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writefightandflightclub · 1 month

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Eight (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note, this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Oh my goshhhhh, I hope you're ready for chapter eight??!!! We've been on such a journey with these two, and I can't wait for you to see where they go next. As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

In your ensuite, you shower the residue of the day away from your flushed skin, rinsing the sand and sunscreen and sweat away beneath the warm, sluicing water. You’re alone, and yet your thoughts are consumed by another. By Santiago specifically; of course.

He had promised you something -to give you what you want, need- and you’re trembling already in anticipation of it. You feel butterflies unfurling in the pit of you at the thought of laying down with him. Of baring yourself to him. Of surrendering. Having him hold you. Not urgently or desperately this time - no. Intentionally. Deliberately. Gently.

You unhook the shower head to rinse the soapy suds away from the contours of you and you think of him - because how can you think of anything else? Indeed, your want is so barreling that even your own hands smoothing over your skin - your breasts, your stomach, your thighs - arouse you, your own touch the precursor to the path his warm, rough fingers might travel.

You are about to merge with him, but he already feels so much a part of you.

You belong to Santiago.

It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the lines and marks all over you where Santiago has been there for you, taken fire for you, pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away.

There’s that, but also, there are the more invisible markers which your life with him - alongside him- has left on your skin. There’s the scrape of his stubble against your neck. The grip of his broad hands on your hips. The pulse between your legs which your body remembers. You have catalogued and cartographed the soft and harsh parts of his body - and his soul. But, you still do not have the map to his heart. He is yet to show you the way; but even so…

He is your ride or die, and your body knows it. Always has.

Your body knows that you are about to collide with him. To be subsumed by the surge and undertow of him, and you throb for it. You expel a sugared moan into the steamy air as the jet of water provides pressure against your wanting clit, and for a moment you wonder how you can be so gone for him. You have been waiting for him to choose you; but, in truth, for you it was never a choice.

One of you can not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies are forever moving through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you leave each other’s side. You didn’t choose it so much as it just happened. A lifetime, wearing familiar dirt tracks into clear waymarked paths with every step forward.

Still, the map has always remained incomplete. You could never quite see where this path with him ended. How far it could take you. Whether he would walk alongside you some or all of the way.

You are grateful for him. So grateful. But you always want more. More of him. How could you not?

Santiago has already made your life beautiful in so many ways. Can he give you something beautiful tonight, too, like he had promised? Something that feels different to those waves which break, over and over, self-defeating. Something that feels different to an ending?

You startle as there is a soft rap at the door, and Santiago’s voice bleeds through the panelled wood, sounding as warm and grainy as sun-heated sand. Like summer. Like sunlight through a clearing in dense, gnarled woods. “Are you ready, querida?”

Are you?

Are you ready for what he has promised? Because you are suddenly all too aware that what he has offered -in not so many words- is to make love to you tonight. To give himself to you. To let you bask in him.

Are you ready for that? To see him in more than fragments. Not only snatching the haphazard pieces of him he offers - so jagged that they cut the palm you grasped them tightly in. Are you ready to feel whole?

Can you take his love if it doesn’t hurt?

Your heart thuds in your neck; from the hot, billowing steam, and from him. The mere idea of him. You step carefully out of the cubicle, steam venting into the room. Your skin is hot and wet and dripping, and you feel that same way too.

“Two minutes.”

You towel off, your hands lightly trembling.

You think of him, because how can you do anything else?

You think of the water, sluicing down his sturdy body as he showered off in the main bathroom. Of him getting himself ready for you. You wonder if he aches for you as you do for him. You wonder if he grew rigid beneath his hand as you were becoming liquid for him. You wonder, if his heart ever once felt like it had a choice.

You think about him waiting for you right now in the bedroom. Maybe shirtless, black-grey curls wet and tight, his golden brown skin lit with the soft orange glow of the lamp. Of him poised there in the quiet and stillness waiting to collide with you, just like the sea washing over this frayed edge of land in this endless dance - consuming, taking, giving, repeating. Working as a team.

You wonder if he feels this flutter in him too. This movement in him. This undeniable, slow drag which has always pulled you two to one another. Always.

And so, he asks you. Are you ready? And you do what you can to prepare yourself for this collision. So eager to merge with him, but basking in the fact that, for once, you get to take your time. That you don’t have to fear or brace, thinking about whether, when you crack the door to the bedroom, he will already be gone.

Taking your time then, and with subtly jittering hands, discombobulated breath, you smooth sweet-smelling lotion all over your body. Of course, you think of his hands and where they might travel too when they get their chance. Of how Santiago can touch you better than you could ever touch yourself. How he knows your body, seemingly, as well as he knows his own.

And so, you think of him. You think of him and of the ocean and the rocks. Of valleys and summits. Of dense jungles and sunlit clearings. Of the frayed edges of the land and the frayed edges of yourself. Of all the places where things collide and all the places where they merge, and how those places are so often one and the same.

So then, when you think that you are finally ready? When you have smoothed lotion into your skin and smoothed your pleasant, buzzing nerves, you step out into the bedroom.

And that is the very moment you realise. Realise that you’re not at all ready. That you could never be. How could you be? How could he fail to take your breath away, even once?

Just look at him.

You enter the bedroom, your silk robe draped appealingly over the contours of your body and Santiago stands, surging up from where he had perched himself so impermanently on the edge of the mattress. He’s been waiting for you and he looks; immediately. Drinking you in. His jaw falling slack. He looks like he might’ve smiled at first - or greeted you in words. But he can’t do so now. The words are swallowed, perhaps, as a gulp trails down his corded neck. Santiago looks serious, his brows weighted. He looks as though he knows how much this matters. Like he finally knows how much you matter.

You look at him too, and you find you can’t smile either. After all, Santiago fills you with a joy so heavy that sometimes, it is hard to recognise it as such.

You simply take him in, then. All at once. The contours and ridges of him, and the paths your hands might travel over his smooth brown skin. You see him. Your lust-ridden and love-sparked eyes dance over his wetted, grizzled curls, scrunched-up but with errant strands coiling across his forehead. You take in his bare, sculpted chest. His toned arms and his soft, inviting stomach. You drink in the way his brushed cotton joggers cling to his ample hips. To his sturdy thighs and to the clear outline of the bulge at his crotch as he swells with anticipation from the sight of you alone.

His hands hang loose yet primed at his sides as he looks at you from beneath his thick, fanning lashes. The pace of his breathing is slightly quickened, his gilded shoulders rise and fall with greater vigour as he scoops a hand over his flecked stubble and you hear it rasp. Feel it as though his fingers were your own. As though there is no difference or distance between you at all. Not the distance between here and Colombia. Not the distance he runs from you whenever you get too close.

Your chest tightens with the sheer familiarity of him. Because of the fact you already know how he feels and how he tastes. How the vibration of his moans in his corded throat feel against your skin. Your chest tightens, because even in the mellow light of the room he still looks sharp and sure. Formidable. But he looks like home too. You remember all the ways you already know he is tender, and you want to learn every other way too.

You take a deep, steadying breath as you sway towards him, from one steamy room to another, Santiago’s warmth every bit as enclosing. You are grateful that the window is cracked open, cool air kissing your heating skin. The sound of the swollen waves mirroring the surge within you.

In this moment, Santiago is not a man to you at all. Rather, he is a landscape. He is your whole life laid out before you. He is everywhere you have been, and he is everywhere you may go. His lands are your topography, and you know that you will walk his paths forever hoping to find a way to his heart. Hoping that, one day, he will let you call him home, even though you’ve already been here learning him for as long as you can remember.

He is everything. And you’re not ready. And it’s all too much.

Finally though, Santiago looks certain. He looks ready. He looks at you as though you are the moon and he is the tide, and that within moments he will move oceans for you. That he will flood your frayed edges, smooth and overcoming and inevitable.

He closes the distance, his warm palm slipping up to gingerly cup your face and his lips slanting to capture yours. His fingertips tugging at the bow of your robe, about to release it.

But you? You hesitate. You turn, almost impercebtibly, but it is enough for Santiago to notice.

You hesitate because, by now, you are so used to breaking. And you’re not sure you can do it again.

For so long, he has viewed you in pieces, and you have started to wonder whether he was the one who broke you apart in the first place.

Now though? His gentle, earnest eyes reading your face and your body so carefully? His hand reaching out for you in a way that promises healing? That shows his palm holds nothing jagged - nothing but love?

To your utter surprise, your skin flushes hot with embarrassment and you blink, your lashes fluttering towards your cheek. A modest, bashful smile is primed on your mouth. An apology readying itself on your tongue. It seems silly, you think. Silly to be hesitant now, after everything. Seems silly that after all of the times you have given in when he would promise you nothing, that you would shrink back when he offers you something more. Most of all, you think, it seems silly to be hesitant with him, after all the ways and places and times he has touched you.

You don’t quite understand it, but to his credit, Santiago seems to. When he senses your apprehension, his eyes narrow a little. His brow furrows, and his mouth slants up into a gentle, reassuring smile.

“Come here,” he says instead, before your garbled, unnecessary apology can free itself from your throat. His voice is as soft as the shushing waves and the mellow light and he takes you by the hand, his fingers twined delicately with yours. He leads you, but not forcefully. He leads you the way the sun leads the moon into the night sky as it chases its warm light - you gladly follow, his palm bleeding heat. His eyes full of sunlight. He leads you then to your bed and he peels the covers back, inviting you to lie with him through a subtle nod of his head. The way this all started the first time he undid you - except tonight, you know, is so very different.

