#fc6 fic

“Coño– today was a fucking mess.”

Dani’s breath comes out shaky as she relaxes into the ground, shoulders rolling and head resting on the vent of an apartment rooftop. Her armor is missing, left abandoned on the car’s backseat, to reveal a stream of bandages and gauzes from where you patched her up a few hours ago.

The two of you had spent the majority of the day trying to secure the FND special forces base with little success to say the least. You were spotted almost immediately, triggering the auto turret as you tried your best to duck for cover. Dani was busy with the two tanks and onslaught of FND whilst you did your best to hack the systems for intel– and that was before the reinforcements were called.

The morning moved well into the late afternoon, and still, you were nowhere close to getting the premise secure. Alarms were ringing, radios backfiring and tanks exploding all whilst you two dealt with the FND running your way.

It had been a disaster, but eventually you managed to bring down the last sniper and take your breather in hours. Letting your guard down had been relatively easy. Clara gave you the all clear to call it a night on a quick phone call before Dani was dragging you to get patched up.

You found yourselves perched on the FND apartments overlooking the military base, watching as trucks of Libertad moved in to start setting up blue banners, workbenches and even a small weapons station from one of Juan’s guys– gotta remind Dani to pick up more industrial circuits tomorrow. 

Parking your train of thought, Dani brings you back to reality as she shuffles over to rest her head against your shoulder. She wiggles for a moment, getting comfortable whilst making sure she doesn’t damage her already bruised body as she tucks her head under your chin and stares out at the night sky.

“I wonder if the view is any different all the way up in Castillo’s Torre Del León?” Dani’s voice sounds almost sleepy, contemplative as the day starts to catch up to her and she melts into you.

Your arms wrap loosely around her, your nose twisting as her hair tickles your face and you kiss the top of her head gently. “Mhmm… it’s all the same Yara, no? Just different angles.” 

“I can’t wait to kick him from his pedestal and really get to enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“Soon querida– then we can spend as much time together as we want, whether that’s up in a palace or on a little farm somewhere in El Este,” Your hands gently tilt her head up so she’s looking at you almost upside down. “I don’t care where we are as long as I'm with you.”

Dani breaks out into a soft smile as she turns her attention back to the valley of stars and planets before you both. Her hand extends out, the tips of her fingers tracing patterns between the little specks of light. Your own hand comes out to brush with hers and together your fingers move over the constellations. Both of you giggle at the imaginary pictures you draw, from wonky looking guitars to half a palm tree and even leopard if you look hard enough.

“Hey look here– this one looks like a dog tag.” Your voice is laced with humor as you guide Dani’s fingers over to the shape you’ve found.

“So like… a circle?”

“Hush– I’m trying to be creative.”

None of it matters that your constellation looks nothing like a dog tag, for it already has Dani laughing and snuggling into you closer. By now, you’re no longer actively looking at the stars, deciding your interlaced fingers are far more interesting than anything you could find out there. Her hand squeezes yours, of which you return it with your own reassuring squeeze. 

Aches and pains. That’s the first thing you notice as you wake up, taking in the soreness of your legs from running around Anton’s boats and the stiffness in your back that always seems to shine through on the mornings after you wear a heavy supremo all day. All your joints hurt in a way that says you might have overdone it yesterday but you wouldn’t change any of it, not even for a second. Not if it meant you’d get to sleep in with the older guerrilla snoring soundly next to you, face pressed into your hair with his hands gripping your shirt like he’s scared you’ll slip away, even in sleep.

These are your favorite mornings. The slowness of the room, the lack of routine or urgency to get somewhere, the feeling of safety knowing Libertad has pulled off a great win. All of it means you get to roll into the warmth of Juan’s embrace, and let yourself indulge in the peaceful stillness of the room. 

You can hear the gentle buzz of machinery below you, the sounds of engines rumbling from where Juan pulled apart an old FND jeep and forgot to turn it off. It fills the room, the noise drifting up from the lower ground and up into the scaffolding that is his living quarters. It compliments the sound of water that echoes up from the cave systems attached to his bunker, all of it so peaceful and decidedly lacking any gunfire or sirens or scouting calls that it’s almost enough to send you back to sleep. Almost. 

Guapo comes barreling through the front door, the sound reverberating and waking up Juan in the process, who’s already grumbling a string of mumbled curses into your hair. The two of you look down over the edge of the scaffolding to see the very excited cocodrilo drop a dead crab in the middle of the room, his tail swinging around as if he were a puppy and a deep rumble that you’ve come to learn means he’s proud of himself but also very, very hungry.

Of course, Guapo wanting to be hand-fed like the spoiled pet he is, doesn’t stop you from enjoying the quiet of the morning. Together, the small cocodrilo is pampered with pets, bellyrubs and hand fed his crab along with other slabs of meat and the occasional treat for the better part of an hour before he curls up underneath the workshop bench to sleep on the cooler concrete.

Juan has already made his way over, eyes fixed on tinkering with his supremos as he pulls apart delicate strips of metal and fiddles with wires. Deciding to join him, you drag a spare stool over to watch him work, your head resting on his shoulder as a makeshift pillow. Occasionally you pass him things, little screwdrivers and wrenches, and you might even make a comment on what he’s doing but for the most part you’re more than content to watch him work. Neither of you need words to communicate, not now, when it's just the two of you with only Guapo nudging at your legs. The two of you wordlessly talk to each other with tactile touches, brushing fingers as tools are passed, subtly leaning into each other's space and bumping knees under the workbench. It’s so rare that the two of you can enjoy silence, that you don’t even attempt to turn on his small radio sitting atop of the bench beside you– no one willing to break the fragile moment with any noise louder than hushed whispers and metal clanking.

So it stays like that. At least for as long as it can go on. You can hear some of the guerrillas moving around at Clara's camp from outside, both of you perking up at the sound scouts talking whilst they walk past the bunker’s entrance. It seems to clear you up, knock you out of the blissful daze you were in. Juan seems to feel it too, straightening out in his chair as he gestures over to your gear by the door.

“Your rifle could use a touch up,” He waves a wrench at your weapon sitting up against the wall, before reaching over to some of his parts he’ll need to improve it. “I’ve got the circuits I need to fix it now, can’t have you dealing with all that weapon sway now that we’re off that god awful island, no?”

Juan gives you a big smile, one that you happily return as you grab your rifle and some other loose items to begin working on it. Both of you are overjoyed to be off Isla Santuario, but you can see it in the way the old spymaster’s eyes light up at having his workshop back– having his home back, to know he’s truly happy to return.

After your rifle is thoroughly upgraded, a feat Juan keeps boasting about because it’s now ‘a custom piece made by the resolver master himself!’ He insists it has to have the eye-catching pop of color to match. Of course, that just means Juan ends up with paint all over himself since he’s never been one to do things carefully and before you know it there’s silver paint all over the rifle, the bench and his hands. The lining of the rifle is bright, shining as it brings out the shine to the metal, highly impractical for the field but who cares about camouflage when you’ve got style. But the new and improved rifle doesn’t take your eyes away from the man in front of you.

“I can’t tell if you’re doused in silver paint or if that’s just your gray hair, old man.” Your fingers attempt to smudge the glittery gray substance from his hair, only to let out a fit of affectionate laughter when nothing changes. It doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through it, tucking the unsurprisingly greasy hair behind his ear and straightening out his mess of a bed head and you can’t help but smile as he leans into the gesture. It’s only after he realizes you’ve teased him does he huff in fake offense, hand over his chest like he took a literal bullet. “No seriously, you’re covered in paint. Go get in the shower and I’m going to grab breakfast… or is it lunch?”

Having to drag Juan to the shower was an effort in and of itself but once he finally stops trying to chase your touches, which neither of you want to admit is harder said than done, you’re able to make your way over to the rest of camp.

At the first touch of light to your eyes, a wince falls from you as you realize just how truly dark the bunker is. It shouldn’t be a shock and yet it is, to see how crystal blue the water is, the way boats and buoys bounce along the water by the docks, the little deck chairs tucked under an umbrella by the shore where you and Juan have spent many sunsets just enjoying nature. All of it is so overwhelming, so real and it's the first time you’ve taken a moment to appreciate just how much you’ve missed it– missed being home after so many months stranded on that Island. Almost everyone at Libertad thought, for at least a moment, that we wouldn’t be making it out alive. That we’d all die on that Island, the last remnants of resistance in Yara would be lost to the swarm of soldados and heavily armed vehicles. But being here. Just getting the see birds fly overhead and the crabs waddle aimlessly is all the evidence you need to know that you’ve made it. 

In the center of camp it's full of noise. Everyone is moving around you, not relaxing even for a moment as they begin planning next moves and latest attacks, chasing up potential leads on shipments and finding weak spots on shipping routes to intercept supplies. Clara’s base of operations is truly up and running.

