyes narrowing as he eyes you with the proper level of unease. "That mass grave? It definitely looked like work of the Soviets, sure, but you and your buddies probably should've stacked more bodies over those Marines' corpses. Or, hell, maybe not have buried them in uniform?"

His expression becomes icy as he stands straight and lets his hands fall to his sides. "Where did you get this," is his flat inquiry, and when you cross your arms and snicker, as if it should be obvious, he drones, "…Your father."

Humming, you lean over to glide your fingers over another series of documents to sift them from the pile. "Now, if a bunch of dead Marines doesn't do it for most, this?" You point to photos of a landing strip in the middle of a dense, Central American jungle. "Well, selling arms to the Contras? Using Panama as a backdrop to distribute weapons with drug traffickers so you can have them take the fall?"

Glaring at the not-so-blurry black and white image of himself standing at the top of a plane's entry, with Miguel Angel Felix Gallardo ascending the stairs to meet him, Stechner scathes, "You have no idea what you're playing with here—"

"Didn't that guy go to prison for abducting and murdering a U.S. federal agent?" you cut in in a lilting chime before smiling and plucking another photo up and tossing it towards the front of the desk. "Ah, sure, he doesn't run the Mexican cartel anymore, but this guy? He's basically running all the plazas, right?"

A photo of Stechner standing in front of the gangway of one of Amado Carrillo Fuentes' cargo planes looks like it was taken from the top of the tree line, but it was close enough to get both he and the would-be 'boss of all bosses' of the Mexican drug trade faces clearly.

"Oh, and then there's the police report. I assure you, a lot of this didn't really surprise anyone I recruited to help gather this all, but that police report? And knowing the CIA's station chief sold his daughter out to be abducted, just to send some sort of petty message to her boyfriend?" you remark with irreverence, adding musingly, "Well, my father just couldn't abide that. He was more than happy to reach out to his sources, your superiors – think he even mentioned something about telling the POTUS Chief of Staff? Ah, who knows…"

Looking up at you now, you see it.

Utter disdain and resignation.

You smile.

"You should've stayed in your lane, Bill."

Vacillating to try and recover his arrogant posturing, the balding man sneers, "Conjecture and photos won't be enough—"

"I thought so too! That's why I sent a copy of this little dossier to a reporter for El Tiempo, as well as a copy to the editor of The Washington Post," you retort glibly, patting your hands on the tops of your pencil-skirt-clad thighs as you move from leaning on the side of the desk to standing straight, with a prim look. "I mean, I could've shopped it to The Miami Herald, but I figured this was more fitting for the D.C. crowd anyway."

The look in his eyes is priceless.

With a glance at your watch, you remark, "And if everything went accordingly, you should be hearing all about it, real soon."

As if on cue, his desk phone and satellite phone start ringing. You smile sublimely.

"Well, then. I'm sure you have some explaining to do," you chime affably as you strut past him to head for the door. "You can keep those for your records in case you need to spruce up on what falls under treason versus capital crimes—"

"You think this won't blow back on you and your department? That there won't be repercussions?!" he suddenly snaps and whirls haughtily at you as you are mid-exit. "You were so worried about keeping up appearances? What's to stop your reputation from going up in flames just as spectacularly as your Javier's did?!"

His scathing sneer of a smile dissolves when you turn from the open door and grin.

"The fact I gave a copy to the ambassador a few hours ago, oh, right before I resigned my position at the embassy," you drawl with lancing mirth, enjoying how his jaw drops as the phones ring incessantly. "It was great working with you, Bill."

With that, you strut out of his office and down the hall towards the elevator, triumphant when you hear the sound of him throwing his satellite phone against the wall of his office and swearing a litany over the continued ringing and the drone of the vacuum cleaner down the opposite wing.

Everything had been put into motion before this coup de grâce.

Days before, you'd assembled your staff and told them your plans to resign, effective immediately several days from that point. Aghast, they'd asked why, and you'd assured them it was best they not know, but you wanted to prep them for the transition of things without you.

You made Jackie head of the department and Devon her deputy, then proceeded to caution them on the security breach you'd monitored and isolated. Explaining that the CIA was using the pilot program to syphon data from other agencies and to clandestinely transmit top-secret intel to and from sources stateside, you showed them the credential trail and disclosed how it led back to the CIA station chief.

Before you'd assembled your team for this announcement, you'd made several calls in preparation.

The first was to your contact in Panama.

That first conversation months back with Luke had been awkward. However, he'd promised to look into your suspicions, and when you'd called him in preparation days before, you'd gotten everything you needed. Along with the stacks of documents in the dossier, you had the handwriting analysis of the notes Stechner had left, as well as fingerprint testing that matched with his prints on file with the state department that Luke had sent you prior.

The second call was to Trujillo.

He'd done what you'd asked – logged the police report from your abduction – after you'd called him once you'd found the glass of Colombian soda with the note on your desk. And now, with the documents you had from Luke, you asked him to act as an anonymous source within CNP who could corroborate your story and prove a pattern of harassment on you personally and professionally. It also didn't hurt that he was willing to vouch that Stechner had been the one to approach him during the whole Los Pepes fiasco.

The third outreach, and the most difficult of them all, had been the one you'd known you couldn't avoid any longer.

"—The Vice Admiral is very busy at the moment."

"Please tell him it's his daughter calling."

The seconds you were placed on hold were used to take a deep breath to center yourself.

After that call, and once things were in motion, there was a moment where you wondered what would happen after.

Those concerns were shelved once you'd received everything you needed. After all, you'd decided from the start that you would follow through without a regret.

Crosby had been surprised to see you come in to his office at the end of the day, after Dotty had left, and there was really no one to witness and spread the news.

When you'd handed him the dossier, he'd been stony and reticent as he flipped through the documents and photos.

"I appreciate everything you've done for me in my role as director, sir, and it's been an honor reporting to you, but I can no longer in good conscience and confidence remain at my post, knowing what I know now," you'd told him with unwavering poise.