Santiago climbs in first, never letting go of your hand, and he pats the spot on the mattress exposed by the turned-back comforter. Your fingers tug on your robe and you finally slip out of it, exposing the contours of your body to the pooling lamplight. Santiago’s tongue traces along his lower lip as he drinks you in, watching awestruck as the fabric shimmies to floor, pooling at your feet and leaving you bare. For a moment, you even feel self-conscious as Santiago regards you; for once not frenzied and desperate, but with time to study you. You feel on display and yet he makes you feel nothing but beautiful. Makes it seem natural as you allow the caress of the smooth fabric to be replaced by the warm embrace of him. You slip in beside him, shuffling under the covers. Both of you lying on your side to face each other, but still with some distance between you.

You breath hitches as Santiago’s arm folds over your bare middle, his lithe fingers applying smooth caresses to your skin, the pads of him dancing up the notches of your spine, tracing the line of your shoulder blade. You are happy for him to touch you. You want it. But you do not reach for him just yet. Your arms remain bunched in the space between you, your forearms guarding your chest.

“You still want this?” he asks, voice as soft as dissolving sugar.

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, for you know it will be an irresistible, sweet, moreish thing. You can’t allow him to gaze into the depths of your own eyes just yet. After all, it is not only your body which is laid bare for him. Your feelings are too, you fear. Every single want and dream and desire and insecurity. He can read you. Knows you.

“Yes,” you attempt to state levelly, and yet your voice cracks wide open. “I want this more than anything.”

With a soft, perhaps relieved, exhale, Santiago shimmies forward then, closing some of the distance between your bodies. Tangles his thighs up with yours. Shifts his head so you are almost nose to nose on the pillow, dipping briefly to plant a fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose. All the while, too, his hand continues to wander over your body. Stroking you, caressing you, asking for nothing in return, and you bask in these slow, stretched, careful moments.

“Then… what is it?”

You finally look up at him then and, try as you might, you can’t disguise the way your eyes shimmer with emotion as you note the way concern has etched its way into his brow. For reassurance, your arms tug tighter into your chest.

His eyes become liquid too, the earthy mirror to your own. They shine with a deep well of friendship, of care, of love. And you realise exactly “what”.

Part of you is afraid, sure. Part of you has been hurt too much to accept that you could share something truly joyful with the man. But a larger part of you is keen to relish in this waiting and restraint for other reasons.

Why, though? Why on earth would you wait? Hesitate? Well - it’s quite simple, really. Because if it doesn’t begin, it can’t ever be over. If you don’t have him like this - whole, fully - then you can never lose all of him. Losing pieces of him was hard enough, wasn’t it? And you don’t know that you could bear to lose a scrap more than that.

Santiago’s gaze dips to your mouth and you can tell he’s eager. Good to go when and only if you should give him the green light. You want that. You do. Still, upon examining his expression more closely, something tells you that there is one more wall to fall. You’ve encountered so many of his walls already, that you’re not sure you have the strength to tear this one down.

In the end, you are grateful that you don’t have to. That he does it for you.

“You were wrong, you know,” Santiago’s voice sounds out, a gentle tone but full of subtle cracks. His hand slides up, gingerly capturing your cheek in his palm, holding your gaze with his. You don’t know what’s coming, but your chest tightens with some unknown thing, even as Santiago’s thumb tenderly strokes back and forth over your cheek to soothe you. Your brows knot, and you shake your head lightly, exhibiting your confusion.

Pursing his lips, preparing himself, Santiago tugs the covers up to your shoulders, keeping you warm. “That night in Philadelphia,” he continues, a divot carving itself into his brow at first, and yet a mere moment later, his face lilts into a soft, wistful smile. “That was it. That was the night.”

His smile widens, ever so subtly, and his eyes shine with enough adoration that you wonder if you’re meant to be here. If he can really be looking at you like that, or if you’ve momentarily stolen someone else’s life. “The night that… what?”

“The night my dumb ass first realised that I was in love with you. And… the night I first realised you didn’t love me back.”

You face scrunches with even deeper confusion now.

What?! But, that couldn’t possibly…

That night was years before you even hooked-up. Years and years and years before all of this. Before you even felt….

Oh.

Your breath stalls in your chest then as comprehension floods you.

He loved you first.

Your chest constricts, and your heartbeat pushes the rhythm of his name into your mouth, in lieu of any words.

Santiago.

All this time?

He crooks his finger under your chin, his gaze level and calm - no blame in it. “You were wrong, see? You didn’t get there first, querida. I was waiting a long time for you. I guess I got scared you’d never catch me up, and so I…” His eyes swim briefly then, clouding over with something like regret. “...I started running. And I guess I just…” His shoulders hunch up towards his ears. “I didn’t know how to stop.”

Santiago.

Your heart thuds his name, and you are overcome with too many emotions to name. Emotions which bend you from the inside out, mobilising you to unfurl yourself, to move towards him. But you don’t; not just yet.

You do see it plainly now, as you look into his earnest, regretful eyes. You’d spent so long acting as though he had something to prove to you, but you already know who he is, don’t you? Know that he’d never hurt you if he could help it. You see plainly how it has hurt him to love you. That it still hurts him to love you.

You don’t want that for him. You never wanted that. In fact, all you’ve ever wanted is for him to feel safe. To feel loved. And so, if Santiago can’t run freely into your safe hands? If he doesn’t believe he’s brave enough to do so? If your arms were closed to him for so long that he forgot what it felt to be open? If all of that is true, then you will reach for him instead.

“Santiago.” You breathe his name, finally pushing the syllables from out of your chest. Finally squeezing errant tears from the corners of your eyes as you realise all of this time you’ve loved each other alone instead of together like you should have. As you mourn all the missed moments. As you lament all of the things which got in the way.

That doesn’t matter now though. All of that feels inconsequential. It all feels like bullshit now that your paths have finally converged.

And so, you do reach for him with your careful, killing hands. It is your turn to gingerly cup his cheek with your palm now, his stubble rasping beneath your hand, and his long-lashed eyes fanning closed as he leans gratefully into your touch.

There’s so much that you want to tell him. So much that you want to say.

That you’re here now. That you love him. That he doesn’t need to run.

But… you don’t want to say it with words. After all, that was never the language you two shared most fluently. You want to tell him with touch. You need to. Want to tell him plainly and hear those sentiments returned in the writhing conflux of your bodies. In the moment, with your love for him spilling out of you, it seems no other way you could tell him - show him - could be enough.

You reach out then, and with a stuttered inhale, your chest a butterfly house, you press your palm to his warm, bare chest. You feel his heartbeat thudding under your hand. Faster, Faster, Faster, as you touch him.

You love the man. You will keep his heart safe in the roll cage of your ribs if he’ll let you. You will. You promise. You’ll be gentle with it. No more bracing. No more collisions.

“Santiago,” you breathe as you move closer. As close as you can get, in fact, your form pressed up against his, skin to skin. “What do you want, right now?” You speak the words into the junction of his neck, his pulse point throbbing against your wanton lips. “What would make you happy in this moment?”

You feel the deep vibration in his throat as he hums, moans, begs - dumbly - and you know intuitively that he cannot rely on words in this moment either - only on his touch. Can only tell you -show you - what he wants, craves, in the act of reaching for you, his hands finding familiar paths on your skin but walking them in a new way tonight. He reaches for you. Rolls you beneath him in a fluid motion because you yield, already a boneless, molten thing under him.

He touches you. Caresses you. Kisses you. You return it. For a moment you are a mess of ragged breath and sweat and clashing teeth and tangled tongues. Of pads of fingers and brushed cotton and soft heaving moans. And then, his strong arms bracing him over you, Santiago pauses - amidst a breath snatched from your mouth. Pauses just to look at you there beneath him. His eyes flit all over your face, and he huffs out a disbelieving puff of air.

”Holy shit, hermosa.” He looks at you as though you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Perhaps you are. His molten, lust-dark eyes certainly make you believe it.

Still, just before your greedy fingers can wind up and over, brushing over the prickle of short, buzzed hairs at the nape of his neck to drag his mouth back over yours, Santiago shifts, his kiss eluding you.

Santiago has always had the map to your heart, and as his fingers trail so confidently down your skin, his lips working down the column of your throat, your breasts, your puffy nipples, stubble grazing you, you think that maybe, finally, he is following it home. Your bodies always were symbiotic; moving, fighting, then fucking as a team. He already knows as well as you do that your bodies, the cartography of your love, is a terrain which can be best understood by traversing it. That touch is the language you share. That you were always fluent in. This time, it is not a touch borne out of jealously or frustration or anger. It is not half-hearted or contingent. It is beautiful and joyful and giving. It is soft and attentive and God he’s never felt so good.

You expel a breathy, silent moan - a plea really - as Santiago presses his body up against yours, his knee nudging to kick open your thighs. His hips dipped to grind his clothed erection into your heat. Your skin heats, desire curling in the pit of you and you kick away the covers, his warmth more than enough now. With a gust of air, a show of restraint - you swear he’s so desperate for you he could have dry-humped you through his clothes - Santiago manoeuvres his sweat pants off of him, and when he settles in position again he is bare and warm and hard against your slick.

“Are you-? Do we need-?”

“-I’m protected,” you answer as his muscled form braces over you, his strong arms boxing you in, the tip of his nose nudging yours, his thighs between your parted legs as the straining mass of his arousal glides over your folds. You wrap your legs and arms around him, holding him tightly, your nails tracing lovingly up and down the canopy of his broad shoulders. Twining into the mess of damp curls on top of his head. You feel the press of his soft stomach against yours. The heat of him everywhere.