The rustle of movement, the constant noise from an array of guerrillas loading gear, climbing watchtowers and even just eating in the common areas– all of it brings a certain level of comfort now that you’re all back home. When on Isla Santuario, the noises only brought you stress, a constant reminder of danger and the pressing need to escape such a place. Now those same noises make you feel at home, the sense of community making you feel safe and protected as you take a seat at one of the tables alongside Julio.

Both of you gaze out to the scene in front of you, noting how Dani is getting her proper induction into Libertad’s ranks. Clara takes her through the maps of Yara, teaching her the back routes and all the known safehouse locations, where to find caches if she needs supplies and makes sure her phone has everyone’s number in case she needs to find backup. The two stand shoulder to shoulder as she speaks, brushing arms as she shows Dani who are our allies in the fight against Castillo. Fingers brush together, little intimacies that would otherwise be missed if you weren't looking, if everyone wasn’t so acutely aware of how the Queen of Libertad has taken a liking to the newest guerrilla. It looks so easy, and comes so naturally to them. How Clara can see through Dani and trust her with her life despite knowing her for such little time. A part of it hurts, in a way, when you think of your own unspoken thing with the spy master of camp. The way you two dance around feelings, held back by fear and years of trauma, always hesitant to touch in public because being in public means being perceived and being perceived means putting a name on such a mess of feelings.

It’s messy, and painful. The way you both want to just be and yet you’re both too scared to act on it for fear it’ll change things. And you’ll both be damned if things change for the worse. It’s not perfect, what you two have– far from it. It can’t be, not in Yara where you could lose everything and everyone at any given moment, so you’ll take whatever the hell you have together because it’s better than having nothing at all.

“How much do you wanna bet those two will be hitched before Castillo’s government collapses?” Juilo’s joke is a welcome distraction, and both of you chuckle at the way Dani not so subtly sways into Clara’s touch like a woman starved of water.

“I’ll give you all my moneda that those two end up together long before we get even the Montero’s on our side.”

The two of you share a pleasant small talk, cracking little inside jokes and making bets like the old friends you two are. You’ve known him for longer than most, offering him a place at Libertad once cities went into lockdown and people started rioting. Both of you bloomed under Clara and it felt so natural to make a family amongst the crew as he befriended everyone and of course, his beloved Lita. You don’t talk about it, but you’ve known him long enough to see the sadness in his eyes, the way any mention of romantics reveals his sadness, the emptiness and grief he feels from losing her. All of it is hidden behind jokes, behinding fighting and the life of a guerrilla. All of you are hiding something, holding in grief and pain. For some it’s more obvious, the way Juan will drink himself to the bottom of a barrel or how Julio plays Lita’s Bella Ciao almost every night. But for others, like yourself, it’s hidden behind a plate of armor– where fighting and freedom is your passion because if you let yourself feel anything else, if you think about it for too long you’ll realize you have the same pain as everyone else.

The thing for Libertad is you’re all good at not talking about it, or only talking about it through off-handed jokes and small talk. Everyone understands the shared pain, just about every member knows who is grieving and who has trauma. It’s never talked about, never judged, no. Instead it’s met with curt nods of understanding and the offer of distraction– where the very concept of Libertad acts as a way for people to forget who they are, to forget the baggage they carry and to fight for something better than themselves.

It’s a comfort, one that you’re thankful for as Juilo offers you a plate of food and a coffee, a small luxury everyone got to indulge in when Libertad had raided Anton’s warehouses not some months ago. It had been storing an abundance of imported goods like coffee beans, spices, sugar cane and an array of other indulgent items a dictator deemed necessary for his lavish lifestyle up in the capitol. 

Both of you salute with your cups, smiling as they clank together in one of those wordless confirmations that says you’re both happy to be back home despite it all. It’s blissfully domestic as everyone moves around you and eventually he asks you to join him for a raid on a weapon shipment McKay had recently brought in.

“Intel says he’ll be moving it all to Madrugada for José, ‘m thinking we can grab it whilst it passes through Valle de Oro.” Julio says with a mouthful of food, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before it extends and you shake on it. With a nod of approval from you, he brings you in for a hug, always the reliable guerrilla and you can’t help but feel excitement for getting back into the swing of things.

You turn your attention over to Benito who’s just arrived at the docks with a few of Juan’s crew as they start unloading crates and boxes of god knows what. Their signature yellow shirts always stand out. It’s to build team morale, you can almost hear the spymaster say it. But you know more than anyone else that the older guerrilla just loves it when someone is wearing a shirt with his face on it. His ego always overjoyed at the sight.

They’re currently trying to drag the heavy crates up to the center of camp and you watch as surrounding guerrillas jump up from their tables to help push them onto stable land. It’s then that you notice Benito is walking over to you, carrying some of the precious cargo before he plops it onto the table in front of you.

“Oye, this got shipped in this morning with your name on it. Courtesy of Big Papí.” 

Your eyes scan over the boxes only to see viviro stickers plastered along the sides and a letter hastily folded into the side. It’s mostly redacted, completely unreadable besides from a few very direct and blunt orders to leave it at a drop site for collection, with the ambiguous promise of a payment sometime in the near future. All of it signed by the United States’ Central Intelligence Agency requesting more of the miracle drug. Comemierda.

“How much more of this do these pendejos need? Our last shipment to the Yanquis wasn’t even a month ago.” Your eyes scan back over the letter, trying to find an explanation as to why they might want more so soon after you and Juan had risked your lives to get it to them.

Coming up with nothing, you look up to Benito with hopes that he or maybe one of Juan’s spies has an answer but he only offers you a shrug. Totally indifferent to the letter mostly because he won’t be the one delivering it. “Eh, it brings in good money.”

“Ugh, now you sound like Juan.” You groan.

“It's not my fault Libertad is getting expensive. In my day you didn’t need the Yanquis to fund un revolución” Speak of the devil, Juan comes wandering into camp just in time to hear the back end of the conversation. His hair is a wet mop, still damp as guapo gallops in after him and rolls around in the sand by the fire pit. There’s a towel sitting around his shoulders, the offending item barely passing as one, not with the amount of oil stains and grease on it but you still can’t help the way he looks good with the sun shining down on him and those goofy hawaiian shirts that have come to suit him so well.

Besides you, Benito is bickering with Juan’s spies about having to get it back in the boat again if you’re going to have to deliver it, the fisherman doing his best to rope Julio into helping him with the heavy lifting but you’re too busy watching Juan wander over to the crates to inspect it. He removes the lid and picks up a pill bottle to shake it, holding it near his ear to listen to the rattle against the glass. He’s about to open it when you quickly swipe it from his hands, swapping it with your mug of coffee to him to sip on instead.

“Mission first, then get shitfaced– common, there’s important work to do and I need help gearing up.” You watch as he takes a sip, eyes closed as he lets the steam from the coffee fall over his face and you’re suddenly so aware of how at peace he looks, so far detached from how he can get on the battlefield. It’s only then do you realize you haven’t seen him like this in a long time, even when he’s happy around camp he’s rarely content and you want him to stay like that for as long as this revolución will allow.

“Need me to come with you?” He says over the lip of the mug, sharp green eyes finding yours.

You shake your head, no. But of course he’s stubborn in every way, so whether you want him to come along or stay behind on any of your missions, he will always find a way to disagree. 

He’s still concerned with leaving you to this one alone even as he helps you gear up, always checking and rechecking with you as he tightens your armor and does some final touch ups to your supremo. You notice the nerves, the tremors of his hands as they hold onto you under the gear, some of it partly due to the caffeine and the other half due to the fear he gets before all missions. Where adrenaline builds up and spills over into unease, a fact of life he’s been able to hide behind liquor and pills for so long but gets harder to hide each passing day he spends with you.

“How many times have I done this run, mi viejo?” Your voice is soft, not an ounce of a lecture there just merely touched by his concern. Juan goes to respond but you’re quick to get another word in. “Countless. Now I don’t need you worrying, I’ve done this hundreds of times. Just place the viviro at the three lighthouses, all of them along the west coast where the Yanquis have marked as their pickup locations. I’ll be home at the end of the day before you know it, just like any one of your little spies would be if they were to do it.” 

“But you’re not just any one of my spies. You’re one of Clara’s best, if not the best of us and you’re my–” He cuts himself off, swallowing thickly and still unconvinced. “And you’re still healing from that shoulder injury–”

“Juan–” Now it’s your turn to cut him off, taking his hand in yours as he looks at you with wide eyes. So rarely do you ever use his first name instead of a list of nicknames you’ve given him, and it clearly grabs his attention. A shuddered breath leaving him as he waits on you. “It’s okay.”