Frowning deeply, Crosby stood from his desk and circled it to sit in the chair next to you and take your hand. "Darlin'…I'm so sorry. Had I known—"

You shake your head and squeeze his hand. "I'm glad you didn't, because if you had, this conversation would be going a lot differently, Arthur," is your smooth assurance as you give him a fierce look.

He chuckles a raspy sound, eyeing you with an impressed smirk. "I'm sure."

Then, an obvious detail finally leaps up into his realization.

"Wait a minute. Who was he retaliating against?" the glacial look in his eyes softens with confusion.

Giving him a seriously stoic expression, you fold your hands in your lap and level him with, "The same man he had rotated out the last time. And, the man he's been stacking the odds against ever since he recommended him to come back to Colombia to go after the Cali godfathers."

The look on his face is a mixture of disbelieving cynicism before he shakes his head as if the prospect is too ridiculous to say out loud, but at your cool stare, he sobers and looks at you intently.

"This whole time, you and Peña – you've been involved with Javier Peña the whole while?"

"Ironically, we'd been looking forward to disclosing our relationship officially, but then, well…it's a moot point now, isn't it," you reply evenly, crossing your arms and eyeing him with the unspoken accusation.

You all set him up to fail.

To your luck, Crosby agrees to honor your request regarding your plans, and all but gives you his blessing in decimating Stechner. After all, the bastard never reported to him, so there's plausible deniability.

The next morning, you packed up your office while the news spread like wildfire in the building. Without batting an eye, you thanked your staff, wished them well, said all your farewells to those who'd rushed down to see you off, and begrudgingly agreed to the happy hour send off the Mil Group boys insisted on. It was a rowdy, albeit cheerful impromptu party, one filled with only friendly faces and toasts in your honor. You managed to get away with tons of hugs, promises to stay in touch, and 'attagirl' high-fives for doing what no one had been able to do: give Bill Stechner his most-deserved comeuppance.

No one dared remark or ask about the tawdrier detail, aka your no-longer-secret relationship with the notorious Javier Peña, and you were grateful for it, but knew they would all be dishing about it the moment you finished strutting out of the bar to head to your car.

By the end of the night, you drove home, feeling clearheaded, but sad.

When you'd loped into your apartment and walked by the phone, you'd seen the machine list one missed call, so you pressed the button to play the message while you pulled your heels off and leaned against the wall in the hallway.

"Hey, my love! I tried your cell phone, but it just kept ringing. Anyway, I'm flying into town on the 'morrow and can't wait to see you. I'll be staying in the same hotel, so after work, come up and visit. Can't wait to catch up, krasivaya!"

Your heart feels a little lighter at hearing Sasha's voice, and after such a devastating, demoralizing few weeks, you revel in having something positive to look forward to, and when you show up the next afternoon at his penthouse suite's door, he's shocked to see you.

"Ketsele! Wha-Wait, is today a holiday? I figured you'd be working—" he's remarking as he pulls you in and gives you a double-cheek kiss before hugging you tight. His cotton crewneck white shirt, blue-striped linen trousers, and his bare feet make it obvious he wasn't expecting any company, and his hair is slicked back from the shower but curling around his nape – making his relaxed appearance and chiseled features softer.

"Hah, n-no, not a holiday," you simper as you squeeze him back and snicker when you pull away to rub your palms brazenly along his neatly trimmed scruff-covered cheeks. "Whaaaat, what happened to the sexy beard?!" is your jibing whine as you pout at him.

"Ah, it was getting annoying, and now that it's fairly warm stateside, it didn't make sense to keep it," he tuts and squeezes your purple tunic-dress-clad waist cheekily before he ushers you over to sit and have a drink. "So? How're things?! How's work, and everything still great with Javi darling?"

You let out a mordant laugh as you sit and take the champagne flute he's just generously filled to the top before joining you on the plush couch with his own.

Sasha watches you chug the champagne down, before you sigh out and turn to face him fully so you can give him your best winning smile.

"Well, um, my grandmother passed away suddenly not so long ago…" you declare, and when his expression goes from convivial to incredulous, you add glibly, "I quit my job yesterday. And, Javier quit his job couple weeks before that after blowing up his life here. We fought, and I haven't seen or heard from him since."

When Sasha stares in aghast, albeit woeful worry at you, the snarky laugh bubbles up from your throat as you lean over him to snatch the bottle of champagne from the side table, plop back into the couch, and begin to drink brashly direct from the expensive bottle as you kick off your leather flats.

"Blessed fucking hell…what the fuck happened?" his baritone is rough with concern and confusion, and as if absorbing it all out of sequence, you watch as his eyes crinkle and fill with tears, "I-I'm so sorry. Why didn't you call me?!"

You take a long pull from the bottle, hoping the bubbles of the champagne with fill your belly and set you aloft to fly up and never have to look back at your life.

After a hiccup filters out of you, shame washes your glibness away and tows you under. Makes you feel stupid and inane. Especially when it scalds hot up from your gut thanks to how truly upset Sasha looks for you, and before you know it, your consternation flushes up to the top of your head, making your face burn with mortification. The feelings you'd walled off crash over you now as the compartments fail and fall under the weight of everything, leaving you frayed and unable to keep your brave façade up.

"…Everything just…it just all…it all fell apart…" you choke out as your composure finally caves in and the hurt leaps up to ensnare your breath.

Your vision narrows in at the edges as you start to sob, and before you've realized it, you're crying in Sasha's arms, desperately weeping until sobs wrack your frame and have you breathless and keening.

He'd manage to hastily take the bottle and set it down on the floor before you dropped it in your state of turmoil, and had scooped you into his fierce embrace as you lost yourself to the sorrow and heartache.

Tears run down his face as he rubs your back and lets you get it all out, waiting until the hot press of your spent tears cool on his neck and your sobs have quieted down to the occasional tremulous inhale and exhale of breath.