His lips meet yours desperately then, his mouth so needy for yours you could swear his lower lip is trembling as he opens up to shove his tongue over yours. “Baby,” he asks, wracked by need already, his brow burdened with the weight of it and his words barely intelligible. “Are you ready for me? I need you, querida.”

“You’ve got me,” you soothe. “But I… I want you like this.” He looks surprised for a moment as gently, you guide him on to his back, rolling yourself on top of him until you’re straddling his meaty thighs. You take control away from him and for a moment, you can see he feels the loss of it. That he seems vulnerable, unsure. That while he had clearly intended to give into you, fully, that doesn’t mean it’s at all easy for him to surrender. “Just lie back and let me take care of you, okay?”

His eyes lock on to yours, soft and uncertain, and it occurs to you again that you’ve never taken him like this. That he has always tacitly taken control. That he has always focussed on your pleasure as paramount. His words, whispered against your skin, into the shell of your ear - that’s it, princesa, right there, huh? - still echo in the depths of you. And now, you want to focus on him. Tonight, things are different.

You feel desire twist in the pit of you as you look at him all spread out beneath you like this. Evidently needy for you, his cock rock hard and nestled against his stomach. You want to keep him on the edge for hours. Want to hear gruff moans unspooling from deep in his chest. Want to see his fingers rake through the sheets and his jaw tipping to the sky as he writhes his curls back into the pillow, eyes rolling to oblivion.

You want to kiss him, everywhere. Want to smooth your hands over his brown skin until he melts into the mattress. You want to cover him with your body until he feels safe.

You want him to feel safe.

As you examine his form, already near boneless on top of the mattress but reaching for you - reaching with his fingers, with a jut of his chin to raise his pretty mouth, with a buck of his hips to chase your friction - you settle for a compromise. A balance of your urges to demolish and exalt him.

For a moment then, you even entertain the idea that you can exhibit restraint enough for foreplay. To tease him. To drag this out. Indeed, Santiago whimpers, an uncharacteristic sound from a man too stubborn to ever admit defeat, and with the sound, your stomach lurches with want. He grows entirely needy as you suckle at his neck, leaving purple love bites in your wake.

You shuffle your hips down his sturdy thighs so that you can fold to slide your tongue over his pecs, circling his pebbled nipple, beginning to trail your warm, wet mouth down his abdomen in a way that makes his glistening cock -wet with your juices- twitch on air.

“Please. Goddamn,” he begs already, his thighs shaking beneath you, and you don’t need to be told twice. You want the thick, needy, ruddy length of him inside of you as badly as he appears to want that too.

You’ve waited long enough for this. To hold him so completely and to love him with your whole body.

And so, you shift up until your slick arousal settles over the hot, straining mass of him. It’s slippy - you’re so wet already, and the contact earns a deep, guttural noise from him.

Then, as you settle in position, automatically - more than automatically, like it’s preordained - Santiago’s hands settle at your hips the moment you are on top of him. They rest in that familiar place he loves to hold, fingers splaying, pads digging into your supple flesh. He grips you in his broad, lethal hands.

Hands that were trained to kill but made to hold you tenderly; just like this, you think.

He holds you, and ever so suddenly everything falls into place. As though you were lost all of this time and you have finally found where you were supposed to be. Like someone just handed you a map and assured you you can never lose your way again - not now that you’ve found him. Not as long as you hold on and don’t let go.

You look down at him, your whole world beneath you and Christ, he’s usually beautiful - luminescent even - but you’ve never seen him look quite like this before. He looks… undone. Unguarded. Needy. Dishevelled. Vulnerable. His lust-blown eyes are blackened with desire yet shining too with adoration. His lids are heavy. Screwing shut as you glide yourself along his shaft. Gusts of breath coming from the circle of his soft, plush lips. That stubbled jaw raising, tipping up as his crown of lustrous curls beds down into the pillow. Light and shadow pooling and dancing and swimming in the contours of him - his sharp nose and heavy brows and sculpted chest. All that and more; but the true beauty?

The true beauty is when his eyes flutter open once more; and you clearly see the eyes of your best friend looking back at you.

You see him all at once, rather than the parts of him he’s attempted to compartmentalise.

Emotion and desire twist in your gut and all you want in that moment is to show him. To show him that he’s loved.

He’s so, so loved.

And so are you.

You hinge at the hips, your head falling to the side of his, temple to temple, cheek to cheek, his stubble rough against you. His familiar scent, woody and citrus, fills your lungs. You feel his brow against yours is already slick with a sheen of sweat as you dip your mouth towards the shell of his ear. “Are you ready?”

His voice is hoarse. He is levelled by his want, but his face still cracks with a smile, the muscles in his cheek shifting against yours and the rake of his stubble conveying heat all the way to your core. “Are you kidding? I know you didn’t miss this.”

He plants his feet and bucks his needy shaft against you with greater pressure, the head of him pressing at your swollen clit, gliding over it. You moan at the unexpected zip of pleasure, blooming out from your centre to every extremity, and you feel Santiago’s dirty, satisfied chuckle vibrate through you, chest to chest.

His chuckle quickly digresses to a moan as you return the favour just as suddenly. As you rise slightly on your thighs, until you are able to grip his aching shaft in your hand and notch him in position, your folds caressing the blunt head of him. His grip on your hips tightens as you lower yourself on to him, feeling how he spreads you open as his girth pushes past your entrance with a thick, hot glide.

Santiago chokes as he bottoms out, and you can feel him throb and pulse in your centre as he adjusts to the sensations.

You feel full of him. Full in every sense.

Fuck. You didn’t know. You didn’t know it could feel like this with him. Light. Playful. Delicate. Joyful. Beautiful.

“Fuck, hermosa,” Santiago keens as you begin to move, folding over him once again, covering him with your body, your thighs enclosing his ample hips and your forearms planted, bracing yourself against the cushioning either side of his head.

It feels soft and syrupy as you enclose him in your wetness. Sweat beads and gathers between your bodies as you undulate and rise and fall on him, the slow, sensuous drag of you causing him to bite down into the meat of your shoulder, his breath hot as it billows into the hollow of your collarbone.

Santiago clings to your hips for a moment, an admirable attempt to guide your motions - until it all becomes too much. Until he surrenders fully and lets you lead. His hands first fist into the sheets at his side, and then they wrap around your back, coming to rest there, his fingers intermittently dancing over your skin. For once, his embrace is not a desperate thing. He’s not attempting to pull you closer or to push you away. He simply wants you exactly where you are. Exactly like this.

It’s tender, the way he’s touching you. The way he’s trusting you and letting you set the pace. The way he kisses a string of pearls along your skin, the wet, percussive sounds filtering down to your bones. It makes you feel some kind of way, so you try desperately to focus on the sensations his friction is stoking in your centre. In the way the glide and drag and pressure of him inside of you is causing a steady, building, eddying ball of light to hover in the core of you, getting ready to burst out and fill your whole body with sunshine.

It has felt dark, sometimes, to love him. But right now? It feels like dawn.

You screw your eyes shut against the dam of emotion breaking within you. Against the tears threatening to spill over. You distract yourself from feeling too much all at once, planting kisses along the length of his beautiful, sculpted jaw. By devouring his mouth the way one would savour a feast. Slowly. Intentionally. Your tongue, ever so deliberate against his.

“Fuck,” Santiago curses, his voice trembling. “You’re dripping all over me. Jesus fucking Christ.”

You are. You can hear it. Feel it. This pooling slick between your legs being worked out of you. Coating him. Making everything smooth and fluid and easy, after so long with such friction between you.

You ride him like this, communing with grunts and moans. Communing with his body, which you read so well. So automatically. You know what each shift and expression passing over his face means. You understand the tightening of his thighs beneath you. You can read his breath, his touch, his sounds, his movements, and you relish in the ways that you know him. All the ways you know how to make him feel good.

You kiss a bead of sweat from his temple, the salt flooding your tongue as you rise up on him, lifting your body away from his to let the cool air soothe your heat-pricked skin. Relishing the look and feel of him beneath you. Relishing the way he drinks the sight of you in too with a slack-jaw, watching the way your hips work over him. The way your breasts bounce and sway lightly with the motion. You shift your angle slightly, until a long, gritted exhale unspools from Santiago’s plush mouth, his pretty eyes fluttering shut and his grip on your hips unwavering but weakening.

“That’s it. Right there? Just like that?”

“Uh. Uh huh,” he replies through gritted teeth, his expression looking pained as he tries to work through it. “Holy shit, baby.”

You beam a devilish smile down at him until his eyes spark with mischief, and your core clenches on his dick as you watch him swipe the pad of his thumb over his pink, supple tongue, liberally gathering spit. He reaches for you, rubbing the pad of him gently against your clit.

“Good?”

Good? Yeah. Good enough to make your toes curl and your legs weaken beneath you. Good enough that you can scarcely continue your ministrations, your body sagging forward again, slumped almost boneless over him.

“Tired?” Santiago asks you, and you stubbornly answer no despite the burn and tremble in your spent thighs. He sees right through it. “Let me flip you over?”

Reluctantly you concede and he rolls you, carefully, staying inside of you and never breaking contact. Settling your back against the mattress and his sweat-sheened body over you like a canopy. Like safety.

He kisses you - deeply.

He thrusts himself inside of you, the noises between your bodies obscenely wet by now, his grunts and groans percussive as he continues to stoke that white hot ball of light in your middle.