The pads of your fingers run over his hands, brushing over the array of calloused scars, rings and tattoos that speak of a life of hardship and war. Both of you are watching the movement and you can’t help but break out into a small smile when his hand turns over in yours, always moving and molding with you in hopes of following your touch. Desperate for it as you link your fingers to actually hold his hand properly.

“Just let me do this one. You go ahead and relax, I’ll join you in no time.” You kiss his cheek, soft and chaste because you can tell he needs some physical affection without knowing how to ask for it. “Besides, Clara needs you here helping her plan the next steps for Libertad.”

Juan watches as you climb down into the boat, hand still holding yours as he helps you climb down onto the deck and only lets go once he knows you’re not going to slip off into the water. You wave goodbye as the engine starts up with a roar, your body turns to watch him sit upon wooden crates and waits for you to eventually leave his line of sight along the horizon.

Immediately after, he calls you anyway.

He talks your ear off the whole way across the archipelago and all the way up until your first lighthouse. Not that you’d ever complain. Listening to his stories, whether it’s old war tales or adventures from when he worked for Espinosa. It never fails to make your chest feel warm with an overwhelming sense of love, so much it hurts. 

Juan’s still talking even as you swing the grappling hook up to the railing of the lighthouse, albeit after many failed attempts. It’s harder to aim than you would have thought. Your arms burn with the weight of pulling yourself up, supremo and boxes of viviro included and you’re certain Juan’s having a one sided conversation with himself because there’s no way you can respond to his rambles with anything more than heavy breathing and groans as the rope burns your hands and if you were to let go, you’d fall to your death from thirty feet in the air.

After finally climbing over rusted railings, you find a little station to stash the viviro, tucking it between two broken slats of metal to keep it protected from the weather and any unwanted audiences. You sit down, exhausted and frustrated that this is just one of three you’ll need to climb this afternoon– not quite what you had planned at the start of such a peaceful morning.

The sight of a worn-down table draws you in, sitting down on one of the wooden chairs as it creaks and groans under you, the chipping blue paint masking its fragility. You gaze out onto the horizon, catching your breath just taking in the scene in front of you. It’s beautiful, the crystal blue water looks shiny as boats– both FND and locals alike drive over it, breaking the delicate shine to the waves as they create patterns of white wash across the water. Your elbow knocks against old beer bottles, the outside of them crusted in salt from how long they’ve been sitting there, abandoned and forgotten. There’s remnants of the people who once sat here, from the markings of initials along the metal outside of the lighthouse to the hastily scribbled notes left by long lost lovers who tried to find each other again along the peninsular. 

“Not a bad view up here, old man.” Your heart dips, a feeling of heartbreak sitting heavy in your gut at the sight of the empty chair next to you. “Shame you’re missing out. Maybe I should have asked you to tag along after all.”

Despite the tease of your words, the playful and lighthearted tone as it always is with you two, is missing– a painful, unspoken feeling bleeds into the meaning of your words. It’s been happening far too often these days. What was once so easy to hide before, has almost become unbearable to handle now that you’re away from each other. Maybe it was those months spent on Isla Santuario, or maybe it’s the fact you’re both realizing you don’t want to keep living in this perpetual cycle of not talking about things– about your feelings for each other. Either way, something has to give.

Your voice is left sad and defeated, tone flat and wobbly as you realize there will never be a moment with him where you can truly relax and wander around Yara freely. Not without a fucked up regime and the constant threat of violence. At least not in his lifetime, and your stomach twists in grief as you crave some ounce of normalcy– to have one moment with him where neither of you are worrying about who’s aiming behind you and can instead get lost in the love letters, salted beer bottles and striking sunsets in front of you.

A flicker of the empty chair catches in the corner of your eye again, and you fiddle with the corner of the fragile but forgotten love letter. Mostly as a distraction from the fact you long to be back with him in his bunker. At least when you’re there you can fabricate a reality between the two of you– all the cuddling up on his stained couch pretending there’s no revolution outside, or that you’re both not living as outcasts, as guerrillas fighting for a better Yara.

“Take a picture?” He asks. And your chuckle is wet, throat tight in a strange overwhelming feeling to hold back any tears threatening to fall.

“S’not gonna be the same.” But even as you say it, you’re already clicking send, weak to anything he asks for and a wobbly smile breaks out on your face as you see he’s received the message.

“Well then, next time I better get my ass over there to be with my favorite guerrilla– can’t have you wreaking havoc on Anton’s soldados and enjoying the best of Yara’s views. Just wouldn’t be fair.” Juan jokes, laughter coming through as static from how close he holds the phone to his cheek.

“Well then, it’s a date.”

“...A date?” He sounds so surprised through the phone, like he imagined the last part up. It makes you smile fondly, eyes trained on the afternoon sun beaming over the horizon as it sits alone in a sky of blue. Not even Yara’s poor reception is enough to hide the way he’s breathing heavily in anticipation, in disbelief. 

“Mhm, I’ll even bring the rum.” You can hear the almost nervous inhale through the phone, the way Juan pauses before saying anything. 

A beat passes. And suddenly you’re the nervous one, like you’ve said the wrong thing and the fear you’re both so used to is back again. All of this so new, so open and exposed like you’ll both tread on landmines and spoil the whole thing in seconds.

“Unless you don’t want it to be?”

“¿Qué? And stay here growing old, only to miss my chance with you? Like hell.” Juan’s quick to answer, over eager like he’s terrified this might be the moment where he fucks everything up. Impossible, you think. The old man could do something as ridiculous as sell out Libertad and even under all the disappointment and anger you’d feel, there would always be a part of you that still loved him.

“Well, I know Clara’s been asking me to teach Dani the ropes. And I’ve been meaning to liberate Fort Santa María for a while now– you know I’ve always loved walking around the old guerrilla paths around there and Guapo could use a walk through the mangroves…” Your voice is hopeful, ending on a higher pitch like you’re not confident in asking him to join you on something that is decidedly not related to a mission. Like just asking him to a walk around the water is equal parts absurd and unattainable, and maybe it is, for guerrillas like you.

A chuckle rumbles through the phone, one that’s warm and authentic as he hums in delight. “I’d like that.”

It’s not perfect. Not at all. It’s nowhere near close to one of those romantic dinners you’ve seen on those old fifties black and white films that still manage to play back on Juan’s television amongst all of Castillo’s propaganda. It’s not one of those picnic dates Clara’s told you about from her time before Libertad, back when she was living the dream at Espinosa University. A far cry from anything you had growing up as one of Yara’s infamous outcasts. But you wouldn’t change it for the world if it meant having your not-so-romantic ‘liberate a military base turned date’ with the spy legend.

You begin to make your way back down from the lighthouse, aware that you can’t just sit down all day and think about what could and couldn’t happen in the future. Not when there’s deliveries to be made and promises to keep that you’d be back by tonight. You secure the grappling hook to the railing, tugging on it to make sure you’re not about to fall to your death before swinging your legs over the edge as you make your descent down.

Really, it would’ve just been easier to parachute down than to burn your hands even further with the rope. But your knees took such a blow from all the running around on Anton’s ships that you’d rather save yourself from the inevitability of pulling the string too late and ending up flat on your back. Sore hands it is.

Juan has already started rambling again, babbling about his time in the KGB and a part of you wonders whether he’s entirely sober or not.

“¡Oye, cariño! Did I ever tell you of the time I brokered a deal between the Yanquis and the Sinaloa cartel back in eighty-nine?”

“Enlighten me.” You encourage him, a teasing tone bleeding into your words.

“Fucking drug-lord wanted to stash their cash in American realestate so they could launder it. Fifty million dollar deal, cariño! I even got them to throw in a few kilos– sold it all on the black market for a profit.” Juan boldly recounts his story, and you can almost picture the way he’s got the phone pressed between his shoulder and cheek in an effort to talk with his hands. No doubt holding a cigar and waving smoke everywhere as he talks.

“Let me guess, you lost it all at the tables in Monte Carlo and had nothing but a cool story to tell by the end of it?” Your question is lighthearted, told in that soft, taunting way that you only reserve for him.

A dry, curt chuckle comes through the phone and you can almost picture Juan rubbing his head into his hands in that painstaking way he tends to do when he’s had too much to drink and is caught up in another one of his stories. “Aye, I’ve told you this one already, haven’t I?”

Juan sounds almost self depreciating, ashamed. Like his stories aren’t good enough for you anymore. As if you’d ever get tired of hearing them. 

In your line of sight you catch the flicker of light from the second drop location, rounding the corner on one of Madrugada’s red dirt roads to reveal the lighthouse sitting out on the point. Your hands grip the rifle, aware of how guarded this territory is now that José has cracked down on tobacco production. Juan’s makeshift earpiece has been your lifesaver. Giving you the ability to run around Yara with both your hands free has its perks– all the while you can keep talking to him over the phone.

