#teebs posts

That was Alejandro’s first thought the moment he stepped into the little house. The place smelled like simmering broth and fresh tortillas, warm and familiar in a way that made you feel welcome whether you belonged there or not. Alejandro had brought groceries — fruit, bread, some spices Abuela liked — the same as he always did.

“Buenas tardes, Abuela,” he greeted politely.

From the kitchen came the clatter of a spoon and the unmistakable voice of a woman who had raised three generations and feared absolutely no one.

“Alejandro! Finally. Come in, come in.” She appeared from the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel, small but formidable, silver hair pinned neatly back.

Alejandro bent slightly to kiss her cheek. “How is he behaving?”

Abuela snorted.

"Like a stubborn mule.”

From the living room came Rudy’s muffled protest. “I can hear you!”

Alejandro grinned faintly, more a slowly growing smirk.

Rudy was sprawled on the couch with his injured leg stretched out, brace hidden under loose pants. He looked half-offended and half-relieved to see Alejandro.

“You came,” Rudy said.

“Someone has to make sure you’re not starving,” Alejandro replied, setting the grocery bag on the counter.

“I’m feeding him,” Abuela said sharply. “He just complains about it.”

“I do not complain—”

“You sigh dramatically every time I give you more food.”

Alejandro chuckled quietly, enjoying the soft familiar banter between Rudy and his abuela. Then Abuela turned her full attention to him.

Alejandro had faced cartel gunmen without blinking. He still felt the sudden instinct to brace for impact.

“So,” she said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Alejandro.”

“Yes, Abuela?”

“You are over thirty.” Alejandro blinked. “…Yes?”

“And Rodolfo is also over thirty.” Alejandro felt the faintest flicker of danger. Rudy groaned from the couch. “Abuela—”

She ignored him completely.

“You two spend all your time together,” she continued, stirring something in the pot without even looking at it. “Working. Visiting. Bringing groceries.” Alejandro glanced at Rudy. Rudy looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him.

“Abuela,” Rudy said carefully, “we’ve talked about this—”

“Yes, yes,” she waved a hand dismissively. “You are ‘busy.’ Soldiers are always busy.” Alejandro tried very hard not to smile.

Then she pointed the spoon at him.

“You.”

Alejandro straightened instinctively like he’d just been addressed by a commanding officer.

“Yes?”

“Do you want children?”

Silence dropped over the room like a bomb. Rudy made a strangled noise.

Alejandro blinked once, twice, caught completely off guard. “I—” He glanced at Rudy again. Rudy was staring at the ceiling like he might achieve spiritual transcendence if he focused hard enough.

Alejandro cleared his throat. “…Someday, maybe.”

Abuela nodded sagely. “Good.”

Rudy covered his face with both hands. “Abuela—please—” She continued, completely unfazed.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, stirring the soup again, “if making babies is too complicated for you two…” Alejandro choked on absolutely nothing. “…there is always adoption.”

Rudy slid further down the couch in defeat.

“Abuela!”

But she only shrugged, perfectly calm. “You would both make good fathers. Rodolfo cooks. You bring groceries.” She tasted the soup again. “Balanced household.” Alejandro stared at her, stared like the thought processes in his brain needed a few good whacks to reboot.

Then, slowly — dangerously — he started smiling.

Rudy saw it immediately. “Don’t you dare,” Rudy warned. Alejandro leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed now.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “Abuela does make a good point—”

“Alejandro!”

Abuela beamed, pleased with herself.

“See? This one listens.”

He sat at the small kitchen table, knee stretched out awkwardly beneath it, the familiar brace hidden under loose sweatpants. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, painting the room in warm gold while the smell of simmering beans and cilantro filled the air.

Abuela bustled around the kitchen like a storm in an apron.

“Eat,” she ordered, dropping another tortilla onto his plate.

“Abuela, I already ate—”

“You ate *nothing.* Soldiers always think coffee counts as food.” She waved a wooden spoon at him like a weapon. “You are too thin.”

Rudy sighed but obeyed. One thing about Abuela: resistance was pointless.

For a while, she hovered, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting. Straightening the salt shaker. Moving the napkins. Watching him in that sharp, knowing way she had. Rudy felt it coming.

“Rodolfo.”

“…Yes, Abuela?”

“You are over thirty.” He froze mid-bite. Like a hare suddenly meeting a snake.

“Many men your age already have families.” She crossed her arms, eyeing him carefully. “Children. Little ones running around.”

Rudy stared at his plate. “Abuela—”

“You would make a good father,” she continued firmly, as if presenting evidence in court. “You are patient. Kind. Responsible. You cook. You feed animals. You scold people gently.” She sniffed. “Perfect.”

Rudy felt his ears heating. “I’m busy,” he tried weakly.

“Busy?” Abuela scoffed. “So is everyone. That has never stopped people from making babies.”