He has never rocked you like this. So tenderly. So reverently. Slow and sure. Not racing towards any ending. He makes love to you as though he’s not afraid of any kind of ending at all. Like this perfect moment can just stretch on forever. Like he can always be buried inside you.

You, though? You are still afraid of that ending.

It feels good. God. It feels impossibly good to be held by him like this; but it’s bittersweet. Bittersweet enough that you still have to screw your eyes shut against the flood of emotion you are continuing to hold back behind that dam.

Santiago’s lips graze your cheek, a softly planted, lingering kiss. “Hermosa,” he encourages. “Look at me.”

“I can’t,” you admit, and you feel a sting of prickled heat beneath your eyelids. You feel vulnerable, exposed, in a way you’re not used to either. You feel like you want to run, but you know now. That never did very much good.

“Look at me,” he insists, his voice soft and smooth, no sand left in his throat. So you do. You trust him. You follow him. Walk with him, like you’ve been on the same road all along, each without a map.

You don’t know what you expect to see when you open your eyes, but all you do see is his gaze fall softly on yours, even as he fills you. You see him as a friend and a lover. You see him as everywhere you’ve been and everywhere you’re going. He’s a landscape, and his whole being is expansive and opened up to you.

He fucks into you, his pace consistent and steady, and he plants intermittent kisses over your cheeks, scattering them into your hairline, your neck, the corner of your mouth. That ball of light inside you tightens, shrinking down, and you know it’s getting ready to burst. To radiate out into every extremity.

You feel like you’re heavy and weightless at the same time. Like you’ve sunk so far into the mattress that you’re inches below it. Like you’re floating up to the ceiling. “It f-feels too g-good,” you stutter, your voice mere breath.

It does - feel too good. Not just the sensations, but him. The familiarity and safety of him feels too perfect to risk never having this again.

Your eyes roll back into your head as Santiago keeps hitting that spot deep inside of you over and over, pleasure sparking and sizzling, white hot. “It’s okay, querida. I got you. Just keep looking at me. I got you.”

You wrap him up like the gift he is, your legs folding around him, the tender soles of your feet settling on to his plush ass cheeks. Your arms winding around his middle, tightening, drawing him to you. Drawing him so close to you that you can’t look at him anymore, his head buried into the junction of your shoulder, his curls tickling your cheek. You draw him close enough that there is no space between your writhing bodies. So close that you don’t know where he ends and you begin, a mess of breath and sweat and limbs like twined dense jungle.

I love you.

I love you is what you want to say. I love you too is what you want to hear back from him - but your mouth makes the shape of some different words instead. “I don’t want to lose you.”

It’s a broken, laid-bare plea. It’s what all this comes down to, isn’t it? You can’t fathom losing him. Can’t fathom being without him.

“Cariño,” Santiago speaks against your neck, his lips sliding hot and wet down the column of your throat. “I’m never lost when I’m touching you.”

It’s not what you wanted to say. It’s not what you wanted to hear. But you realise, in that moment, as Santiago moves his mouth to meld desperately with yours. As a lone tear sluices over the bridge of his strong nose. You realise that the words each of you spoke mean the same damn thing anyway.

His tongue shoves unceremoniously over yours then, Santiago coming undone now, ragged and frayed like an edge of land as you wash over him, flooding him with liquid. He opens you up, everywhere. The cave of your mouth, your weeping cunt, your heart breaking open like dawn.

You moan and he punches your name from his lungs as his hips stutter into you. His thrusts become sloppy but he keeps consistent pace long enough to tip your pleasure over the brink. For you to come undone, a star bursting from your middle, light pulsing out to every extremity and sending jittering aftershocks through your body. You clamp down on him, hold him close to you as you ride it out, your head buried in the crook of his shoulder, his creamy load pumping into you, deep and urgent, and his disbelieving, wracked moans sounding in the shell of your ear.

You convulse on him, squeezing every last drop from him, your legs quivering.

You cling to him. Cling to him for dear life as your pleasure swells and breaks and ebbs and flows.

In turn, Santiago comes down with a shudder, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths above you. Eventually, he slips out of you, wordlessly, his eyes shining still with unwaning, transparent adoration. He kisses you, everywhere. Puts his hands on you. He laves his tongue over you in gratitude. He kisses every crook and peak and contour and valley of you. He kisses your scars, his mouth curved with a smile the whole while. He applies love across the cartography of you, of your life together. He presses his lethal hands to you and he kills you; softly. Gathers you up to him.

It is then, in this moment of impossible tenderness, that your tears find their release.

It floods you. All the times you’ve almost lost him. All the times you should have been holding each other close instead of pushing each other away. All the times you should have been cherishing this beautiful, fragile thing between you instead of fearing it.

You let the tears eke out; but then Santiago kisses them away too, concern shimmying in his molten eyes.

In this moment, you feel that he’s loving you how he’s always wanted to love you. Showing you what he’s always wanted to show you.

And then, something else slips out of you. “I love you.” Your voice is small. Afraid. Even now.

But this time, Santiago does not hesitate. “I love you too.”

A few more tears fall. You would like to believe they are happy tears, but you still somehow feel that they are bittersweet.

Wordlessly, Santiago shifts you, gently, bundling you up against his warm, sturdy chest.

You listen to his heartbeat thudding in the shell of your ear, noticing it gradually slow.

You let him trace idle shapes into your skin.

Let him hold you close, until he stills. Until his breathing is so soporific that you wonder if he has succumbed to sleep.

“You still awake?” You venture.

“Yeah.”

“We made a mess.”

“I know. But it’s okay. I put you in the wet patch.”

The laugh that escapes you is unexpected. Shifts some of the heaviness in your chest. You bat him playfully in the pec, tweaking his nipple for good measure. “You’re a bastard, Garcia.”

You think his throaty, reciprocal laughter is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!”

You shift back just a little, enough to look up at his face. His teasing grin slips effortlessly into something far softer and more earnest when he’s looking at you.

“Come here,” he proposes softly, guiding you up. Leading you back into the shower. You follow him. You follow him though he never would seem to follow you anywhere.

Still, you push all that away, in favour of the here and now. With him looking at you like that, what else is there?

And so, you let yourself enjoy it. You enjoy it as he playfully tweaks your nipple in return and you giggle. As he wraps his arms around you from behind and your fingertip draws a tentative heart in the steamed-up mirror. As he leads you into the cubicle with him, beneath the spray of warm water.

As you step beneath the stream with him, his fingers twined with yours, you realise that he’s taking you all over again. Making you his, but not by fucking - no. This time, he’s taking you with his soft eyes. With the way his soaped hands move with reverence over your slick body, reluctantly washing the traces of him away from your skin. With the way his mouth moves languidly against yours - and he tastes of soap but you don’t care. He’s taking you. Piece by piece. Taking you until there’s nothing left. Until your heart has migrated little by little, bit by bit, into the roll cage of his chest. Gently, this time - as though for once he might even keep it safe.

You dry off together, and you settle back on to the bed.

Already, you can feel Santiago packing this away.

Putting his heart back inside his chest like a folded map.

You drag his lips to yours and you kiss him. You’re not sure if you’re trying to kiss him to death or kiss him to life; but you know that you have to kiss him with everything you’ve got regardless.

You know that you have to beg him, without words. With touch. The language you two have always shared, your bodies moving symbiotically through this world, as a team - no matter the distance between you. One of you incapable of being read without the other.

You know that you have to beg him.

Stay.

Stay; ‘til the sun comes up.

Stay; forever.

For every new day.

He could never run towards you, he insists. Not yet. So, instead, you reach for him, your arms wide open. You soften your lethal hands. You relax that killing grip. You make him feel safe. Feel loved. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, if only he would let you try.

“Turn over,” you whisper, with a soft curl of your lips, and he does so. He lets you wrap him in your arms, chest to his back, and he hums - a low, resonant sound - as you plant a lingering kiss to the back of his neck. You stay like that, until the both of you fall asleep.

It turned out to be a beautiful night. The most beautiful night of your life, in fact, with the person you love most in all the world. You held him all night. Kept him safe and warm.

But, when you wake up, you feel only cold air at your back. Cold sheets under your palm as you reach for him.

Maybe he did stay, at least until the sun came up. But now, he is gone.

In truth though, you’re not even upset. At least, maybe… you’re not even surprised.

He’d promised you something that didn’t feel like an ending. He’d given you that, but in many ways it had still felt like a goodbye.

At least this time, you had said the kind of goodbye you would have wished for. Not an angry, bitter thing. At least this time, you did all you could to let him know how you feel, in all the ways you know how.

You sit up on the edge of the bed, and you tug in a long slow breath, releasing it into the quiet solitude of the room.

Is it true that there are some people who you can only ever love in fragments?

You don’t know, honestly. For now, you only know that you feel broken into pieces too.

It always hurts when you say goodbye to him, doesn’t it?

At least this time, it was a more beautiful thing; just like he’d promised, right?

And, as you stand and move to begin your day, you remind yourself that he hadn’t promised you any more than that.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #ride or die series #santiago pope garcia

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writefightandflightclub · 1 month

Text

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Seven (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Phew! Well, the last couple of chapters were a lot, hey? I wonder what will happen next, tee hee! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. You give me life! ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

“Hey,” you croak, as Frankie cracks the door to your room, finding you laying in the glum light. You’re on top of the covers and hugging your pillow to your chest, body curled around the white mass like you’re trying to form a human s’more.

Of course, you can’t sleep. You’re just slumped there, despondent, blinking into the crow black dark. Your tears have subsided, at least. But you feel sapped. Like you barely have any energy to feel anything anymore.