You curl up on the couch together once you start to shiver from the cool air-conditioned chill of the sprawling penthouse, and when you sniffle and hide your puffy face into his shoulder, Sasha scrubs the back of his hand across his flushed countenance and squeezes you protectively.

"I'm here, my love. For as long as you need me, I'll be here," he whispers in a thick, roughened bass, emotion still heavy in his voice.

Eventually, when you are utterly drained and can't shed another tear, you go slack in his embrace and try to scrape your composure together. Once you're sure you won't fall apart all over again, you muster the effort to shift against him so you can rest your head on his shoulder and press your forehead to his scruff-darkened jaw.

In a hoarse, low murmur, you tell Sasha everything that's happened.

He is quiet the entire time, listening and caressing your back as you go through the sheer litany of dramatic events you've been through since he'd last seen you.

When you finally conclude in the recap of everything, and clear your parched throat to sit up and absently wipe at your cheeks with the back of your tunic's bell sleeves, you stare drearily at Sasha with your red-rimmed, watery eyes and frazzled expression.

Letting the cleansing inhale out through his nose, he sits back and gives you a cerulean-eyed squint before blustering, "How in the entire fuck have you not become some novelist's muse for the sheer sweeping expanse of your suspenseful life that could be the inspiration for a world's bestseller?!"

Blinking at him in tremulous shock, it takes you a moment to appreciate how he scrunches his face – crooking his brows exaggeratedly while he opens his blue eyes as wide as they can go and he twists his lips in faux displeasure at you.

You burst into hapless, smoky laughter before it turns into peels of guffawing giggles while he comically grabs your arms and shakes you goofily.

"Tell me, mon chéri!" he growls sarcastically while you playfully tussle with him on the couch until you funnily slap his cheek. "Gauh! Alright, I take it back. I take it back!"

"I can't with you!" you rail and shove him when he pouts at you. "Jesus Christ on the Cross…" is your weary sneer as you sit back and sniffle, busily wiping at your face now with your sleeves. "I'm…I'm so sorry for unloading on you…"

Sasha mordantly grunts. "Stop it," he huffs and pulls you close, kissing the top of your head. "I'm sorry I wasn't here – wasn't able to give you the support when you needed it…"

You both go silent and just sit close while you collect your composure. He doesn't expect you to divulge any more, but you surprise him by murmuring, "I miss my grandmother so much. After Javi just left, I had this longing to call her and vent in that split-second of losing my mind, when I'd forgotten everything else…and then I just wished I could take it all back. That I could rewind to before and do everything all over again."

"…Have you tried to reach out to him?" Sasha asks tentatively.

You nod dimly and sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. You take a tremulous breath.

"He said that he would keep trying. That after he tied up loose ends with that case…that he would keep trying to make it work and we'd talk about what we'd do, but he left and…I don't believe him anymore," is your despondent response, and saying it out loud has your heart going numb. "I didn't trust him…I don't trust him at all now, and part of me wonders if I should've ever trusted him—"

"Hey, don't go down that rabbit hole now," Sasha sits up and cups your cheek. "Don't try and talk yourself out of how you felt. It was real. Don't regret it."

Sighing deeply, you nod and bow your head. "It's a moot point anyway. I…I sort of went scorched earth at work, and without my job at the embassy, I really don't have a reason to stay in Colombia anymore," you mumble before shuffling over to retrieve the bottle of champagne from where it sits before drinking a pull from it. When you exhale and offer it to him, Sasha takes it and chugs several gulps. You end up watching his throat work the bubbly down as you remark, "I have to figure out what to do now with my life…"

Grandly, Sasha plops the bottle down on the side table and lets out a charming grunt as he reaches for something tucked under the glass candy dish. "Well, then. At the very least, you can look forward to this!" he announces boastfully as he turns and hands you an engraved, lavishly detailed envelope with your name on it.

You gasp. "Oh my god, the wedding!" is your exclamation as you admire the envelope before opening it delicately to retrieve the lux lace-patterned and golden foiled invitation to your friend's special day. "This is lovely. Oh, I'm such a shit maid of honor—!"

"Ah, stop your fretting! You can come to New York and make up for lost prattling time with Irina," he scoffs irreverently as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. "You can stay with me. It'll be like old times!"

You feel overcome all over again, but now it's for profound love for Sasha, and how he's always so selfless with his affection and care.

He manages to keep you preoccupied the rest of the day over a bevy of snacks and drinks while you think out loud about plans for Irina's bridal shower, and when you inevitably return to fretting about everything, he tows you back to lighter things.

Sasha's just finished suggesting you just take a sabbatical and come stay with him while you decide what you want to do next when the penthouse door opens and a preoccupied Nikolai rushes in.

"Alexander, that twit of a business manager keeps calling and it's pissing me off, so would you get that infernal phone of yours and—" the grumbling man is sneering in a thick Ukrainian accent before he skids to a halt and sees you peering over at him from the back of the couch with wide eyes. "I—forgive me, I wasn't aware you were entertaining."

"He speaks!" is your cheeky exclamation as you smile at how he's glowering busily at you while Sasha sputters amusedly at your side. "I was beginning to think you had a squeaky voice, or sounded like Donald Duck—"

Guffawing at that now, Sasha folds his arms over the back of the couch and buries his brash laughter into his forearms, but fails to rein his mirth in when you elbow him bossily. "Hah! Alright, alright – sorry," he husks irreverently before clearing his throat and sobering in his goofy demeanor when Nikolai glowers and crosses his arms huffily. "What's Ian fretting about now, then?"

"Something about an art dealer," the sentry of a man mutters before waving it off as he makes to exit for his private quarters. "Let me know if you need me—"

"It's nice to see you, Nikolai," you charmingly chime, smiling when he pauses to nod politely at you.

"Nice to see you as well, miss," he mutters almost bashfully before hustling away.