You have a fleeting suspicion he made them for you, just so he had an excuse to talk to you on missions when he’s not physically with you. Trust the old timer to be clingy.

“Mi viejo, you could tell me that story a hundred times along with all the other ‘tales of the infamous Juan Cortez! Guerrilla legend and spy master!’ ” Your voice is animated, playful and light as you poke fun at the countless books he’s written about himself– all of it to mask the fact that you love just sitting and listening to everything he’s willing to share, a part of you desperate to soak it all up. His wisdom, his crazy schemes and near death experiences. Anything you can get your hands on because underneath it all, you’re just as attached and desperate to be close to him as he is to you. 

“I’m never going to get tired of listening to you, old man.” You say earnestly, meaning every second of it.

“Good, because you know I get lonely.” The way Juan says it makes your heart break, like it’s some undeniable truth for him. A fact of life, that he’s destined for nothing more than a life of fighting, only to realize there’s no-one in his life left to fight for. “Talking makes it easier to forget that.”

“Well as long as you’ll have me, mi viejo… I won’t let you feel alone–”

Crack.

The second you open the door of the smaller lighthouse, the blunt end of a rifle collides with your nose. You feel something break, pain spreading all over you as you hit the floor with a harsh thud. Everything is a blur, a disoriented fuzz as you try to recognise the people in front of you beyond just smudges of red and white.

It’s like everything is drowning under water as you try your best to keep your eyes open, desperately clinging to your surroundings in hopes it keeps you conscious. You can faintly hear the sounds of yelling. A distinct grumble you’ve come to find comforting over the years, but it’s muffled, far away and lost behind the glass case of a phone. Swallowed by the ringing in your ears and the throbbing in your head, no doubt from a broken nose. 

“¿Cariño? Fuck–”

You’re helpless to do anything. Unsure of whether the bag placed over your head is what finally blocks your vision out or if it's the significant head trauma that gets to you first. Either way, you can’t do much more than sag against the ground, the last remnants of energy leaving you as you’re dragged away.

 ~

Juan stood still at the sound of you hurt, his back still and taught at the sound of bone breaking. He can’t know for sure what happened, he’s not there with you. But he knows you’re hurting. He heard your cry of pain, could hear the thud of what he assumed was you hitting the floor. He heard muffled voices and footsteps as he tried to call out to you, desperate to help you in some way until the phone call was cut by whoever was on the other end with you.

He’s equal parts enraged that someone snitched, that clearly they were expecting you. Lying in wait till you entered whichever lighthouse they thought best to grab you. He doesn’t know who took you or where or who dared rat out Libertad. Whether it was one of his spies or a guerrilla in the ranks. Hell, it might’ve been the Yanquis for all he knows, and it’s all he will know for the time being. He won’t talk to anyone beyond Clara about this– not trusting anyone with your life. 

And yet, at the same time he’s also a mess. It doesn’t take much for him to spiral, for him to overthink. He’s terrified that they have you, whoever they are. Heart stricken with fear of losing you. Juan’s almost certain it’s the FND by the very fact they haven’t tried to contact Libertad. This isn’t a prisoner swap or some other rebel group looking to get back at Libertad for past transgressions, no. It’s got to be the FND, with one of Clara’s highest ranked, most respected guerrillas in the palm of their hand, who’ll do whatever they want to get their information.

The better part of an hour is spent staring holes into the bottom of a bottle of rum, drinking himself into a daze as he tries to comprehend just how the hell he could’ve let you slip away from him so easily. He mumbles hopelessly to Guapo about anything and everything– about how he’s scared but also so barrelled over for you that just talking aloud about every little detail he finds himself fixated on, helps him forget the fact you’re even missing in the first place. He grips the neck of the bottle to hide how his hands shake, willing himself to look up from the ground as Clara comes to find him.

“I heard about what happened.” She looks equally worried, not only for you but for Juan himself. “Just let me round up the scouts we need–none of us know how bad it could be but we’ll get them back.”

He takes one final swig of the bottle, holding it high so the last drops of rum make it before he tosses it and stands on weak knees. None of it alcohol induced. Juan goes to head for his helicopter, patting down the breast pocket in his Hawaiian shirt to look for his keys but is abruptly stopped by Clara’s hand on his wrist. 

“Are you sure you’re okay to go out there? We can handle this one, old friend.” She gives a sympathetic smile, like she knows the answer already but still isn’t afraid to ask. Always the one to look out for the people she cares about most.

“I can’t just sit and let them fucking die–coño! What if they–” Juan takes a breath, pinching in between his nose to try and stem the nausea, the awful feeling growing in his stomach. A feeling all too familiar to him as he’s suddenly reminded of how many people he’s lost to situations just like this one. “Por favor, Jefa.”

He’s not one for begging. Never are the days where Juan Cortez, spy master and guerrilla legend, is caught begging. But he’d bend every one of his guerrilla rules, throw out any moral obligation or loyalty to whoever if it meant being with you, if it meant seeing you safe.

Because he loves you.

The truth of that statement scares the shit out of him. Almost as much as losing you. Juan Cortez is not a man who has ever let emotions get to him, never been one to love anything but his work– only letting himself one thing, resolver.

But you, one of Clara’s best guerrillas, slowly chipped away at that old rusted heart of his, as cliche as it may be. You’re the only one brave enough, persistent enough to crack down his walls. You’re the only one who’s ever made him feel at home, to feel safe enough to let you into his life.

Juan’s shown you countless things about resolver, about how to navigate a warzone, how to outsmart the other side. He’s taught you how to pull apart helicopters and snipers before putting them back together so they’re new and improved, better than they ever were before. But you taught him how to slow down. You showed him how to appreciate life beyond just a series of conflicts, to see that people are worth loving. That not everyone who is out there is trying to kill you or betray you– that there’s more to life than just a constant battle for money and power.

You’ve pulled him apart and put him back together better than any weapon or vehicle. He should be shocked, and he is partly. A part of him waiting for the moment where some appalled stunned feeling washes over him from the fact that you’ve changed him. But he can’t, not when it just feels so natural, so good to have you back in his life. And for the first time in a long time, Juan realizes that he doesn’t want to go back to how things were in his life before this, before you.

A part of it all feels like a dream. That you were never really real. How could you be? How could someone like Juan Cortez ever be so lucky as to have someone as kind and good-hearted as you in his life.

You’re much too good for him. This guerrilla with a precious heart. The one who would lay down their life for the greater good of Yara if need be, the one who would stop at nothing to look out for your family. You’re more than kind to the children that run around Clara’s island, playing games of fútbol and making sure they have all the food their growing bodies need– knowing that most of Libertad’s members came from rundown orphanages and the streets. Where a good meal was a rarity in and of itself, much less someone willing to feed them. You took the rookie Dani Rojas under your wing without a second doubt, teaching her everything you know so she could be greater than Libertad and all of you combined. This golden guerrilla who he’s fallen so completely and wholly in love with. You’re too good to be true, and yet true all the same.

Juan wants to go after you, so desperate to see you safe again but he knows Clara won’t let him go alone. Hell– Guapo wouldn’t let him board his chopper if he knew. He can’t leave, not without the proper support but Clara needs time to do that. To rally up trusted guerrillas, ones who know you personally, who would have never betrayed you in the first place and that’s time he just doesn’t have.

And he feels helpless against it, drowning in guilt and a whole lot of rum just to try and stop thinking about the fact you’re gone. That this might be it… the last he’ll ever see of you.

To think that you were just on the phone with him, so cheerful and full of love despite having listened to his tired old stories for the hundredth time. So excited to hear him talk like it's the first time and he almost can’t believe it. He can’t make sense of the fact you enjoy his company, for some strange reason. That you’re actually excited for this impossible date that still feels too good to be true. 

But all of that could be whisked away in a heartbeat– because he was so stupid to send you out there alone. And so he stays in that helpless cycle for the remaining hours of the night, watching as the sun starts to emerge from the horizon. A silent prayer repeating from his lips that hopes you’ll emerge along with each ray of light that shows itself.

Clara gets into the swing of things at around six in the morning. Boats ready, ammo stacked, weapons prepped and loaded. It’s a close knit group waiting for Juan at the wharf, only a handful of her most trusted guerrillas.

One of Benito’s closest informants got word you’re being kept in the old colonial cells underneath Tempestad Lighthouse, guarded by the most armed forces in FND ranks and are being interrogated by Anton Castillo himself.

Please just be alive. His palms are sweating as they head over to you, the old spymaster fiddling with his hat atop of his head in an attempt to distract himself from the fact that if things go wrong it’ll be the end of everything. Don’t let me be too late. The boat drags heavy in the water, every second passing feels slow– like a missed opportunity to do something. I won’t be able to live with myself if I lose you.