“Hey,” Frankie returns, dipping the mattress as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Benny send you?” You had insisted Benny go and get some shut eye, after comforting you for the better part of half an hour. There were hugs and warm tea and threats to handle Pope if he’d done something to deserve it. He hadn’t, you’d explained. He hadn’t done a damn thing worse than you, at least.

“Negative.”

You hum neutrally and scooch your body up so that you’re sitting with your back to the headboard, knees drawn up around the pillow you still cling to like a security blanket.

“I’m gonna say something, okay?” Frankie says firmly, and you brace, fully expecting to receive some tough love. You note with relief, however, that as the man turns his head towards you, his eyes are nothing but soft. “You and me. We’re going back to your sister’s tomorrow. Get you some space.”

Space from him. That much is implied.

“No, Frankie.” Your throat tightens. All you’ve had is space. For months. The last thing you need is more.

He places a hand on your knee, his tone firm and almost paternal. He’s going to make a damn good father, you think, with a swell of pride. “That’s what we’ll do. It’s not going to be like this anymore. We’re gonna stop taking chunks out of each other.”

All you had wanted to do was to be close again. You’d never meant-

“-Frankie.”

“Just think about it.”

You nod, and Frankie pats your knee. Stifles a yawn. Presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He looks wiped. With a gust of breath he stands, preparing to leave. “G’night, chiquita. Get some rest, alright?”

“Yeah. And Frankie?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

“What for?”

You sweep your hand through the air. “For the drama. Et cetera.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you know…” You cast a sidelong glance towards the black pane of the window. “Is… he coming back?”

The man drags his tongue along his lip. He does that when he’s uncertain. “He’ll be back.”

“How do you know?” You don’t remember the last time you felt or sounded so small.

“Because he’s a fucking glutton for punishment,” Frankie attempts a lopsided smile, his cheek tugging on the corner of his mouth; but it drops when he realises his joke hasn’t landed. “Just… try to get some rest. Okay?”

You nod, and you watch Frankie leave, his face murky but kind through the shadows as he gently tugs your door closed behind him.

When he’s gone, you wait a moment for his footsteps to retreat and then you cross to the window, cracking it open far enough that you can hear the gentle shush of the waves. Far enough that you could hear either the sound of a truck pulling away in the dead of night, or the front door clicking gently closed, perhaps.

You lie back on top of the bed covers, flat on your back, and your limbs stretched out like a starfish. You lie with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling - exhausted, but wide awake.

And, after who knows how long like this, you hear footsteps tramping on to the porch. You hear the front door gently being latched, and the soft pad of someone travelling up the stairs. You hear the footsteps pause outside of your door for a moment and you hold your breath. You imagine an outstretched fist, primed to knock, but you dismiss this as wishful thinking. You’ve done a lot of that lately. Too much.

Then, finally, you hear him shuffle into his room, clicking the door shut behind him.

Only then - when you know he’s back - can you sleep.

And, as you drift off, your thoughts of him merge with the soporific sounds of the waves.

You’d doubt, with how much you’ve ached for him already, that you could hurt anymore, but you know fine well that it’s possible. After all, the waves break over and over, don’t they?

They break, and they break, and they break.

***

The following morning is an awkward affair. Everyone is tetchy, and even after a very necessary lie-in, residual grumpiness abounds.

It figures. A shouting match and a rude awakening will do that.

Still, the day must go on. You get knocked down? You keep moving.

Will, ever an early riser and a true hero, brews up the first pot of coffee. Starts cooking up some breakfast, and, one by one, you and the boys filter downstairs, chasing the scent of sustenance.

“Don’t even,” you say to Tom the moment he opens his mouth, the room falling silent as you waddle sleepily downstairs, gravitating straight towards the caffeine and the relative safety of Will. Frankie, Benny, and Tom are sat around the dining table, and, you note -because of course you do- that Santiago is glaringly absent.

Maybe Frankie advised him not to come downstairs just yet. Perhaps he’s simply sulking. Or sleeping. Or avoiding you. Perhaps, maybe, possibly a million and one things, which you’ll never know the reasoning behind.

It doesn’t even matter now.

You’re done trying to figure him out. Since when did that ever get you anywhere useful?

Instead then, you attempt to refocus. To divert your attention away from your sun, and towards the wider constellation of stars you are proud to call your squad. And, of course, to your plate of breakfast - that deserves attention too.

The one thing you refuse to focus on, for the moment, is the elephant in the room.

Still, you glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“What else is new with you then, Benny boy? Seeing anyone?” You reach for just about the only topic you hadn’t covered with him yesterday evening - when you had been trying ever so valiantly to distract yourself from Santiago and all that he entails.

In response, his baby blues dance with mischief and he grins, raising one arm to pop a bicep in celebration even as he shovels forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth with the other. “I had myself a date the other night.” He probably flexes in his sleep, this man.

“She stay for breakfast, Benjamin?” Frankie interjects, finally managing to be vocal again now that he’s been provided with the sweet hit of his second mug of caffeine.

“‘Catfish. She was breakfast.”

You hear Will groan from over at the stove. “Too much information, Ben.”

Ben, meanwhile, looks entirely unapologetic.

“Whatever happened to being a gentleman, huh? The way your Granny raised you?” Tom enquires with a thin smile. “Thought gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, but I was a gentleman, Redfly. Let her finish first ‘n’ everythin’.” Benny offers a shit-eating grin, and you are once again grateful for the distraction as the room descends into fond bickering, the back-and-forth culminating in Will whipping his sibling with a rolled tea towel for continuing to overshare, accidentally catching Tom in the crossfire.

“Those dirty-minded individuals asked the questions, man,” Benny defends, jabbing his finger around in a circle at the rest of you in accusation. “They always wanna know what action I’m getting. Hell, no-one ever asks me what I’m readin’.”

You snicker.

You glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“Of course not. We’re trying to live vicariously through you, man,” Tom interjects. “We don’t want to vicariously read things.”

“Especially not the pretentious shit you read, Benjamin,” Frankie digs, before collecting up the plates and conveying them over to the sink. And, given a natural lull in the conversation, Benny takes the opportunity to grab your attention.

“You still up for training later, hon? I’m tabled for a beastly session this afternoon.”

It briefly crosses your mind to wonder where Benny gets his abundance of energy. You, on the other hand, can’t even be bothered to trace that train of thought through to completion. “Yeah. Maybe, Ben. I, uh, need to drive into town this morning though.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, with a mouthful of streaky bacon, swivelling his cap to sit backwards on his head as though that will help him pay better attention to you.

You glance once more -only briefly, of course- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“Mmm-hmm. Need to grab something from the pharmacy.” You blink, attempting to look as innocent as possible, but your face burns with a flare of heat, and you can’t help but scratch your nose self-consciously.

You feel as though they all know the purpose of your trip - somehow - even though that’s impossible. And, you pray that even if they do, that they will at least have the courtesy to let it slide.

Unfortunately though, you suddenly remember that Tom exists, and that therefore, you’re likely not getting away with it that easy.

“You and Pope all out of condoms or something?” he guffaws around the lip of his coffee mug as he takes a deep swig.

“Tom,” Frankie warns, subtly shaking his head as he comes to retake his seat by you.

Oddly though, Tom’s comment barely even manages to irk you. You pat your defender on the arm. “Frankie. I’m fine.”

He surveys you regardless, to be sure, and you are grateful for it. Frankie knows fine well that Tom has a talent for rubbing you up the wrong way. The two of you have never quite seen eye to eye.

“See, she can handle herself just fine,” Tom reminds him pointedly. He never did like the way the rest of the boys fussed so damn hard over you. His tone has the veneer of light-heartedness. “You can take a joke, right?”

Your lips twitch around some halfway cruel retort, but, turns out, you truly have no ire left today. You’re all out - and besides, you’re not looking to burn any more bridges than you have already on this trip.

“Listen,” you begin sincerely, cradling your mug of coffee between your palms. Deciding to nip this in the bud before it spirals. “Are we good, Tom? I was a little bit hot-tempered yesterday. I’m sorry.”

Once again, you glance towards the mouth of the stairs. Your gaze lingers a fraction longer this time, until it ticks back to Tom.

He looks at you levelly for a moment over the rim of his mug, before his brown eyes begin to shine with a dull, metered-out warmth. Nothing like the warmth of your sun, of course, but shining on your more brightly than Tom had deigned to in a long while, at least. “Sure we are. So long as you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night again. I need my beauty sleep.”

You hold your palms up in rare surrender. “You got it.”

“What was all that about, anyway?” Tom needles, shuffling forward in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. Beside you, you can sense Frankie and Benny ready to knock him back should he dare to overstep. You wonder suddenly if you’re too harsh on the guy. If you need to loosen off, be a little kinder.

You wrap both hands more tightly around your coffee now, letting the warmth bleed through into your interlaced fingertips and the steam rise under your chin. “The usual,” you dismiss, not wanting to go into specifics. That would involve replaying it all. Would call for a digging out of the shrapnel lodged in your chest - an activity far too involved to undertake alongside a lazy breakfast. “Sometimes a storm is what it takes to clear the air, right?”

“And?” Tom cranes forwards a little more. You clock Frankie’s nostrils flaring subtly in annoyance. “Is the air clear now?”

You know what Tom’s asking. Was anything resolved? Are you two done?

Is all this over?