Reluctantly, Sasha bounds up to go retrieve his cell phone. "I'm sorry, ketsele, this'll only take a few minutes, then we can get back to drinking and being stupid!"

You take the moment alone to nibble on some strawberries from the lavish platter he'd had brought up. You are contemplating gorging on a piece of pineapple when he stalks back in moments later, looking annoyed.

"What's wrong?" you pipe as you clean your fingers on a napkin and sit back in the plush cushions of the sofa.

"Ian just told me that the director of the installation at the art gallery in Miami is getting cold feet now because the dealer who recommended 'Worship' for the residency there is getting prosecuted here for corruption and fraud?!" he seethes, dropping heavily into the seat next to you with a forlorn huff. "If the gallery's board of directors votes on it, 'Worship' might be delayed because of that asshole—"

"Wait…is the art dealer's name Santiago Medina?"

Sasha pauses in his harangue to blink over at you in surprise. "Yes, yes, it is," is his musing drone until he deadpans, "Oh shit, so it's true?"

You're the bearer of bad news. You explain how Santiago Medina is literally at the center of the corruption scandal involving the Cali cartel paying for influence with the current administration running the Colombian government.

For the most part, he takes it well, and you end up agreeing to spend the night together for moral support.

You both make tentative plans to catch back up after he's done with his business regarding the installation at the museum, and the promise of considering traveling up with him to New York is not one he'll let you hedge on, so you assure him you'll think about it.

Needless to say, you feel unable to completely escape thinking about everything that's happened, and once you're back in your apartment the next day, you end up making some decisions.

Firstly, you call your prima and let her know what's going on, and what you plan to do. Secondly, you make the arrangements to put your apartment up for rent, and are surprised when you get a lot of interest. So thirdly, you are relegated to scheduling for movers and getting ready to pack up your life in short order.

By the weekend, you've packed almost all of your personal effects and labeled the furniture that will be getting put into storage stateside versus what will be going to the house in Medellín, and are preparing your suitcases when you remember you need to unmount and pack your phone. Well, you're actually actively avoiding packing up your closet, knowing there are items there that will throw you into a melancholic funk, so you busy yourself with getting the box the phone came in and prep it for repackaging.

Eerily, you're taping up a box for your office things to go into in anticipation of the landline getting packed in it as well when the phone starts ringing.

Rushing down the hall, you answer it and move into the kitchen to retrieve a marker for the labeling on the box. You pause when the friendly voice of the director from the D.C. DOS office greets you jovially.

"—I heard you're no longer at the embassy in Bogotá! I called around and got your personal number, so forgive me for reaching out like this out of the blue—"

You listen to him eagerly give you a sales pitch, and are about to kindly rush off the phone, but he thwarts you.

"—So, I know you're probably not in the mindset to be thinking of your next move, but frankly, there's a big opportunity opening up, and you're my first choice for it."

"…Ok, I'm listening..."

A few days later, you're finishing helping your cousin pack away the decades of belongings and keepsakes collected in the three-bedroom, one bath home once your grandmother's.

It was very difficult to go through things when you'd started, shedding lots of tears and some needed laughs when you'd find family memorabilia. The movers had collected the furniture and houseware you'd wanted to keep and send up to storage, making way for the furniture from your apartment you'd graciously passed over to balance out the home Miguel and your prima would settle in happy matrimony together.

"I got these in last week. I wanted to give them to you when you'd first come up, but…well, anyway, here," your cousin is remarking as she enters the kitchen where you're currently sat sorting through some knickknacks you'd collected from your grandmother's old bedroom.

Sitting back in the seat, you follow her as she walks around to sit at the table with you before she places an envelope with the photographer's name in laminated lettering on the front.

When you open the flap, your breath catches in your chest.

The glossy photos are crisp and vibrant as you pull the stack from the sleeve and marvel at the prints as you shuffle them one by one onto the table.

The wedding photos were mostly candids taken throughout the ceremony, out in front of the church, and at the reception. A lovely shot of the happy couple is the first. The big group photo in front of the iglesia's flower-rimmed fountain is next, and you feel a lump knot in your throat at you and Javi standing on the left of the bridal party as you glance from it to a candid of you, Javi, and your grandmother sitting in the pew, just before the vows. You hadn't even realized a photo was being taken, because you were looking at each other in the moment.

A tear escapes your eye as you notice how happy your grandmother looks, sitting on the other side of Javi, as she sees you both staring lovingly at each other.

"I like this one a lot," your cousin croaks, feeling just as emotional. She points at a photo of you and Javi dancing during the reception, and his smile as you laugh in mid dip has you snickering and sniffling. "But this one is my favorite."

She points to a photo of your grandmother, you, and Javier all posing while sat at your cake-slices-and-drink-laden table in the reception. Your abuela has a bright smile that lights up her features while you look truly content – smiling just as brilliantly while scooted close to Javier, who looks handsome and boyish all at once with that dimple of his on full display.

That's what does you in. You start to sob, and through the tears, you simper, "These are beautiful. Thank you. I love them."

Shuffling closer, you both hug, and share some tears while reminiscing about the wedding.

You manage to get through some more chores around the house that takes you into the early evening.

You're just taking a break at the kitchen table from dotingly polishing your grandmother's santos before you wrap them in the packing paper to be placed with the rest of the knickknacks you plan to take with you, and your cousin is cooking dinner while she chats with you. It's about that time of day when your aunt will be getting home from work, so she's jokingly warning you she's probably jetting over to see the progress on the house when you hear a car pull up on the street before the distant squeak of the gate being opened echoes over from the outside.

Comically looking at each other, you snicker and prepare for the inevitable. But then you're confused when instead of your aunt barreling into the space from the front door, there's a knock that sounds through the house. Turning to stare surprisedly at you, your cousin vacillates on whether she should go get the door, when you snicker and chime, "It's your home now, girl. The lady of the house should answer the door!"