Juan does his best to ignore the concerned gaze of both Dani and Clara who are in the boat beside him and yet he can’t help but notice how they silently communicate their worry to each other.

None of it quite feels real when the boat lands on the soft sand of the shore just south of the lighthouse in hopes to keep themselves hidden. Putting one foot in front of the other as he clutches his sniper like life support and takes position upon the hills overlooking the entrance. Clara kneels down in the shrubs beside him, laying flat in the grass so she can look through binoculars and find where Juan can see through the scope of his sniper.

Both of them see how Dani and Julio take parallel sides of the building, covering all the exits leading to the lighthouse via road whilst Benito keeps the engine off the boats and floats nearby in case of any need for a quick getaway. Like he’d leave without you.

There’s soldados everywhere, heavy gunners walking up along the banks, snipers positioned on the balcony, flamers blocking exits and RPG’s stationed along the walls of the Spanish fort. And for a moment, nothing moves. Comms are quiet as everyone learns the routes of soldiers, watching from afar to catch their weak spots– to see what gives.

But no window of opportunity comes. The soldados are special forces. They’re not drunk and half asleep like they are on road checkpoints or even the less guarded military bases. They aren’t bickering and playing cards or making bets with pesos and keychains. No. These are Castillo loyalists, the best there is to offer. They’re on edge, fingers poised on the trigger as their eyes follow red lasers across the horizon, scanning the environment for any signs of movement. These soldados are heavily armed, highly protected and highly skilled at taking out the enemy.

If something doesn’t give now, nothing will.

“Fuck this.” He whispers under his breath, hands gripping his sniper in frustration from being held back.

Juan goes to get up from the ground, Guapo shuffling around like he’s ready to follow in after him. He won’t let you die and he’ll be damned if he just lets it happen by sitting around watching a bunch of no good Castillo loyalists pace the dirt roads leading to the lighthouse.

“Wait! Wait! Look… armed convoy.” Clara pulls him back down low to the ground by the sleeve of his shirt before he can even really move. She gestures to the arrival of three vehicles, two trucks which open to reveal even more soldados with a tank sitting in the middle of it.

“Jefa, fuck waiting around! If we don’t do something–”

“If we move too early, then all of this will be for nothing.” She answers swiftly. Juan swallows thickly, a lump forming in his throat as guilt washes over him and settles in his stomach.

She’s right. Now is not the time to be reckless. No amount of supremos will get you out of there. They’re decidedly outmatched and unmanned– ill equipped to do this guns-blazing. Juan’s heart clenches at the memory of you two playing rock, paper, scissors to decide whether things should be stealth or not. He always knew what you’d pick, that you’d be the voice of reason when you knew going in supremo first would get you killed more likely than it would get the job at hand done.

Juan tries to tell himself that. Hearing your voice of reason repeat in his head like his favorite records in a desperate attempt to keep himself together. For you.

That is, until he hears it.

The rumble of rock under the ground, a distant sound of a muffled explosion– something like a grenade or a pipe bomb being let off in a bunker, or a cell. The increased panic of the guards puts everyone on edge and he can hear Clara next to him, desperately trying to make sense of what’s happening over the radio. 

Something is wrong.

A fire breaks out from the base of the lighthouse, smoking filling rooms and blocking windows. Heavy puffs of black start to seep into the air through the bars of cells that have been welded into the cliffside. You’re in there, he thinks as his body starts moving against the actions of everyone. A siren rings out, or maybe it’s just the ringing of his ears but he doesn’t want to waste another second when he knows time is working against you.

Fuck it. Juan makes a bolt for it. He can’t wait knowing you’re in there– knowing you’ll be gone whether it’s Castillo’s guards that get you or the burning of flames. If there’s one good thing he can do, it’s be there to save your life. His golden guerrilla who deserves more than he could ever give and yet he’d give everything to see you okay.

“Juan don’t–”

~

You don’t know how long it’s been since the lighthouse incident. All you know is you’re inside a cell. The walls are damp and stained with salt, blood and god knows what else. You can hear the sound of waves crashing against rock, the noise bringing you to the conclusion that you haven’t ventured far from where you were ambushed along the water’s edge.

Everything is a blur, unsure as to whether this is the first time you’ve been conscious since arriving or whether it’s been days, weeks or even months. Time has warped as you try to focus on anything around you, the carvings on the concrete walls, the puddle of blood you refuse to believe is yours or the flicker of the oil lamp against the adjacent wall. Anything, in hopes that it might help you get out of this mess.

There’s pain everywhere, each fragment of your body rigid with scorching agony. Your hands have since lost their feeling after being held above your head for so long and you’re certain there are teeth missing if you actually try to focus on where the pain is actually coming from.

It’s all so blurry that you barely recognise Castillo when he’s finally standing in front of you. The dictator trying to teach his hijo a lesson but his words and lectures fall on deaf ears, drowned out by screams which must be your own as you cling on to the last remaining thoughts keeping you together.

You don’t know how it happens. But between your fourth broken bone and your fifth tooth you manage to claw your way out of Anton’s hands. A grenade was let loose, a fire starting in the process but you don’t stop to think about how it happened, rather that it did happen. Your body is in overdrive, running on adrenaline and fear to get you up the flight of stairs as flames engulf the cells below you.

Sprinting in an urgent attempt to stay alive, you climb your way through suffocating vents and desolate rooms until finally you come bursting out the cliffside and over into the water.

It hits you like a freight train, how cold the water is, but it never felt better as it cools your sweltering body down from the inferno you just escaped from. The throbbing in your joints is soothed by the ocean, the stiffness wearing off from having been suspended for so long. It’s so peaceful in the water, so easy to lose yourself and your eyes close as the tide holds you gently. And you think, for a moment, that this wouldn’t be such a bad place to go.

But that thought is gone the second it arrives, ripped away by the sound of muffled yelling, all distant and broken. The feeling of being pulled from the water gives you whiplash, causing a string of coughs and curses as you’re pressed against a warm chest. Fingers tangle into your hair, doing their best to hold you gently and yet desperately holding you so close it could break you.

You’re safe. You know it.

You can feel it in the way you’re being held, by the faint feeling of kisses pressed to your hair and the whispered apologies against your skin. Leaning into the touch, you let yourself take deep breaths to the rhythm of the heartbeat you’re pressed against. It’s enough to calm you down, for the adrenaline to leave your body as you fall out of consciousness once again and exhaustion has you collapsing into the warm weight below you. This time knowing you’re in safe hands and on your way home.

– 

When you come to, the first thing you register is the tent covered with Libertad’s symbol and the crystal blue sky that shines through the seams. The smell of the ocean is what hits you first, the tell-tale signs of being back on the archipelago followed by the smell of what must be Benito’s freshly caught seafood smoking over the fire.

You must be close to the center of camp, most likely in the medical tent if common sense tells you anything but you won’t know for sure because turning your head feels like more of an effort than you can handle right now.

“The legend returns!” Your eyes shoot open to Clara García sitting beside you, her gentle voice excited as she sees you’re finally awake. One hand rubs your shoulder, careful to put any pressure on it whilst the other replaces a damp cloth on your forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Words can’t even describe how you’re feeling. Your body is so exhausted and wound up that it can’t even draw the line between your physical and emotional pain. You’re sure that you look like a mess, bruised and broken but alive and that’s really all that could matter.

“Oh you know, a little under the weather but I’ll manage.” You joke, smiling through the pain in your back and the way you shift uncomfortably under a layer of bandages and plaster.

“I’m glad to see that sense of humor didn’t get lost.” She smiles down at you, fingers brushing your hair from your forehead as she takes in the sight of her dear friend. “I won’t keep you, I just needed to check that you’re okay first. But I think there’s someone who’s been waiting to see you for a while now.”

She goes to leave, carefully getting up from the bed but pausing as you muster up the energy to gently take her wrist. Clara spins back around, looking down at you with concern in her eyes.

“I didn’t talk, Jefa… just so you know– whatever you think happened. It didn’t. You know I’d never.”

“I know,” She softens, leaning down to kiss your forehead before getting up once more. “We’re family. Now you’ll let me know if you need anything alright?”

Before you know it she’s outside. And not even a beat later, in comes a very disheveled and stressed Juan Cortez rushing through the flaps of the tent, his hair unkept and his eyebags heavy like he hasn’t slept since you two arrived back to camp. Maybe he hasn’t.

Your hand reaches out for him weakly, dropping it in his palm as he hastily stumbles over to you. “Oh, mi viejo–”

“Lo siento,” Juan chokes back a lump in his throat, bringing the back of your hand to his lips as he whispers against your skin. “Lo siento mucho. Fallé, debería haber estado allí. perdóname, cariño.”

Your fingers brush over his cheek, knuckle catching at the stray tear that falls from the clumps of his eyelash in a desperate attempt to soothe him.