“Abuela—”

“And that Alejandro boy,” she added suddenly. Rudy choked on his tortilla.

Abuela narrowed her eyes.

“He visits. He brings groceries when he thinks I do not notice.” She sniffed again, but there was affection in it. “Good manners.”

Rudy stood abruptly, grabbing his mug like it was a life raft. “I—uh—I should check on the dog outside.”

“There is no dog outside,” Abuela replied calmly. Rudy was already halfway to the door. “I’ll… check anyway!”

The screen door slapped shut behind him as he escaped into the yard, face burning. Inside, Abuela shook her head slowly, stirring the pot on the stove.

Young men. Always so dramatic.

She muttered to herself in Spanish under her breath:“Those two act like the whole town doesn’t see it.” She tasted the soup, nodded approvingly.

“Fine,” she continued, stirring again. “If they don’t want to make babies, they can adopt. Plenty of children need good homes.”

Another thoughtful pause.

“And that Alejandro cooks terribly,” she added with certainty. “Rodolfo will have to handle the kitchen.”

Outside, Rudy leaned against the fence, trying to cool his face in the breeze.

From inside the house, he heard Abuela call out:

“Rodolfo! If you are going to stand out there thinking about life, at least bring me more cilantro!”

Rudy groaned softly. Some missions were harder than others.

But this— This was suffering on a spiritual level.

He stared at the open cabinet in the barracks kitchenette, jaw tightening. His coffee tin… empty. Bone dry. Not even a stray bean rolling around like a sad maraca.

“¿En serio…?” he whispered, horrified.

He checked again. No coffee. No instant packets. No grounds. Not even the cheap stuff Soap swore tasted like “liquid optimism.”

Just an empty shelf and the mocking echo of his own caffeine dependency. He blinked, first one eye then the other, hoping against everything that something would happen. But the sight was not changing. "Mierda..."

He had two options:

Die.

See what was left in the communal fridge.

With the haunted resignation of a man marching to his execution, Rudy opened the fridge.

Half a jar of pickles. A forgotten Tupperware labeled “DO NOT OPEN – GHOST” (absolutely cursed). And one — singular — energy drink.

The can glared at him with neon, violent branding that could probably be seen from orbit.

“ThunderSlap MAXXX — ELECTRIC BOOMBERRY.”

Rudy squinted. “…¿Qué carajos es un boomberry?”

He needed caffeine. He needed to finish the after-action reports before Price hunted him down. He needed… hope.

He took the can.

Ripped it open.

Took a swig.

And immediately slammed the can on the counter, eyes watering.

“¡¿QUÉ CHINGADOS—?!” His voice cracked into a cough. “¡Esto sabe como si un payaso explotó en mi boca! ¡Madre de Dios!”

He paced a circle, one hand on his chest, the other holding the neon can like a cursed artifact.

Another sip.

Rudy gagged on command.

“¡AH, PUTA MADRE! ¡¿QUIÉN HIZO ESTO, UNA BRUJA DEL AZÚCAR?!”

He slapped the counter again.

A third sip.

He whimpered.

“Dios mío… esto no es una bebida. Es un pecado.”

But the caffeine… the caffeine was hitting. He could feel it lighting his neurons like illegal fireworks.

Gaz walked into the kitchenette mid-rant, freezing at the sight of Rudy half-growling at a beverage.

“…You alright there, hermano?”

Rudy pointed dramatically at the can.

“This—” he hissed, “—is evil.”

Gaz picked it up, sniffed, recoiled instantly. “Nope. Not even touching that. That’s a biohazard.”

“I need coffee,” Rudy muttered, defeated. “Real coffee. Human coffee. Not… demon juice.”

“You could ask Price,” Gaz offered. “He’s got a stash.”

Rudy shook his head violently. “No. He’ll look at me like I failed as a man.”

Another sip. Another violent string of Spanish curses that would make a priest faint.

Gaz leaned against the doorframe, smirking.

“How bad can it be?”

Rudy shoved the can toward him.

“Try it.”

Gaz took the smallest sip imaginable.

Instant regret.

He gagged and handed it back like it was radioactive. One of his eyelids twitched so fast it looked like one slow blink.

“What the— this tastes like someone drowned a blueberry in battery acid.”

“¡GRACIAS! ¡Exactamente!” Rudy threw his hands up. “Pero necesito terminar los informes…”

“And that,” Gaz sighed, “is where poor decisions are made.”

Rudy stared down at the can. He stared down at his paperwork folder on the counter. Back to the can.

Then — resigned — he took another swig.

He slammed the can down. Gave a full-body shiver.

And muttered, brokenly:

“Odio mi vida.”

But the typing? The typing afterward was feral. Thirty minutes later, Rudy was blasting through reports like a caffeinated deity — muttering Spanish insults at the drink every time he rehydrated with it, but undeniably powered by its unholy energy.