Chuckling, she sets the rice spoon down and covers the caldero on the stove before wiping her hands on a towel and rushing by you with an irreverent squeeze to your shoulder as she goes. You decide to return back to the santos while you wait.

The one you're currently turning over in your hands is a figure of La Virgen Santa María, and your thoughts tug free the recollection of the last time you'd seen an effigy of the Virgin Mary. You picture the prayer card that had been in the shoebox, and the melancholy it plunges you into distracts you from the voices and the clang of the screen door closing.

It isn't until the sound of thick leather soled footsteps echoing over the terrazzo floor nearing towards the kitchen only to stop at the doorway behind you that you're stirred back from your longing thoughts to turn in your chair.

Your father stands in the threshold of the kitchen.

His broad shoulders and tall stature fill the space, looking just as imposing as he did the last time you had argued with him and stormed away, but instead of the dark polo shirt and tan slacks he'd been wearing that day, he's in a black guayabera with navy blue vertical stripes, and light cream-colored pleated trousers. His leather dress shoes are polished as meticulously as always, and his hair is swept back, but there's more pepper-gray shocked through his thick strands of hair than you remember.

You're so disarmed to see him that you don't immediately register how uncertain he looks as he stands there, trying to find something to say.

"Tesoro…" he rumbles in a tense bass-filled tone, hands fidgeting at his sides as he clears his throat and tries to verbalize his thoughts.

Overcome by your feelings coming crashing down around you like a rickety house of cards, the knot that tangles in your throat has a tremulous sob catching in your chest before you rush up to your feet and toss your arms around his shoulders.

He seems surprised, but quickly wraps you up in a hug and holds you tight as you start to weep.

Your cousin stands in the living room and witnesses as your father's eyes get glassy with unshed tears while he rubs your back, holding you tight as he consoles you with deep baritone shushes. Stifling a sniffle, she leaves you both to have your moment and goes out to the walkway to stop her mother from interrupting the emotional scene when she hears her coming up the sidewalk.

You don't even notice, too far gone in your tears and the comforting haven of your father's presence, completely unselfconscious to the need to be held by your Pá after so long – to feel safe in his warm embrace and soothed by his familiar aftershave and cologne.

Truly, you're filled up with relief as he whispers assurances that everything will be all right. And, in this moment, the world melts away, leaving just the two of you.

Right now, you're just a little girl being comforted by her dad, and for now, that's more than enough.

---

The drive back from fixing the fence along the riverbank had been a miserable one.

His body ached in the worst way – muscles strained, cheeks and back of his neck tender from tanning under the hot Texas sun, and feeling completely downtrodden after spending most of the day distracted and fuming with every drug-running boat that cruised by to rub in his face what a failure his time in the DEA had been.

But nothing more demoralizing could've heralded his current state of being – at his lowest low – than the song that came over the radio while his father drove them home.

Esta canción que canto amigos
Es una más de dolor
Si es que me ven llorando amigos
Discúlpenme por favor

At first, he didn't know why it sounded familiar, but then when the second section sung after the instrumental horns blow in the melancholic ballad, he gets hit with a scalding déjà vu.

Traigo en el alma pena y llanto
Que no puedo contener
Y es que la quiero tanto y tanto
Pero me tocó perder

He can't even stop it from happening. Not with how utterly worn down he felt, and before he could even muster the will to pull himself together, tears stung his eyes before escaping to roll down his cheeks.

Y ahora tengo que olvidarla también
Y arrancarla de mi alma y mi ser
Y de aquel amor que quema mi piel
Que no quede nada

"Javier," his father grouses when he spares a glance over at his only son and sees him rushing to scrub his hands over his face with a terse grunt.

Que no quede huella, que no y que no
Que no quede huella
Porque estoy seguro que tu mi amor
Ya ni me recuerdas

Que no quede huella de ti
Y de los besos que te di
Para convencerme mejor que yo
Ya te perdí

Pulling off to the side of the dirt road, just short of the gravel-paved junction he'd need to turn onto to head back to the house, Chucho put the truck in park and turned to face Javier with worry. "Son—"

"I'm fine, Pop. I-I—" he interjected gruffly and exhaled a turbulent breath before reaching over to snap the volume on the radio all the way down. With the silence of the cab, he mustered the composure to clear his throat and stuff his feelings back down.

Looking anywhere but up at his father's concerned expression, he assured, "…Just got away from me for a moment there…"

Frowning, Chucho had reached for Javi's shoulder to give it a fortifying squeeze and pat before resuming the drive home.

The next day, after a fitful night's sleep, Javi had been up and dressed in a worn pair of jeans, soft denim shirt with snap buttons, and his battered work boots. Having pointedly ignored and weaved a path around the boxes as well as his luggage from Colombia still waiting to be unpacked to instead head downstairs, he'd grabbed a belt and slipped it through the loops of his jeans as he went.

Even though his back aches and his knees were protesting as he hustled down the stairs, Javi was getting himself ready for another day of toil on the ranch, even if it killed him. After all, he'd decided to get in the swing of helping with the drudgery he'd grown concerned was getting too much for Chucho to do mostly on his own, even with his cousins lending their time around the busier seasons.

His father was just coming back in from the porch with the weekly milk, butter and egg delivery that got dropped off by his primo before taking the rest to market in town.

It was a tradition since he was a kid, and even though it'd been years since his uncle had passed on, his prima Lucía kept it up. He was about to comment that things must be good over on that side of the family land when the house phone started ringing. Hustling to go answer it while his father stored the items in the fridge, he figured it might be Spencer calling again to "check in" and make sure he couldn't change his mind about getting back to work at the DEA.

"Peña Residence."

"Holy shit, Jav!" the boisterous greeting from Steve has him gritting his jaw and his shoulders squaring up. "You won't fucking believe what I just heard—!"