“Hey now, I’m here.” You do your best to bring him into an embrace, attempting to hold him close as best you can without causing any further pain. “I’m safe now, ‘m not going anywhere. Lo prometo, mi viejo.” 

Juan lets out a shuddery breath, turning into your hold as you run your fingers through his hair and brush over the edge of his ear with your thumb. It’s surreal to have him here, in your arms after thinking that you’d never live to see him again.

The reality of it all has you wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders, holding him close albeit weakly as you cling to his shirt with what little strength you have left. The heat from his body warms you, filling your chest with something like relief. As if surviving this means you’ll be able to survive whatever emotional baggage the two of you are sitting on.

He smells like alcohol and dirt. Like salt water and gunpowder. On any other day you’d beg him for a shower, threaten to feed him to the sharks if he refused. But it’s just so good to be with him that you don’t even care for a second. Your face is pressed into his neck, breathing him in as your arm slides down to wrap around his waist to pull him closer. Neither of you speak, too overwhelmed to do anything behind taking each other in.

Until it’s him who winces in pain.

You pull away to see him tugging at the sleeve of his bicep, noting the bandage that is tucked away underneath it. He must have gotten it before he pulled me from the water.

“Did you go looking for trouble again, old man?” Juan laughs softly, a noise you’ve missed hearing as he scoots you across the medical bay and cuddles up beside you. He rests his head on your shoulder, arm draped loosely over your middle as he hesitantly tries to avoid your injuries but still can’t stand the thought of letting you go.

“Does it count as trouble if I was trying to save you?” He asks confidently, sighing in relief as one of your hands tangles in his hair again whilst the other moves to hold his on top of your stomach.

“Mhmm, it still counts, I'm afraid.” you kiss his head, letting your nose be tickled by loose strands of gray and you think of how easy it would be to fall asleep just like this. “Missed you.”

It’s so soft and mumbled into the mess of his hair, eyes closed and sleepy. So much so that you’re almost certain he couldn’t hear it.

“I don’t deserve you.” He counters, equally soft and whispered as he rolls into your embrace more. Like a cat starved of attention or Guapo when he’s trying to charm you into getting more treats.

“Oh mi querido. Eres un tonto, ¿Lo sabías?” You mutter. He lifts his head, ready to rebuke you as he stares– shocked and wide eyed down at you. His mouth is open in a pout and you finally decide to rip the bandaid off, bringing him in for a kiss with a gentle hand under his chin. Both of you sigh in a mix of relief and euphoria as you get to kiss him properly. It’s careful and weary, if not for your injuries than for the fact you’re both cautious of ruining such a moment. But that fear ebbs away with each breathy exhale and gentle brush of lips. “Love you, mi viejo. Need you to know it, too.”

When you pull away, he’s breathless against you, nose bumping your bruised one but any pain it causes you is ignored for the way he looks at you. So captured and in love it looks like it hurts, in the best kind of way.

He doesn’t say it back, doesn’t need to when he’s bringing you back in for kisses and holding you gentle and firm. There will be a time when he’s ready for words but for now both of you are content to hold each other, to indulge in little kisses and touches that you otherwise wouldn’t have let yourself have. You get lost in the way he kisses over every inch of your face, moving from your lips to your cheeks to your eyelids and up to your temples and crown before dropping back down to your jaw. Juan worships every part of you, and you reciprocate as best you can in your weakened state, tracing over the lines of his tattoos and drawing patterns on the back of his shirt. 

You wish you could do more but your body has a limit when it's healing, so you’re more than happy to reciprocate his kisses and hold on for the rest of it. Your chin tucked protectively on top of his head once he finally yawns and tucks himself into your shoulder as a pillow.

“Oye, if you pull through, do you think we can still have that date?” Juan doesn’t lift his head, voice muffled into the skin of your neck and the collar of your shirt. His breathing evened out, sleep about to take you both and yet still clinging on because you’re both in disbelief that any of this could be real.

“When I pull through,” you correct, legs tangling with his own in the limited space the medical bay offers as you reach for a light blanket beside you and pull it over the two of you. “Then we can have that proper date. Promise.”

You think that’s the end of it, ready to fall asleep in the middle of Clara’s camp– in broad daylight as the rest of the camp moves around you. Exhaustion ready to take over as your breathing matches with his and you keep one hand pressed over his heart. You’re just about to drift off, eyes closed and surrounded by the feel of him when you hear it. A confession whispered on the fringes of consciousness, like something sacred only few are deemed lucky enough to hear it.

Working for Bembé has been a learning curve to say the least.

Originally, you had joined him under the notion of needing to pay off a debt to support your family with borrowed money. But that was a long time ago.

You were supposed to be there for a few weeks, doing menial tasks like picking up shipments, of which you certainly didn’t ask any questions about, and relaying messages between the Gulov twins and the Black Market King himself– all to pay off the small amount of debt.

It was not, in any way, supposed to be a full time job. 

What started out as working for Bembé, quickly grew into a business partnership and dare you say it, a friendship working with him. In all the years you’ve known him, Bembé has become one of the few people you’ve come to trust with your life as you spend almost every hour of the day alongside him.

Stepping out of your car, you head on over to the Church’s entry as you plan to drop off his diary with all the information on today’s shipments and finances. There’s not many people around, mainly a few guards who give you a nod of acknowledgement and a parisher who’s taken to wiping down the benches. The only gaze that lingers is one of Saint Mary from her pedestal besides the windows.

Bembé’s desk is neatly tucked away behind the altar, having converted one of the storage rooms as his place of residence until you can safely reclaim the twin’s territory down at the Villa Judía Hotel. 

You place the book down on his desk, taking a moment to throw away empty cans and tidy up the pages strewn across the wooden surface before wandering around the Church in search of him.

With little to no luck searching the rooftops and the backrooms where all the arts and goods are stored, you return to the main area for congregants as your eyes land on the confessionals. Ah, he must be in one of those moods today.

Bembé had only ever gone there after a long and stressful day. A way of letting people know he wanted to be on his own. It wasn’t until you’d really gotten close did he leave the seat across from him for you to join him.

And you did just that, making your announcement known with a soft knock against the door, your knuckles scraping as you climbed inside. The light is softened, leaving an orange stain of intricate shadows to illuminate his face which rests up against the divider. Bembé looks at you from under his lashes, his shoulders slouched and eye bags visible. He looks tired. But instead of a rough, harsh look you’d expected to see from his exhaustion, it only brings out a softness to his features.

“Rough day?”

“Eh maybe… maybe not,” Bembé’s voice is full of his typical nonchalance, a hint of sarcasm you’ve come to grow used to but that all bleeds away when he sits back and slouches into his chair. “The twins picked off two more shipments, and Paolo’s debt is picking up by the hour with no end in sight.”

You humm in contemplative thought, thinking over all the stress he’s had to deal with over the weeks. “Let me call Dani– heard she’s helping Máximas out. Who knows she might even help you settle things with the Gulovs.”

Bembé chuckles, but not in a malicious way. His head leans back to hit the wall with a soft thunk as he stares down at his shoes.

“Something else on your mind?”

“Just thinking about my father. How he went from guerrilla in ‘67 to putting on a crisp military uniform– just to be buried by guerrillas when the next revolución came along.” He looks at you then, with all the emotion that is the real Bembé and not the Black Market King of Yara.

“Isn’t that what you wanted? To not pick sides. Doesn’t matter what colour flag you hold– it’s all just business, no?” Hesitant, your eyes are trained to Bembé making sure you don’t overstep or say the wrong things. It’s rare for him to talk about his family, and even rarer to show his emotions so openly.

“My father died for nothing.” There’s a beat before he speaks again. “Guerrillas. Military. Business. What is the point of switching sides if you don’t have something to make it all worth it.”

Bembé looks at you, finally meeting your eyes and you can’t help but think there’s slight fear in his eyes– or embarrassment. It’s a look you’ve never seen before, certainly not from him.

“I love you, you know. And I want you to choose my side. I don’t want to do this anymore if I don’t have you here.”

With a deep sigh, you muster a gentle smile and hold your hand out comfortingly to rest on the divider between you two.

“Bembé, I could have left a long time ago. I’m choosing to be here– you have nothing to worry about.” Quickly, you climb out from your side of the confessional to join him. You seat yourself beside him, your body flushed to him in the tight space as you hold his face and kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love you too.”

He sighs into you, feeling his arms wrap around your shoulders. There’s heat radiating from the both of you, with only his jewellery cooling your skin as he holds you impossibly closer. 

“Could you ever love someone like me? A sinner.” His voice is still so soft, but some of his charismatic charm has returned.

“Isn’t that my line? ‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned?’” 

“Holy fuck this is lush.”