Apparently curious, all three of the men direct their gaze toward you, keenly awaiting your answer. You even reach for one -an answer- but you come up lacking, and your uncertainty carves a notch into your brow. Makes your mouth go dry. Your gaze flicks to the mouth of the stairs, and this time, you can’t look away from it. “I…”

Thankfully, unfortunately, you are saved and damned all at once as Santiago finally appears. Emerging from the spot you’ve been glancing intermittently at all through breakfast.

All the faces in the kitchen turn abruptly towards him as his careless footfalls sound out, and suddenly his eager skip down the stairs entirely loses steam. His pace slows, dragging to a dead halt by the time he has reached the base of the stairs.

Your eyes go as wide as they can, through no fault of your own, and despite being the focus of the whole group’s attention, Santiago stares straight ahead at you. Of course he does. Only you, as though there is no-one else in the room to acknowledge.

“Morning,” he addresses, solely to you, his expression impassive, yes - but certainly not harsh. Not angry.

“Morning,“ you respond, as brightly as possible, your eyes still wide and unblinking, and it is a little unnerving as every other head in the room swivels simultaneously around to face you. Oh good. Because you’d worried this might be awkward. You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “Will has bacon,” you offer stiffly, your whole body so full of tension it feels brittle; like it could snap.

As if the product of some hive mind, the heads swivel in unison back towards Santiago. He doesn’t drop his gaze from you, however. Doesn’t even blink - just looks between your left eye and right repeatedly. “Fabulous. Thanks.”

Sure. Okay. This is totally normal. Except… you don’t think you’ve ever heard Santiago describe something as “fabulous” in his life. But why not start now, hey? This is fine.

You watch him turn. Walk towards Will and the stove top, and when his gaze finally drops from yours it is like the taut line which was drawn across the room finally snaps, blissfully allowing some of the tension to sag with it.

“Good timing, Garcia. Here.” Will doesn’t miss a beat, transferring the spatula into Santiago’s hand and shuffling him seamlessly into his position before he can clock what’s happening. “I’m officially passing the torch of Breakfast Duty into your capable hands.“

“Uh. Sure,” Santiago obliges, obediently beginning to move the sizzling strips around the pan as Benny stands, already crowding him to jostle for seconds. Will slaps the waffled tea towel across Santiago’s shoulder for good measure too, and you die a little inside at how goddamn domestic he looks. Especially since he’s still wearing his fluffy sheepskin slippers. Rocking his bedhead of gently tousled, greying curls.

It makes you yearn.

“Want a ride into town, soldier?” Will calls to you across the space, jutting his chin up at you and snapping you from your stupor. Immediately, you scrape your chair back, the gentle throb of nerves making you eager to animate. Eager to jump on any excuse to get the hell out of there.

“Yes! Please!”

You scoop up your plate and cutlery, and you attempt to take Frankie’s to the sink too. That is, until he protectively winds his arm around it like a bear defending its cub and begins actively batting your hand away. You guess he wants second helpings too.

You sidle over to the stove then, where Santiago is dedicating himself to his latest occupation with vigour, Benny equally invested in hovering with his empty plate - and not above begging for scraps.

“Where to in town?” Santiago asks in a hushed voice, his thick eyebrow arcing. You dismiss your plate into the dish bowl to soak, and he pauses his spatula duties momentarily to await your response.

“Pharmacy.” You look at him pointedly.

His face crumples with something resembling apology. Or - perhaps more likely - regret. “Okay.”

Your eyes lock for a moment, and he looks so different to you this morning than he had in the dead of the night. It is more than the gentle morning sun giving a soft glow to his features, the dusting of late summer freckles on his nose popping in the light. It is more than the wholesome appearance of him cooking up breakfast. More than the hush in his tone, and the way his chin dips down, making his eyes look big and round and gentle as he looks at you from beneath his long sweep of lashes.

You suspect that he is purposefully making himself soft. Blunting his harsh edges so deliberately and so entirely that you fear he will sluice to the floor like the insides of a cracked egg. “You, uh… You need anything? Need me to…?”

Santiago. Honey. You’ve done quite enough already.

“No,” you say, but the word doesn’t audibly make it out the first time around. You clear your throat. “No. Thank you.”

“Okay.”

Your gaze dips to the dried, rogue fleck of toothpaste right on the corner of his mouth. You can’t explain why, but this tiny, human detail makes your chest ache. “Talk later?”

He forces his sober expression to twist into a halfway smile. His eyes grow big and earnest, that cup of coffee gaze gently warming you. “Okay.”

Don’t, you inwardly plead with him. Don’t give me hope. Don’t break me again, Santiago.

A niggle plays at your brow. It’s odd, really. You remember the words and venom spat from each of your mouths yesterday. Of course you do. But you can no longer feel the all-consuming ire that came along with them. That part -that feeling- is absent. Every scrap of anger consumed. It seems as alien to you as the raging storm must feel to the clear morning which follows.

And so, you can’t help it. Really can’t help it. You dip forwards to kiss Santiago, softly. Right on the point of his beautifully high cheekbone, giving his tea-towel adorned shoulder a light squeeze.

You leave, then, to the sight of that subtle crimson flush darkening his cheeks, your gesture evidently both confounding and flustering him.

You leave too, to the sound of Benny yelling “Look alive, Pope! Don’t burn my goddamn bacon!”. The spatula has gone limp in his hand as Santiago’s gaze trails after you, and the tension is once again pulled taut like a string across the room. You imagine a festival of blush red balloons tied all along it, rising and dancing like your hope.

You leave, with an answer to Tom’s question.

You and Santiago? Is it over?

No. It’s not done.

But you are done with being angry.

You’re done breaking, and no longer will you throw yourself against those rocks.

***

The time away from the house was useful, and the scenes of the open coast slipping by smoothed your roughened edges out like a tossed, worn pebble. The salt-saturated air humming through your wound-down window had you drinking in deep, energising lungfuls. Then, there was Will’s steady, reassuring drawl, and all the feelings of security that came along with it.

Steady, dependendable, straightforward Will. You always knew where you stood with him.

At least, that’s who he had always been to you. Not the volatile, ticking time bomb you’d heard he’d become since he’d gotten out. Since he’d almost choked a man out in the tinned produce aisle.

It was good to have time to talk with him. You were endlessly glad to hear the ways Will was moving forward. You were glad -first and foremost- for him, of course; but you couldn’t deny it bolstered your own hope too. To know that there was a route out? A path onward - even when some things attempted to drag you back? It felt good.

Speaking of things which dragged you to them, you were also grateful that Will didn’t press you (too much) on Santiago-shaped matters. In fairness, at this point the whole squad is probably sick to death of the topic. Regardless though, it was refreshing to talk about other things. About Will’s new life. His bizarro public speaking gig. His worry for Benny, as an unfailingly attentive and loyal big bro. His insistence that the “kid” is not living up to his full potential.

Benny’s doing fine, you had assured him. Benny’s… buoyant.

So, in sum, it was safe to say that despite everything, by the time you had arrived back to the house you’d felt decompressed. It made you wonder if - maybe - last night’s storm really had succeeded in clearing the air. Of course, that depended on Santiago too, and where he was at today. Whether he had any more drama brewing, up in that pretty head of his.

From his vibe this morning though? You had gotten the sense that he was oh so tired too.

It didn’t change anything of course. The fighting. The fucking. Not really. Not any of it. The anger, once given its release valve, had simply moved through you like weather. It had turned out, it was all mostly bluster. Ephemeral. Shifting. And it couldn’t touch the truth of things, could it? The permanence and depth of your love for him? Not really.

It did change something in you though, that unforgiving storm. If nothing else, it had made you acutely aware of how powerless you are. Your weather cannot move the mountains, and Santiago is as stubborn and immoveable as a wall of rock.

You’d believed, at one time, that perhaps you could succeed in shifting him. Encouraging him. Convincing him.

But now you know for sure.

The only way he’s running into your arms is of his own accord. In his own good time.

When he’s ready.

If he ever is, of course; ready. And on that topic, you’re less and less sure that he ever will be. That Santiago will ever be ready to be loved by you.

It’s sad in one way to realise that. But in another way, it’s freeing. To give up. To stop trying to shape things into what you’d hoped they could be, and to simply let things be whatever they are. To make peace with the truth of things. And peace? It may sound counterintuitive, but as a soldier, peace is all you’d ever really wanted.

Perhaps that’s why you feel calm as you pace down the track back to the house. Why there’s a spring in your step as you fix up a sandwich for yourself and Will, heading out across the dunes to where the boys laze by that frilled edge of ocean. Perhaps you feel calm because you really have exhausted all of your options.

Because there’s truly nothing else you can do.

Because it’s out of your control.

Because you cannot move mountains.

And so, when you join the group and Santiago flashes you a tentative and oh so pure smile? You return it easily this time.

You can’t change yourself and how you feel. You’ve tried that. You certainly can’t change him. You’ve tried that too.

And… why would you want to, anyway, huh? To change him? In so many ways, you think, as you watch his rich, scratchy laugh bob in his throat, and see those delicious crinkles radiate from around his eyes, he’s perfect exactly as he is.

After all, he’s your best friend.

And, for the remainder of the afternoon, you simply want to focus on that.

For today, you reckon you’ll simply have to try to see him in pieces. In fragments.

You don’t want to admit to yourself that’s the only way you can make it through, but when you do realise, it strikes you. If you too find it hard to reconcile who he’s always been to you with all that he could be, then maybe you and he never were so different after all.

He certainly could never grasp all of you at once, could he?