"Jeez, isn't it a little early to call and ply me with gossip, bud?" he grumbles as he turns to see his father begin to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"No man, listen! I just left headquarters – was there for that task force operation I told you about, and the news is all over the building: That asshole Stechner got bounced out of Colombia and is going up before a Congressional committee. CIA's basically burn noticing his ass for a bunch of shit that was leaked, and word is he got taken down by someone in the embassy—"

Javier's jaw drops as Steve details more, but his mind reverts him back to what Marisol had told him about the message she'd meant to give you. What was it?

"That her plan worked."

She'd said it so triumphantly, before teasing that she was sure he'd find out the details once he got back home. Holy shit.

Steve's boasting stirs Javier back as he smugly twangs, "—It's gone up the chain at DOD and DOJ, so he's finished. Someone said the dossier was filled with unsanctioned covert ops stuff, and supposedly it all got sent over to the powers that be in D.C. by some Vice Admiral, which had me thinking your badass mamacita pulled off the ultimate takedown."

But before he can keep crowing about the gossip, Javi cuts in with, "Steve, I gotta go. I'll call you back when I can, alright?"

He hangs up and bounds out of the kitchen to grab the keys to the truck in the bowl on the side table in the hall. "Pop, I'll be back in a couple of hours—"

"What?! Where are you going, mijo?" Chucho follows him out to the front hall where Javi is currently grabbing for his tan windbreaker jacket in the coat closet.

"I just gotta take care of something. I'll be back," he hastily explains as he rushes out the door.

Thirty minutes later, he's parking in the lot across from a building he hasn't been in since before he'd shipped out to Colombia, and when he comes in the door, even at the early hour, the receptionist looks up and is nonplussed to see him.

"Agent Peña?"

Of course, she'd know his face. He was sure Spencer had sent his DEA badge photo around to every field office since he'd gotten back stateside, and with the glances he'd gotten through the halls at the headquarters building in Virginia, he had no doubt his reputation preceded him – for better or worse.

"I need to see Growman," Javier had ordered, not asked, dispensing with all pleasantries.

Looking tense, she'd began to respond, "Um, well, he isn't in yet—"

"I'll wait."

The steel in his voice is only matched by the iron of his stare, so she'd quickly nodded before reaching for the phone to call the deputy director for the Laredo field office.

A few minutes later, and the man ambles out the security door leading to the offices and waves Javier in, looking surprised but intrigued.

Before they're even completely down the corridor that leads to the office spaces, the man was drawling, "Shit, man. Does this mean that resignation thing was a load of—"

"Are you aware you have boat runners smuggling drugs day in and out across the border, going up the tributary from the river, right along my family's property?"

Skidding in step, the deputy eyes him warily before ushering Javi down the rest of the way to the director's office. "So, this is technically a personal inquiry—?"

"Listen, Todd, I don't really care to discuss it with you, seeing as you can't do jack-shit to resolve it yourself, so I'll wait for Growman," Javi cuts in with finality.

Thankfully, the man in question rounds the corner, and after greeting Javier warmly, he takes him into his office and waves the deputy off.

As he rounds his desk to sit in his cushy chair, he began to remark, "Mike Spencer said you might come in here at some point once you got bored with retirement—"

"Nate, I'm going to be very clear here. I spent all fucking day yesterday watching drugs being smuggled up stream, just a stone's throw away from my property. Beyond the fact that I could go over your head to the brass and tell 'em you're letting these bastards get past you in broad daylight, I'm going to say this once: If you don't stop the drug traffic from going up river in my backyard, I will go to every newspaper from here to D.C. and namedrop you as being asleep on the job, and I'll do it in my personal capacity while still being the guy that took down an entire drug cartel," Javier levels in a terse rasp, voice hitting a low register as he leans forward with his hands on his hips to add gruffly, "Do we have an understanding?"

The director eyes him dubiously before drawling, "So I guess the rumors are true."

He knew what he was referring to. "Check it out: that's Javier Peña, the Crusader," he recalled overhearing in the lobby of the DEA building weeks prior. The sarcasm of the musing and the glances he kept feeling spoke volumes.

It was fine by him to live up to that hype.

"Care to find out for yourself?" Javier contumely challenged, eyes dark and features etched with promise.

Stonily, the other man leaned back in his chair before deadpanning, "…I'll get it handled."

"Good," Javier remarks, turns, and storms to the door to exit before pausing to look back at the man. "Don't make me come back here."

With that, he exits the office and stalks down the hall, out the security door, through the compact lobby, and out the building. He gets in the truck and doesn't look back as he drives off.

A short while later, and he's walked into the Sherriff's department.

The heat from the sun was radiating in the foyer, so he rushed through the vestibule and right up to the information desk.

"I'm here to see Deputy Miranda. Can you let him know—"

"Holy smokes, is that you, Javi?!"

He paused to turn just as a very familiar dispatcher was ambling over at him with a bright smile. Unable to suppress his crooked smirk, Javi drawled, "Hey, Pam."

"Well, as I live and breathe! I didn't know you were back in town," the spry woman exclaims as she pulls him in for a jovial hug. "Come on in with me," she offers as she simultaneously holds up her hand to the front desk rookie and chimes, "No need to fret, hun! This one here's got all the clearance he'll ever need," before looping her arm around Javier's and escorting him back to the bullpen.

"Look what the cat dragged in, boys!" Pam shouts out before kissing Javi on the cheek and leaving him to the room filled with mostly friendly faces in order to clock in for her shift.

"Check it out!"

"It's Mr. Laredo himself!"

A bunch of the fellas catcall tauntingly at Javier as he makes the rounds to shake hands hello, pat shoulders and shake his head wryly at the hazing.

"Hey, hermano!" Manny pulls him into a bear hug, giving Javi no quarter until he relents and hugs him back. "What the hell, y que haces por aquí, güey?! How long you been back in town?"

Clapping him on the back, Javi leans back and rumbles, "Not long. Listen, I need to talk to you. Can we go somewhere private?"

"Ehm, sure. Yeah. Hey, Carl. Can you finish taking this log down to filing for me?" Manny grabs the folder and hands it to one of the other deputies.