When Alejandro passed by and asked how he was working so fast, Rudy just pointed at the can with haunted eyes.

Alejandro picked it up, read the label, and whispered:

“Dios nos proteja.”

Rudy nodded solemnly.

Across the floor, Colonel Alejandro Vargas moved with his usual easy authority, showing the newest recruit how to clear a breach charge. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms streaked with sweat and fine powder. Every motion—firm grip on the recruit’s wrist, patient adjustment of stance—carried a quiet confidence that always managed to crawl beneath Rudy’s skin. The play of muscles with every little movement drew Rudy's gaze like nothing else.

“Like this,” Alejandro said, voice a warm rasp. He stepped in close behind the recruit, broad chest brushing the man’s shoulder as he guided his hands. “Steady. Don’t fight the weight. Let it work with you.”

Rudy swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears. That touch. The way Alejandro’s fingers slid along the recruit’s knuckles, correcting but never rough, steady as a promise. Rudy’s palms prickled inside his gloves. He remembered the same grip during countless missions, Alejandro’s hand on his shoulder in the dark, a silent you’re with me.

Today it felt different. Or maybe Rudy simply couldn’t hide how badly he wanted it.

Alejandro glanced over, dark eyes meeting Rudy’s for a fraction of a second. Heat flared low in Rudy’s chest, sharp enough to steal his breath. He kept his face neutral, the mask of a professional soldier, but inside every nerve leaned toward that gaze, aching for even a brush of those calloused fingers.

“Sergeant Major,” Alejandro called, still focused on the recruit. “You see anything off in his stance?”

Rudy stepped forward slowly, voice steady despite the thrum in his veins. “Only that he needs a firmer base, mi Coronel.”

“Show him,” Alejandro said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Rudy crouched beside the recruit, demonstrating the proper angle, but his senses tracked only the warmth of Alejandro standing close—close enough that Rudy could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of sweat and sun-warmed fabric. A single accidental brush of Alejandro’s sleeve across Rudy’s shoulder sent a spark down his spine.

“Better,” Alejandro murmured, approval low and rough.

Rudy straightened, forcing a crisp nod, but his heart hammered against his ribs. All he wanted was that same guiding touch, the weight of Alejandro’s hand lingering a second too long. Instead he stepped back to his post, eyes fixed on the sterile looking wall of the training hangar, while Alejandro dismissed the recruit.

Rudy was six the first time he met Alejandro.

He sat on the low wall outside his abuela’s house, legs swinging, clutching a pan dulce in both hands like it might escape him. His mother stood nearby, laughing softly with another woman Rudy had never seen before — tall, expressive, her hands moving as she spoke. So much fire contained in one living being, that being still and calm was never an option, warmth spilling from every movement and every expression. It was such a difference to his own mother, the calm and collected one, radiating love and warmth like gentle air on summers days.

“Ru,” his mamá said gently, crouching in front of him. “Come say hello.”

Rudy peeked over his bread, shy but curious.

“This is my friend,” his mother said, smiling. “We grew up together. And this,” she added, gesturing behind her, “is her son. Alejandro.”

Alejandro was a little taller than Rudy, hair sticking up in every direction, knees scraped raw from playing outside. He stared at Rudy openly, no shyness at all.

“You’re small,” Alejandro announced.

Rudy frowned immediately, offended. “I’m six.”

Alejandro considered this seriously. Then he nodded. “Okay. That’s fair.”

Their mothers laughed.

“Why don’t you boys play?” Alejandro’s mother suggested. “We’ll be right here.”

Rudy hesitated, glancing back at his mamá. She squeezed his shoulder gently. “Go on, corazón.”

Alejandro didn’t wait. He grabbed Rudy’s hand—warm, confident, unafraid—and tugged him toward the dusty yard.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you where the ants live.”

And just like that, Rudy went. He did not have a choice. He still had his bread clutched tightly in hand.

They spent the afternoon crouched in the dirt, Alejandro narrating everything like a guide and Rudy listening like it all mattered. When Rudy’s bread broke in half, Alejandro immediately offered his own without thinking.

By the time the sun dipped low, Rudy had dirt under his nails, a scrape on his elbow, and Alejandro sitting close enough their shoulders touched.

When it was time to leave, Rudy clung to his mamá’s skirt.

“Can Alejandro come back tomorrow?” he asked quietly.

Alejandro answered first. Loud and without hesitation. “I will.”

The apartment smelled faintly of garlic and onions, the same way it had decades ago in Rudy’s childhood home.

Alejandro groaned softly from the couch, blanket pulled up to his chin, one hand clutching a mug of tea that did little to ease the ache in his chest. The flu had hit him hard, leaving him weak, feverish, and far from his usual unshakable self.