***

The rest of the day passes pleasantly - much to everyone’s relief, you suspect. After the card games wrap up, there is plenty more entertainment to be had. There is time whiled away goofing around with a football and a frisbee. There’s a grill session on the dunes and chilled beers and music. When the heat becomes too sticky, too intense, there are sea swims and splashing around in the waves and everyone trying to dunk Benny. There’s solitary time too. Time for sunbathing and reading and podcasting and naps; and, in between, there is the cyclical eruption and waning of amiable chatter - whenever someone sparks up with a talking point.

In sum, you all opt to just be with each other. No particular agenda in mind, and it feels good. Really good.

You’ve missed them all. Hell, even Tom, though you’d never tell him that to his face.

The stretch of beach you’ve claimed is stunning too. The sands are golden and fine-grained and the water is perfectly temperate; but, it’s a hidden gem, the patch not attracting a fraction of the stifling crowds you’d find along the main drag. Throughout the day, other people come and go, of course. There’s the family with the adorable little kids, for example. The little boy, in particular, who had seemed to take a real liking to Benny - and who’d even roped him into helping build sandcastles. You’d watched, fondly, as each of your squad’s faces had split with wholesome, eye-swallowing grins at the adorableness of it all. There was the lone woman who spent 45 minutes giving you evil eyes - apparently, you’d deducted, for daring to be surrounded by five attractive men. You’d even suspected she might march over and punch you at one point, judging from the hate seething in her eyes when Will had asked you to slather-up his milky-white back with his trusty factor 50.

Mostly though, it had stayed pretty quiet, and you and the boys had more or less had the beach all to yourselves.

Various members of the group would filter off every now and again, of course. To replenish supplies, grab a new book, or buy an ice cream from the truck which pulled up. But, there had always been a core contingent remaining, even as the intensity of the day’s heat had begun to burn off, replaced with a softer, gentler, and more oranged glow.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t realise it, until it had already happened.

That by now, you and Santiago were alone.

You look up from your book and all of a sudden, you are the only one left lounging on the blankets. You look out to the water, and Santiago is the only figure to be found there too, currently floating on his back, bobbing over each gentle, orange-frilled wave which laps up to the shore.

Christ. When did it get so late?

Santiago must realise the predicament at a similar moment to you, you think, as by the time you have finished swivelling your head to scan the sands for signs of anyone else -finding no-one but a distant dog walker- he has already begun to wade out of the water.

It is something you have watched him do so many times today, but now that it is just the two of you, this time it hits just a little different. This time, you notice him. Really notice him. Can’t help it. You watch him rise out of the water in the golden glow of the descending sun, and shake the rivulets of water from his darkened, wetted curls. See his tan chest emerge first, the colour in his shoulders a deeper, richer brown already from a day soaking up the sun. That silver chain of his swinging and glinting in between his smooth, shapely pecs. And, you note the soft cushion of his tummy swelling over the waistband of his swim shorts, the garment sodden and clinging tightly to his ample hips and thighs. Even slipping down just a little as he wades from out of the water, revealing a hint of his happy trail as he beelines directly towards where you lay.

Your stomach twists with a deep, hot yearning, and you are grateful that you have at least a moment to compose yourself before he arrives, sea-shined and dripping, at your now deserted camp. You have the wherewithal, at least, to throw him a towel as he reaches you, trying not to stare (too much) as he begins to dry himself off.

“Thanks,” he offers, with a lazy flash of teeth, and you unconsciously rearrange yourself, very suddenly aware - now that you’re alone - that you are stripped right down to your flimsy bikini.

You see a swallow sink down Santi’s corded throat as his eyes skim down the length of you, but he is quick to obscure it. He’s still playing nice. Softening himself, you think.

With a laugh as roughly hewn as driftwood, he flicks some water at you after scrunching his hand through his sodden curls, spraying cold flecks across the bare expanse of your belly, causing you to tense and squeal. His shoulders shake with gentle mirth, and, once he’s towelled off and wrung out his shorts a little, he spreads his towel out next to you, parking his ample ass down.

“Didn’t feel like a swim? The water’s nice.”

“Nah.”

His head swivels about, eyes traversing the length of the beach. He scoops a hand around his stubble, and you hear it rasp like sand. “Where the shit did everybody go?”

You shrug with one shoulder. “Beats me. I was far too engrossed in my trashy novel to notice.” You dog-ear the page of said book and put it to one-side before leaning back, supporting your torso on bent elbows, legs still elongated before you and crossed neatly at the ankle. The position pushes your breasts out, and you swear Santiago tries valiantly to look just about anywhere else - more or less succeeding too.

“Then… I think we’re alone now.”

A mischievous smile catches the corners of your mouth. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

You turn your head towards him, to see if he’s picked up on your song-lyric-inspired choice of words, but the solemnity of his expression catches you off-guard. His brows are drawn down, the sockets of his eyes all shadowed despite the golden hour glow still pouring over the horizon, lighting the stark contours of him.

In unison, the two of you shift position, coming to sit cross-legged. Side-by-side, looking out over the ocean. It seems easier that way, you think. Not to face each other directly as you each say whatever it is you need to say.

You know that it’s come time to say it. That it’s overdue.

Besides, it’s undeniably beautiful, looking out across the view like this. Enjoying the lapping waves and the undulating, orange zest water stretched out below that burning sky. Now cooling, post-dip, Santiago reaches over for his trusty tartan blanket. Silently, he first tucks it around his shoulders, then he passes it around yours. It’s a stretch for the square of fabric, and so you huddle a little closer to one another, finding it is even more warming as your bodies press together. The wetness of his thigh, from those water-logged, sand-coated trunks contacts you too, but you make no effort to move away, instead resting your folded thigh just on top of his.

You can smell the ocean on him. Salt and sunshine and sunscreen. He smells like summer.

You look out across the landscape with renewed concentration as you wait for him to speak, not ready to face whatever expression his features may offer. You look outward with vigour while you wait for him to look inward, and you worry that his words - when they come - will surely be more ugly than the sight before you. Will be bitter and not sweet.

You even brace for it.

You’re so used to the storm.

Still, when he eventually speaks, you are surprised. Surprised that he is calm and steady. That his voice is like slow, warm sand pooling into your cupped hands. That his words are both bitter and sweet. “Hey. C’mere.” You link your arm into him. Lean your head onto his shoulder as his tone grows wistful. “Do you… Do you remember that night in Philadelphia?”

You smile immediately. There had been only one such night in Philadelphia.

It had been your birthday. You and Santiago had been catching a connecting flight, heading back from a deployment and en route to meet the boys off-base to celebrate. However, all the planes had been grounded due to some technical hitch with the tower. You’d been bummed that your plans had been ruined; but Santiago had come through. Had gifted you one of the best nights of your life. A very silly, drunken night, if you recall.

You cringe, hazy, smooth-edged memories flooding back. You clap a hand to your face with residual embarrassment. “Christ. The karaoke.”

Santiago chuckles warmly, and you feel his laugh reverberate through you. “It wasn’t karaoke! You hijacked the goddamn wedding band.”

Your hand clamps in dismay over your mouth now, and you lift your head from his shoulder to face him. “Oh my god. You’re right.”

Your laughs mingle together in the tight space between you, becoming indistinguishable, like the tide and the shore. “I still can’t believe you blagged our way into a wedding reception.”

“I can’t believe it took us so long to get rumbled,” his hand settles over yours, where your arm is still hooked into his.

You beam at him. “Thank God I’m stealthy.”

He pumps his eyebrows, entirely incredulous. “You? Yeah right.”

“I’m sure I must’ve helped, Pope.”

“No, cariño, no. You were not helping.” He scratches at his layer of scruff. “Shit. What was it… What did you tell the kid on the desk your name was, again?”

You try to recall, and when you remember you snort in a full-blown laugh. Your ensuing, chaotic giggle planes tears of joy out of the corners of your eyes. “Mariana Trench!”

“You’re fucking despicable. You know that?” Santiago laughs along with you, and God. It feels good. Really good. It feels effortless, your mirth sharing space like this instead of your anger. Your laughs mingle then dissipate, withdrawing gently like the retreat of a wave.

You lean your head back on to his shoulder, but your giggle fit is evidently not wholly through - not just yet. Your shoulders begin to shake up against him - gently at first, and then with a rising chuckle. “Whiskey in the jar-o,” you sing under your breath, wistfully recalling your drunken duet of choice. “Fuck, Santi. That was a good night.”

He rests his head on top of yours, the weight of it a comfort. “Yeah. Yeah it was,” he agrees. “Jesus, I’m telling you though. They were lucky we showed up. Before we livened things up? The dance floor was as dead as a battlefield after one of Redfly’s sweeps.”

You hum at the fond memory, a soft smile arcing over your face. He has you curious though. “What made you think of that night?” Why this memory, out of everything?

He stiffens noticeably up against you. Sits more upright. Presses his palms together. “That was, uh. That was the night that I-”

“-Vomited into a soup tureen?” You interject with a snort, as another random memory flashes back to you.

“No. Nope,” Santi counters decisively. “That was Cat’s Oma’s 80th.”

You giggle chaotically again. “Oh yeah. Shit.” You miss that lady. She was a sweetie.

“Hey. Listen,” Santiago begins with far more gravity. Enough gravity that you shift, turning your body as he draws your gaze to him. You had been waiting for this moment to arrive; but, now that it’s here, you wish you could cling on to the sweet things for a few moments longer. Still, you settle opposite him now, the two of you still cross-legged but positioned face to face. He adjusts the blanket around your shoulders, tugging on each corner. With a watery smile, you slide your palms on to his wrecked, perfect knees and give him a gentle squeeze there, seemingly pushing his croaked words out with the gesture too. “I want to say that I’m sorry.”