The double doors of Antón’s private kitchen, in his very private villa open to reveal an entire palace of stainless steel countertops and state-of-art appliances every Yaran dreams they could afford. 

Libertad had stormed the island after the announcement Clara had been taken. It had been an absolute mess from the beginning of sneaking onto the docks, all the way up until the death of your close friend and leader. Now there was nothing you could do but free Yara in her name.

Together, you and Juan took it upon yourselves to search through the mansion– looting notes and laughing at all the art deco sculptures around the place in an attempt to relax and forget about the day, if only for five minutes.

Now looking at the sight of the massive fridge stacked to the brim with fresh produce, the finest quality meats and even a half opened bottle of wine you don’t even want to know the price of– you think it’s time the two of you have a reward after the last couple of years living the dangerous life of a guerrilla.

Juan is already scavenging through the bar, whistling lowly at the selection of rum and whiskey available. He flicks on the stereo system, finding some Los Nemus album the FND have stashed away as you take it upon yourself to begin preparing some vegetables and the pork to make Lechon Asado. It’s always been a traditional homey meal, with many memories of Libertad’s members all sitting around a fire on the beach of the Archipelago as you ate roast pork and drank Yara Libres. 

You never thought you’d thank Castillo for anything, but the fancy cut of pork and some of the freshest citrus and herbs you’ve ever smelt make you feel blessed. Running the knife over the cutting board, you take your time in preparing all the ingredients needed to marinate the meat. 

Just as you’re about to add it all to a baking dish, a pair of arms wrap around you from behind, holding you close in a tight hug. It’s all a distraction though, as you lean into Juan’s embrace, he seizes the moment to snatch a slice of seville orange.

“Hey! Get your hands out of there unless you want nothing. You know I could happily eat this all on my own.”

Juan doesn’t get to throw a snarky remark back at you as his face crunches up from the sourness of the orange, clearly expecting it to be sweeter than it was.

“And that is what you get for being greedy.” Your words have no bite to them, not as you pour two glasses of wine. One for yourself, and the other for him if only so he can wash down the sourness from his mouth.

Having learnt his lesson, Juan helps you prepare some rice to go with your main dish and only mildly complaining that he can’t steal anymore food. Of course, there’s an entire villa full of delicious food but where’s the fun in snacking if he can’t poach it from you?

Juan waits as you place the baking dish in the oven, watching as you set up one of those timers chef’s get the luxury of using before taking your wrist and bringing you close. He kisses your hand and uses it as leverage to sway to the tunes drifting around the kitchen.  Your soft laugh is all that can be heard as he twirls you slowly, making sure to kiss you when you spin back around. 

Eventually, you both stop worrying about the movement of your feet or even remain on time with the beat as you have one arm holding onto him and the other holding the glass of wine. Juan’s nose pressed against your cheek as you dance, drink and whisper little phrases of how much you love each other.

You only stop to pull away at the sound of a ‘ding’, the timer startling you both as you realise how much time has passed. There’s no time to mourn the loss of being wrapped up in each other as you serve up two large bowls, enough to satisfy two hungry guerrillas, before curling up on Antón’s plush couch. 

Juan practically sinks into the pillows as you throw a blanket over the two of you and begin digging into your meal with his head on your shoulder.

Somewhere between a mouthful of pork and a sip of your rum, yes the wine was finished ages ago, Juan’s muffled voices chimes in. “I could get real used to this, ya’know”

“No fucking way. I’m calling it off.”

“Clara!”

Your arms open in an attempt to reach and draw Clara closer but she slaps your hand away lightly, using it to turn her back to you as she flicks back over the blueprints and maps on the table. 

Juan and Dani had left long ago, making their way with a small team of guerrilla scouts to plant the explosives in time for Castillo’s speech. That left you and Clara to mull over plans on the rooftop of the hideout but at the mere mention of you entering into the hotel on your own, it didn’t take long for an argument to brew.

You were one of Clara’s best, following her from the day you’d met her all those years ago in the shabby library of Esperanza University. 

You were also so much more than that to her. Clara would never forgive herself if she willingly sent you to your death.

“You know I’m better with stealth than any of our guys. Let Dani draw them out whilst I sneak up to the penthouse– Castillo won’t see it coming.” Your voice comes out strained, pleading as you try to get her attention from over her shoulder. 

“No.” She remains cold. Her fingers clenching over the lip of the desk as she stares holes into the sewer blueprints.

“But Jefa I can–”

“Don’t Jefa me,” Clara turns to face you, but her anger isn’t there. Instead, it’s replaced with concern, frustration and most of all, fear. “I’m not going to lose you. Not even for a chance at Castillo, you’re far too important to me than he ever will.”

Her voice wavers towards the end, tears welling but she chokes it down with a grit of her teeth. When you don’t answer she turns her attention back on the table, hoping to stop the tears before they fall.

Clara never cries. She’s always so strong, so collected and well spoken– especially in front of Libertad. 

There’s never been a time where she’s been afraid to show her vulnerability, in fact, it’s why so many choose to follow her. The way she shares in your fears, and how she grieves and fights alongside all of you is what makes her so beloved. It makes her human. Her emotions have always held her one step above Castillo.

But she never cries.

You’ve only seen it a few times, when the stress and helplessness of the revolution catches up to her. It’s only in the comfort of her private quarters, so to see her so scared and vulnerable like this makes your heart sink.

The air shifts then, the frustration moulding into something more gentle. You gently brush your fingers along her bare shoulders, a little gesture of comfort to make your presence known before you loop your arms around her waist. Your chin rests on her shoulders, and you gently kiss at her skin where your fingers had just been.

“I’m sorry.”

Clara lets out a shaky breath at your confession, her own hands coming to hold your forearms as you keep her grounded with soft kisses.

“I can’t lose you,” By some volition she draws you impossibly closer, your nose brushing up against her cheek as she leans her head back into your space. “I can’t do this on my own. I need to fight for a Yara where the two of us are together.”

You know it’s a dream– you both do. Sooner or later either one of you will go down fighting. It’s just the way things were, too many people don’t get to see the paradise that their last dying breath goes towards. But that bridge can be fought when you get there.

Clara’s fingers loop into your own, bringing you back to reality and you draw both your hands up as you place a kiss to the back of her hand. She stares at your hands together, squeezing in reassurance as you have a silent conversation using only touch. 

In times like this words fail you both. Clara can make the most incredible speeches, but when emotions are running high and her loved one suggests one too many reckless plans, things only end in heated arguments. 

The touches, the kisses, the warmth of your hands together– all of it conveys everything you’re trying to say but fail to. 

I’m scared.

I know.

I can’t let Castillo take this from us.

Me too.

I love you.

I love you more.

Clara turns in your arms as your hands settle on her hips. She carefully wraps her arms around your neck, using the leverage to rest your foreheads together. Both of you breath, realising into each other as you soak up the intimacy of the moment.

Neither of you move, content to just hold and breath each other in before Clara eventually breaks the silence.

“I can’t send you in there alone, but if you go in with Dani you’d have each other's backs… would that work?”

You gently tilt your head, placing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth before nodding gently with a smile. You were both terrible at compromising but in these quiet moments it seemed to work.

“Oh no-no-no hero if you think I’m getting into that i’ll have Chorizo eat you alive” 

“Common Philly! There’s nothing to be scared about– I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Philly digs his heels into the ground, finding no use as his shoes scrape against the concrete runway. The hand that’s not being held by your own is desperately trying to claw onto any scrap of metal or workbench surface to stop himself from getting any closer to the aeroplane hanger.

His fingers wrap around a metal street sign, one he designed himself to point the way to his workshop and he clings for dear life in his signature overly dramatic way.

“Chorizo! Espada! Someone help me! Anyone! Dani!!” His cries for help fall on deaf ears, as it's just been the two of you all morning. Philly is strong, but you’re stronger as you throw him over your shoulder and walk over to the plane you’d stolen and taken to fixing up as a side project with him. Not that he’d actually expect to ever be inside a plane one day whilst in the air.

“There’s a mad guerrilla trying to kidnap me in their plane! They lured me with their charms and heart of gold– but all they really wanted was a co-pilot.” Both you and Philly can’t help but chuckle as he flairs about, wiggling his legs and gasping like damsels in those old movies you both like to watch.

The colour practically drains from his face at the sight of the plane up close, and you think you might just have to carry him again if his legs give out from fear. 

“Relax amor, you’re not going to be chasing down dictators. We’re just going for a little scenic tour– see Yara in all its glory” Your smug smile doesn't match Philly’s own weary look as his fear of heights has never been more prominent until now. His eyes are trained onto the propellor and for a moment your heart skips a beat.

“Hey,” Your arms wrap around him gently, holding him in a warm embrace as he looks at you with brown eyes blown wide. “We don’t have to do this, you know? We can have just as much fun staying right here with two feet on the ground.”