Rudy moved quietly in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup he’d made from memory, his abuela’s old recipe tucked into his head like sacred knowledge. Every chop of onion, every pinch of salt, every swirl in the broth was exactly how his grandmother had taught him—and how his mother had taught him before she…

He shook the thought off and focused. Alejandro needed this.

A few minutes later, Rudy set the steaming bowl down in front of Alejandro, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “Here,” he said softly. “Eat. You need it.”

Alejandro’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at the bowl, and then at Rudy, a strange warmth creeping through him. His lips quirked into a weak smile. “…This smells… familiar.”

Rudy grinned faintly. “It should. Abuela taught me well. And my mom… well, she always made sure I remembered how to take care of friends.”

Alejandro swallowed, eyes misting slightly. Memories flashed unbidden: the little living room when he’d been eight, Rudy fussing over him with soup, blankets, and reassurance while his own mother took care of emergencies elsewhere. The warmth of the house, the quiet laughter of Rudy’s grandparents, the safety he had felt leaning against Rudy’s shoulder.

He let out a small, hoarse laugh. “Rudy… you’ve done this before.”

Rudy shrugged, cheeks tinting pink. “Yeah. You were sick once. Took care of you. You—uh—you didn’t appreciate it much back then.”

Alejandro chuckled, shaking his head, his hand brushing over Rudy’s as he lifted the spoon. “I remember. I remember exactly how you fussed over me. And… it felt like home.”

Rudy’s smile softened, a little vulnerable. “Some things never change.”

Alejandro ate slowly, savoring the soup—and the memory.

Also, ouch.

Very much ouch. But the homegrown human Experiment was a success.

Emergency c-section though, so im still fucking done.

Trying to come Back soon.

And dont forget, ouch.

He looked deeply, profoundly annoyed.

The screen door creaked open behind him. Alejandro stepped outside, two bottles of beer in hand. “You fled,” he observed calmly.

Rudy didn’t even look at him. “You encouraged her.” Alejandro handed him a bottle anyway and sat down beside him on the steps.

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did,” Rudy shot back, finally turning to glare at him. “You were supposed to help me survive that conversation.”

Alejandro took a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered. “I believe I did survive it.”

Rudy groaned and leaned back against the porch railing. “She is never going to let this go now,” he muttered.

From inside the house they could faintly hear Abuela humming while washing dishes.

Alejandro glanced toward the door, then back at Rudy. “She likes me,” he said mildly.

“That’s the problem.”

Alejandro’s smile widened.

Rudy rubbed his face with both hands. “Adoption, Alejandro. She suggested we adopt children.” Alejandro shrugged. “It’s a good solution.”

Rudy stared at him like he’d just grown another head. “You cannot be serious.”

Alejandro raised an eyebrow.“Why not?”

Rudy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…Because that’s not—” he struggled for words, ears turning red. “—that’s not how this conversation was supposed to go.”

Alejandro leaned back on his hands, watching him with quiet amusement

.“You ran away from the kitchen like you were under fire.”

“It felt like it!”

Alejandro laughed softly. The sound loosened something in Rudy’s chest despite himself. It was always easy with Alejandro.

For a moment they just sat there, the familiar quiet settling around them.

Then Alejandro said, more thoughtfully now: “She’s not wrong, you know.”

Rudy blinked. “…About what?”

“You’d be a good father.”

The words were simple. Honest. Rudy stared down at the bottle in his hands. “That’s not the point.”

Alejandro tilted his head slightly.“Isn’t it?”

Rudy exhaled slowly. “You’re impossible.” Alejandro chuckled.

From inside the house Abuela’s voice suddenly called out through the open window:

“Rodolfo!”

Rudy froze. “Yes, Abuela?”

“Tell Alejandro he is welcome to stay the night!” Rudy squeezed his eyes shut. Alejandro grinned like a man watching a perfectly executed ambush. “And if he stays,” Abuela continued loudly, “tomorrow he helps fix the fence! A good future husband must know these things!”

Rudy nearly dropped his beer.

“ABUELA!”

Inside, she just laughed to herself. Alejandro leaned closer, voice warm with barely contained amusement.

“Well,” he murmured, “if I’m going to be evaluated as a husband, I suppose I should start impressing her.”

Rudy buried his face in his hands.“You are enjoying this far too much.” Alejandro bumped his shoulder gently. “Maybe a little.”

But his smile softened when Rudy didn’t look up.

“…For what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “I think she just wants you to be happy.”

Rudy finally lowered his hands. The annoyance in his expression had faded into something softer. “…Yeah,” he admitted.

Alejandro nudged his shoulder again. “And if that happiness involves adopting six children and a dozen stray dogs—”

Rudy elbowed him sharply. “Shut up.” His ears were burning, his heart thumping harshly in his chest.

Alejandro laughed.

And inside the house, Abuela smiled to herself.