"Sure, John. And I'll only charge you one of those pastries Heidi made for yah," the other man chuckles as he goes.

Rolling his eyes, the man nudges Javi to follow him down to one of the conference rooms that's currently unoccupied. As they go, he can't help notice how his uniform accentuates some muscles he hadn't remembered his buddy having much definition in from the last time they'd hung out, but before he can comment, the door is shut and the inquisition begins.

"Alright, what the hell you up to now that brings you over here asking for favors before 8am?"

Yep, John Emanuel Miranda, 'Manny' to his very close friends and family, always was able to read Javier before he said a damn thing. After all, the two had been friends since elementary school, when Manny had come in mid-semester. His family had immigrated from Monterrey, Mexico, and one day when he struggled to find his locker due to the language barrier, Javier had walked up to him and offered to help. When he couldn't find a table that looked friendly enough to go sit at, he saw Javier waving at him enthusiastically from a table at the back of the cafeteria, inviting him to come sit with him. He eventually came out of his shell more, and over time, he and Javier were best of friends, and eventually he learned enough English to befriend Javier's friends, and ever since, they were partners in crime – and extracurricular activities at school – before following each other into the police academy and then onto the Laredo Sherriff's Department.

Javi still remembers the time Manny introduced himself to some of the other kids as John, and how he'd asked what that was about. "My dad told me he named me John Emanuel Miranda so the gringos would be nicer to me. He figured if I had a white-sounding first name, it would be harder for them to be mean. So, to gringos I don't know well, I tell them my name is John. If I like the person enough, eventually they can call me Manny."

He'd just realized he'd told Steve a while back while they'd been waiting for Navegante about his best man John driving him to the chapel before he'd told him to pull over, and is amused by the fact he'd likely referred to him as John because Steve was a hillbilly who hadn't earned the privilege to know him as 'Manny,' when he shakes himself loose of the recollections and clears his throat to answer his friend.

He tells Manny about the smugglers, how he'd demanded that the DEA handle it, and how he'd decided it'd be a good bet to have the sheriff's department aware so if the agency dropped the ball, his guys could be aware and be more vigilant.

"Ni madres…yeah, we'll handle it. I know a lot of people who would happily patrol the waterways more to make sure those hijo de putas don't cross near their land," the man responds soberly as he eyes him reassuringly. "So then, you doing all this because you plan to stay for good, Javi?" he followed up, as he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms.

"…I'm doing it because I don't want that shit happening in my town. Let alone right in my family's backyard. And I knew you wouldn't either, which is why I'm trusting you with it," Javi responded curtly before sitting in a chair and rubbing his hand crankily across his features, struggling with his cigarette craving hitting hard after trying to go cold-turkey. "For now, though…yeah, I'll be home for a spell. Helping Pop out on the ranch while I figure out my next move."

"Well, excellent! So, then you'll be free to be my best man."

Having not expected that, Javier had lifted his face from his hand to balk at him, mumbling, "What?"

Manny gives him a kilowatt smile, shoulders proudly winding back as he tells him, "I popped the question, and Heidi said yes. We're getting married in a few months, so I'll need you to be my best man."

Stunned, Javi takes a minute to stand and clamp both hands onto Manny's shoulders before giving him a wry shake and pulling him into a hug. "Congrats, huevón! She finally wore you down—"

"Ah, no mames, cabrón," Manny scoffs and shoves Javi comically. "We all can't be eligible solteros forever!"

Javier is in much better spirits by the time he gets back to the ranch, and while his father is peeved with him, he just tosses his tools into the back of the truck and hops in before ordering him to drive out to the northern pasture.

By the end of the day, the dirt and sweat of hard labor actually felt good to him, and Chucho can't help affectionately patting his arm while they moseyed back to the truck.

"Whatever you ran off to handle this morning, seemed to help pick your spirits up, mijo," he'd commented, as he put the tools in the back of the truck.

"Yeah…" Javi retorted as he tossed his work gloves into the back of the flatbed and smirked. "Just making my way while I'm here, until I figure out whether I'm cut out for this ranchero life—"

"Oh, I've given up on that one a long time ago," Chucho cut in slyly, smiling as he got in the truck.

Snorting, Javi got in too. "I'm trying, Pop."

"I know. And this viejo appreciates it, but we both know you'll get stir crazy and find what you're meant to do next," he fondly assures as he starts the truck. "But I'm grateful all the same that in the meantime, while you figure it out, you're spending it here, Javier."

It feels good to hear.

So, he opens up, and tells his dad the news about Manny and Heidi on the drive back to the house.

Once his father parked in the driveway over by the storage garage, Javier was feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He was in such a good mood, that he'd been in the middle of remarking, "Maybe we can go into town for dinner? Haven't been to Jaime's folks' spot for barbeque in a while—" but then he stopped dead in his tracks when he was up the walkway and spotted a big box left on the porch, right in front of the screen door.

"I thought all your things were delivered already," Chucho remarks as he comes up beside him.

"Yeah, they were," Javi mutters as he goes up the porch steps and grabs the box. It's heavy, but manageable, so he'd put it down on the nearby porch chair so he could look at the tracking label.

His heart sank when he saw the sender's address.

Chucho perceived the way Javier deflated, so he quickly opened the screen door and unlocked the door. "Bring it in, mijo," he instructed gently as he held the screen open for him.

Vacantly, Javi picked up the box and brought it through the threshold to be put down in the living room. He hadn't realized he'd been staring at it blankly until his father had retrieved his pocket knife and held it out to him.

It took everything in him to slice through the tape and pop the lids open.

His belongings – the ones he'd kept in your apartment – are packed meticulously into the box, folded and arranged in the most efficient way he's ever seen.

The look on Javier's face was everything Chucho needed to see to know where the box was from, and knows his son is brooding with self-loathing, so he put his hand on his back.