He’s hesitant for a moment, switching between the plane and you before finally wrapping his arms around you and squishing your cheek against his shoulder.

“Let’s do it. But if we fall out of the sky I need my hero to catch me.” 

Philly flying in a plane for the first time is an experience you’ll never forget. The comms are constantly buzzing, his voice crackling to life as he swears in equal parts terror and awe at the birds eye view of Yara. It’s almost as if the view distracts him enough to forget where he is, until he’s right back to cursing the oluwas and clutching the straps of his parachute.

It takes a while, and despite the fear which still remains, Philly seems to enjoy the path looping around the mountains and tour of the coastal towns. His face is squished flat against the window in the back seat, trying to get the best view of the ant-like people wandering about as he waves down to them. 

The highlight of his day was obviously flying over the Montero farm, opening the flap to scream a ‘hello’ down to them despite knowing no one could hear him over the engine. But that certainly didn’t stop him rambling about it with Espada the next day.

–

A few days pass, and you’re sitting around one of the campfires at the Montero’s when Philly saunders up to you. He’s got his signature smile, one that can only mean trouble and a croc helmet under his arm in the way he sometimes carries Chorizo.

“Now it’s only fair hero. I face my fears and now you, yours.” He holds out the croc helmet with both hands, his eyes flashing with confidence knowing he’s got the upper hand.

“Like hell I’m going to be caught wearing that.”

“But herooo–” He whines. “You’ve never worn it before.”

“Yeah, that’s because it stinks of sweat and diesel” Your nose scrunches up at the memories of leaning into kiss Philly after a day of him wearing it. Traumatic.

“You’re missing out on the Philly magic” He looks at you with his best impression of Chorizo’s puppy dog eyes, blinking sweetly as if to steal your heart.

“Believe me, I’ve had more than my fair share of Philly magic.” Both of you break out into smiles as you wink at him, a hint of teasing underneath it all. 

“That’s my hero.”

“Coño– we need to send the scouts to get gasolina”

“No, our shortage of medicine is higher and there’s not enough of us to spare to go after both at once.”

Both you and Camila let out a long, drawn out huff. You’ve been hunched over the same map of Yara for hours in hopes of trying to organise the Farm’s resources.

José Castillo had been hitting back hard, reclaiming some of the Military outposts and checkpoints Dani had helped you take back. Everyone was exhausted and stressed, with too many guerrillas returning to camp injured.

Camila was doing her best to defend the reclaimed FND bases, but that only meant there was just a small collection of people who could help gather the resources to keep the farm functioning.

“If we got the gasolina then we could drive a truckload of medicine back to the farm.”

“Who’s gonna drive the truck if we don’t have the medicine to help the drivers.” Camila’s voice counteracts your argument, her hand wedging the knife deeper into the wood of the table as gets frustrated.

“Mierda– fine, we’ll get the medicine, then we’ll get the gasolina.” Your voice is full of playful teasing as Camila breaks out into a triumphant smirk. She holsters her knife but not before flipping it between her fingers as she rounds the table to stand beside you.

Camila wraps her arms around you, hands coming to rest gently on your waist as your own rest on her shoulders. You look at her from under your eyelashes, trying your best to switch from a hardened guerrilla to something softer and pouty.

“Just promise me you won’t rub it in that you're the better planner out of the two of us.” Both of you giggle as she steps into your personal space, nudging you against the table so you’re flushed together from the chest down.

“I’ll try my hardest.” You go to protest, but Camila just takes the opportunity to press her lips to yours. Your arms drags her shoulders towards you, deepening the kiss as she somehow gets even closer to you and you can’t help the small noise from the way her hands rub circles on your hips.

“Oye Espada– Keep it PG for Chorizo! He just woke up from his nap.”

Both of you pull away to glare daggers at Philly who can’t stop the smug smile at catching you together. He’s like the Farm’s younger brother, always teasing and causing trouble with his ‘Philly magic’ but still remaining everyone’s favourite.

Reluctantly, Camila eases up but leaves her arm wrapped loosely around your waist to keep you close and steady as the two of you walk to the driveway. Waiting there is a small group of five, some of the best guerrilla’s you’ve worked with– most of which were your neighbours and family friends once.

“Remember– medicine, then gasolina.” 

“Yeah, yeah… if you’re so worried then write me a shopping list.” You playfully roll your eyes as Camila watches you climb into the car besides the others. She always comes to wish you farewell before you leave, making sure you’re out of sight before going to train the new recruits for the best of the afternoon.

Just as you’re about to turn the engine on, her elbow comes to rest atop of the window as she leans down to give a soft kiss along your lips. “Don’t go getting into too much trouble.”

Being a guerrilla with Libertad is no easy task.

You’re constantly running around, stealing every little resource you can back from the FND, regardless of whether it’s a handful of industrial circuits or barrels of gasolina. Even after that, Clara is always putting in calls for you to liberate another military base or checkpoint– better yet, Dani will end up calling you on your drive home to help her secure more depleted uranium. 

Time just never seems to stop.

It’s only in the late hours of the night or very early morning, you had lost track at this point, did the air seem to still be enough for you to take a deep breath and relax your body. Even if it is just for that one fleeting moment.

All the hard work was worth it when you got to come home to Clara’s island and crash onto Juan’s shitty excuse for a bed– his couch. The two of you had an arrangement of sorts, a morning routine which acted as a switch over when the other took the bed. He had a terrible habit of hunkering down in his bunker, not leaving for the entire day as he worked away on all his latest gadgets until he finally passed out on the couch from enough whiskey and exhaustion.

Lucky for you– Juan woke up just as you got home and it wasn’t long before the two of you were passing over the blankets and letting the other get the sleep they so desperately needed. 

Occasionally, Juan would make something slightly edible for breakfast, so he’d leave extra for when you woke up with a sticky note in his illegible handwriting staying to keep out of trouble. He’d work away at his supremos, doing his best to stay quiet despite all the drills and blowtorches whilst you slept peacefully above him.

The only downside was you missed him.

With the seemingly endless list of things to do, there were only a few short moments to spend time awake together– usually consisting of him ushering you out the door or risk being late to another Montero meeting again.

The fleeting kisses and short lived hugs were taking a toll on you– the lack of quality time being far more exhausting than any guerrilla job Clara could send your way. But you didn’t miss the way it affected Juan too. It didn’t take a genius to notice the stash of rum getting lower and lower or the broken tools from frustrated outbursts when his supremos weren’t coming together.

Today is no different when you finally drop your bags at the door, stripping away pieces of armour that you drop onto the floor with the mental promise of cleaning it up later. Your feet drag along the ground slightly as you struggle to keep your eyes open. It had been a painfully long drive back from Esperanza’s cathedral– not to mention the boat you borrowed to reach the island had failed on you twice.

A series of empty whiskey bottles are carefully manoeuvred off Juan’s workbench to make room for your rifle and string of other weapons you somehow managed to strap on you. Climbing up the ladder felt like the last thing you wanted to do with the little energy you had left but the promise of sleep won you over every time.

All your frustration and exhaustion from the day seemed to halt when you saw Juan strewn out on the couch, legs hanging out over the edge and arms tucked under his head. The blanket had half fallen off him but despite the dishevelled look, he was far more softer and calm in his sleep. You almost didn’t have the heart to wake him. Almost. 

“Psst Juan– wake up, mi viejo.”

Not an ounce of movement.

Besides the twitch from his nose, Juan continues to snore without a care in the world. Even when you return moments later with a bottle of water to help his hangover, and a tough nudge to the shoulder, he barely moves an inch.

However, the slight uptick in his snoring lets you know he’s wide awake.

“It’s rude to hog the blanket, old man.”

Of course, his only plan of action is to groan like an angsty teen before he’s holding his arms out, lifting the blanket and pulling you on top of him. Juan uses the blanket to his advantage, hugging you against him as he resettles into the couch with one hand resting gently in your hair and the other around your waist.

“So much for the morning routine we had.” A yawn takes all the annoyance out of your voice as you relax into the warm hug after being away for so long.

You don’t get to enjoy it though as Juan flips the two of you, trapping you against his weight and the couch. No point trying to escape now.

“Oye, this is a thousand times then sleepin’ alone in that stupid arrangement.” Juan looks at you with a smug smile, the look absolutely ridiculous with his messy bed hair. You match him with your own smile, a challenge written plain into your face.

“I don’t know… Guapo is an excellent pillow and cuddle partner.”

“You wouldn’t dare replace me,” He feigns offence, a pout forming on his face. “You love me too much.”

Your mouth opens, ready to snap back a snarky remark or to tease him again but it’s all replaced with shock as Juan’s already fallen back to sleep. Snoring in your ear, he makes himself comfortable on top of you as his arms loop around your side and his nose brushes the collar of your shirt.