"Son, I don't want you to let this eat you up—"

"It's not. It…it won't, Pop," Javi snapped before easing his tone and diverting his gaze. "I'll, uh…I'll take this up, shower, and we can go to dinner."

With a frown, he nodded and watched Javier pick up the box and make a hasty retreat up the stairs with it.

When he made it up to his room, he dropped the box onto the floor by his bed, and intended to storm off to shower, but he ended up just staring down into the representation of the last vestiges of his life with you, feeling plunged into a sadness he'd been holding at bay.

He'd been distant during dinner at the restaurant, and pensive on the drive back to the ranch, so his father had deliberated about just sitting him down to hash it all out – to insist on him needing to vent and purge his feelings about the whole matter once and for all so he could work to heal from the breakup and not wallow in his despair.

The chance is thwarted when they come into the house to the house phone already ringing.

Mechanically, Javier had marched to the phone and picked up the receiver.

"Peña Residence."

"Hey, Jav. Sorry to call again, I know you said you'd call back, but…uh, well, I thought you should know," Steve is prefacing in a much more sober tone now than he'd had earlier in the day. Javier grunts for him to continue, so Steve explains, "I came into the office straight from the airport to catch up on memos and shit. I had a voicemail message that was just a few seconds of quiet before the person hung up. I thought that was weird, so I asked if anyone had called during the day when the calls to my line were getting redirected. The dispatcher logged one from a woman, who'd called my direct line, but didn't want to leave a message…and I can't help thinking that could've been your girl."

"…When was it?" Javi asks, throat tight as he feels his father's eyes on him from his vigil at the kitchen entryway.

Steve tells him the timing for both calls, and Javier feels an ache behind his sternum.

"—Wish she'd left a number. Sorry, man. Just figured I'd let you know," Steve is remarking, pulling Javi back.

"No, don't worry about it. Thanks for calling, Steve. Give my love to the girls."

As soon as he hangs up the phone, Javi is ruminating, and for some nagging reason, he's compelled to go up to his bedroom and dig into the box now.

"Sorry, Pop. We'll talk tomorrow, alright?" he tells his father as he rushes by and bounds up the steps.

He hears his father shout up a hasty goodnight while he hustles into his room and proceeds to dig through the box, putting every item and article of clothing on the bed as he empties the contents.

Once emptied and tossed aside, he takes stock of everything, trying to mentally itemize all the things he'd ever had at your place, hoping for some elusive clue he has no clue about finding or why, until something that is not present in the bunch jumps out at him.

His gray college shirt is missing.

Leaning on the mattress, he disbelievingly marvels at the missing belonging, and something he wasn't even aware he still had now began to blossom in his chest.

Hope. You kept it, because you didn't want to part with it, because maybe…maybe you still hoped to see him again.

Overcome, he sits on the bed and grabs the shoe box he'd put on his nightstand, took the lid off of it, and retrieved the photos of you among the other items of importance strewn over them: his mother's rosary beads, her prayer card, and the little Virgin Mary glass paperweight she'd gifted him when he'd gotten into college.

Everything held so much meaning to him, and seeing them all together allowed that hope to radiate deeper in him.

And for the first time, he felt like there was enough – that he had enough to go on.

So, as soberly as possible, he did.

---

Spanish-English Glossary:

Mijo = short for "mi hijo", a term of endearment akin to "my son/sonny"

Sabes = You know

Santo Cristo = Holy Christ; Saint Christ

Doncito = Slang for gentleman/young man, said in the diminutive

Guapo valiente = Valiant hunk

Agua fresca = A non-alcoholic beverage made of fresh fruits, blended with sugar and water

Lancha = A motorized, boat; dinghy used to go up waterways

Porfiado = Stubborn [male]

Cerveza = Beer

Mejico = Mexico

Prima = Cousin [female]

Iglesia = Church

Santos = Saints; Catholic figurines used in a home shrine/altar

Caldero = Cauldron (old school rice cooking pot)

Guayabera = Traditional Latin American button down/formal dress shirt worn by men; usually worn by men to look distinguished

Tesoro = Treasure; darling

Pá = Short for 'Papá' which means father, or poppa

Mamacita = sexy lady; foxy woman

Hermano = Brother; bud

Y que haces por aquí, güey = And what are you doing over here, dude

¡Ni madres! = Coloquial Mexican phrase, meaning "No Way!" "You're kidding me!"

Hijo de putas = Sons of bitches

Huevón = Dummy; goofball

Ah, no mames, cabrón = Ah, quit fucking around, asshole; akin to "Quit busting my balls, man"

Solteros = Bachelors; single men

Ranchero = Rancher [male]

Viejo = Old man

Song translation:

Esta canción que canto amigos

This song I sing friends

Es una más de dolor

It's one more pain

Si es que me ven llorando amigos

If you see me crying friends

Discúlpenme por favor

Excuse me, please

Traigo en el alma pena y llanto

I carry in my soul sorrow and weeping

Que no puedo contener

That I can't contain

Y es que la quiero tanto y tanto

And I love her so much and so much

Pero me toco perder

But I get lost

Y ahora tengo que olvidarla también

And now I have to forget it too

Y arrancarla de mi alma y mi ser

And rip it out of my soul and my being

Es aquel amor que quema mi piel

It's that love that burns my skin

Que no quede nada

Let's have nothing left

Que no quede huella que no y que no

Don't let there be a mark that doesn't and doesn't

Que no quede huella

Don't let it be traced

Por que estoy seguro que tu mi amor ya ni me recuerdas

Because I'm sure your love doesn't even remember me anymore

Que no quede huella de ti

Don't let there be any trace of you

Y de los besos que te di

And the kisses I gave you

Para convencerme mejor que yo

To convince me better than I do

Ya te perdí

I've already lost you

The song referenced and translated above is "Que No Quede Huella" by Rodolfo Aicardi. It's featured in Season 3 of Narcos, and I suggest checking them out on Spotify.

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