You have nothing for a moment. No words, at least. Nothing but the motion of your hands smoothing back and forth over his knees. Nothing but the pained expression as your eyes swim with an ocean of feeling, deep enough to rival the vast body of water before you.

You note that his eyes are wet too as he settles his own hands over yours, gathering them up into his grasp. He stares down intently at your hands, his brow notching with a deep frown. He drags in a slow breath and releases it. “This got so fucked up, and… that’s not it at all.” He looks back to you then, his umber eyes shining with remorse. Deep regret welling in his resonant tone. “That’s not how I want to show up for you.”

Your tongue, too, reaches for an apology as readily as your hands had reached out for him. “Fuck, Santiago. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry too.” You had never meant to hurt him. You had never wanted that.

He drops his gaze to your neat pairing of hands. Gingerly begins to smooth the rough, sea-pruned pads of his thumbs over your knuckles, your skin humming dully where he touches. “I mean it. I’m sorry for everything.” The tendons in his jaw clench, muscles slipping over bone. He drags your cupped hand into his lap, drawing an absent-minded spiral in your palm with the pad of his thumb. The sensation makes a pleasant tingle bed down beneath your skin. “I swear. I never meant for my bullshit to affect you. Christ - that was the whole fucking point. Thought the least I could do, after everything, was protect you from that.”

At his earnest words, your chest tightens, and you abruptly halt the dance of his fingers by clasping his hands, gathering them between your own palms like a prayer. Your voice cracks in half like a broken promise. “Santiago. For Christ’s sake. You think I need protecting?” The implication in his words cleaves your heart in two. “From you?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. Sniffs. The muscle in his cheek tugs up, and you feel his hands go clammy in your grasp.

He frees himself from your grip for a moment, before continuing to skim his fingers up and down your forearm arm in a gentle, tender dance. The lightness of his touch contrasts starkly with the heaviness settling into his brow, his wet, puppy dog eyes swimming beneath. “I dunno. I was always a better fucking soldier than I was a friend.” He swallows, his voice so soft you can barely hear him. “Than I was… anything else you might’ve needed me to be.”

“No. That’s not true,” you respond adamantly, your head shaking vigorously from side to side. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“Except when it counted.”

“No!” you emphasise, the thrust of your words carrying your whole body forward. You shift position, transferring on to folded knees, crouching before him in the sand. Reaching, to slip your palms up to each side of his face, and you hold him like a prayer now. “No, Santiago. Especially when it counted. Believe me.”

He tries to turn away from you - you see it. He tries to begin his retreat, like usual, but this time, you capture his roughened cheek with one palm and you hold his gaze with yours. You speak firmly, willing him to understand. “Santiago Garcia. Idiota. You’re my hero.”

He scoffs lightly. His face twitches with scepticism. With doubt. With this self-deprecation he always carries, usually so well concealed by his confidence and easy charm. And yet, as you caress his stubble-flecked cheek with your palm, he sinks gratefully into your touch. Leans against it, his eyes fanning closed and his long lashes splaying down towards his cheeks.

“God,” he breathes softly in Spanish, barely audible. “No-one has called me that in a long time." He lives in a world of aliases and nicknames, and you see the weight of his grief twist his face at hearing his name fall from your mouth.

“I mean it. Do you hear me?” you plead, snagging his eyes to yours as they drift open. “You have made my life more beautiful in a thousand ways. You’re not -and you never were- something I need protecting from.” You regard Santiago, and his pretty eyes glisten, wet with a well of scarcely contained emotion -starlight in his lashes. “I love you, Santiago. Whatever has happened. Whatever happens. I love you. Not when you’re this ‘perfect’ version of yourself you finally deem worthy of love.” You search his eyes “That’s bullshit. I love you. I love you now.”

Santiago slowly, gradually musters a nod, and you smooth your hands over him. Over his shoulders. the nape of his neck. His chest. Trying to plaster over the evident cracks as his emotion crashes like a wave against rocks. He scoops a hand around his stubble, his lower lip now downturned. Trembling with feeling. Fat, liquid tears shining in his eyes, threatening to overspill. “I love you too.”

What a terrible, sad thing, you think. That you love each other. That there’s such bounty and abundance, but that at the same time… it is never quite enough.

Maybe one day, it will be; enough.

For now though, it is still something which causes you pain. And, you can see -more clearly than ever now- that it hurts him too.

His eyes dance over everything but you. His face twists. Contorts and tightens as he wrestles with it, but he cannot hold back the tide a moment longer. Full, wet tears spill down Santiago’s cheeks, and he makes some attempt to fumble them away, until they grow too numerous. You reach for him instead, and for a moment he tries to gently bat your hand away. “Hey,” you scold, protest, smooth. “Santiago.” His eyes drop, and his gaze fixes intently on a spot in the sand as you gingerly scoop his tears away with your crooked forefinger. The finger you then trace lovingly along the length of his jaw. The finger you trace along his eyebrow. The point of his cheekbone. Every place the waning golden light paints him. Your eyes dance over him. Every contour. Every sharp angle and every hollow. Every soft, silver curl. And he stays perfectly still. Unmoving, as though he is afraid your touch will withdraw like a tide at any moment.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and it is at once bitter and sweet. “It hurts. It… hurts to be without you.”

For a stretched moment, you do not believe he will respond, the only sign of movement from him a lone tear sluicing down his sculpted cheek. But, eventually, his words come. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I need to find a way it doesn’t hurt you to be with me.” You shake your head, a protest dying on your lips as Santiago drags your hands to him. “I know you won’t buy this. You don’t have to. But I do want out. I swear it’s just this one last job with Lorea. And then I can… Then maybe we can…”

He trails off, his words waning. Breaking on the rocks.

He never could articulate a future with you, could he? Never could seem to dream that up.

You could be angry about that, you suppose, but you truly have no more anger left to give. You could be sad instead but, turns out, you’re out of that feeling too. All you have left to offer in this moment, in fact, is a small, resigned smile.

“It’s okay,” you smooth, and what’s more, you mean it. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Your fingers play over the leather and beads of his bracelets. Over the tendons in his wrist. The light hairs on his forearms.

You’re done with all of that now. Done trying to push him towards a future you’re not even sure he wants with you. Not sure he ever wanted. It’s funny almost, as you sit here, letting the future go. You sit here with him, so much history humming between you it’s like standing amidst ruins. Like you are two statues, memories and stories carved into your bodies. Sometimes, it feels like the past is all you have. But, you are thankful when the sinking, orange segment of sun draws you to it, reminding you there is one more thing you have. Something between the past and future.

You have the here and now.

You reach for it.

It’s all you’ve got. Might be all you ever have with him.

You twist your body, turning outward again, away from him. You fold your knees up to your chin and you loop your arms around them, fixing your eyes straight ahead on the undulating ocean.

“That’s one thing I always loved about you, you know,” you push out. “How you always live smack bang in the moment. I’m constantly wishing it all the fuck away, aren’t I? Always thinking fifty steps ahead.”

Santiago follows your lead, swivelling to face the sunset too. His body becomes all right angles as he plants his elbows on the points of his spread knees, his butt and the soles of his feet flat to the floor, his hands loosely laced together in the space between his legs. “You should. You should think about that stuff. You deserve all that. Everything you talked about last night.”

His words cause a tight lump to rise in your throat.

Do you?

Does he really believe that?

Because, if so, then why in the hell don’t you deserve him? Why can’t he be the one to give it to you?

You offer a theory.

“Does it bore you, or something? The thought of a future like that?” The question emerges tattered, torn on hooks in your throat which try to hold it back; but it’s something you’ve wondered for too long to suppress it any longer. You’ve wondered without ever wanting to push that thought too far - too afraid of the answer.

“Yeah,” he says levelly, not a hint of doubt in his voice, and you hold your breath. “With anyone else, yeah. But not with you.” You are relieved but that fades ever so quickly, your face crumpling into something halfway petulant.

“Then… why?”

Why is he still running?

Why is he running from the life you could offer him if it’s something he wants too?

You hear Santiago tug in and release a deep sigh. Out of the corner of your eye you see him lace his fingers together, soothing his thumb over his own hand like he’s retracing your comfort. “Because… I’m not brave like you.” His voice tips up at the end. Like a question. He reserves all of his doubt for himself, then? It’s not you he refuses to believe in?

“You’re ridiculous. You’re the bravest man I know.”

“Heh. Yeah,” he lifts a hand to self-consciously scratch at the bristle of hairs at the nape of his neck. You hug your knees more tightly to your chest. “Running into bullets. Eliminating threats, sure. But… running into safe hands? I’m a fucking coward.”

You hum, a neutral, bland sound which expresses neither agreement nor disagreement. Which takes you nowhere.

There’s nowhere left to go.

Perhaps the road ends here.

Dead end after dead end.

Only resignation.

“Maybe we were on the same path, once upon a time, huh?” You throw the statement out with little conviction. You’re giving up on the idea that your words or your actions can make the slightest bit of difference to what could be. For now, you simply wish to make sense of what is. “Maybe - I dunno. Maybe I just ran too far ahead. Racing towards this dream of the future, before you were ready to go there. Maybe I just created too much distance.”

Santiago hums now too. A tight, pensive sound. “Huh. Is that what you think happened?”

You rub your palms over your own face. Dig the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. You have as much energy as a spent wave. “Uch. I don’t know.” Wordlessly, tentatively, Santiago reaches, retucking the soft tartan blanket around your shoulders. You manage to smile softly at him, surprised that it does not feel at all forced. “Maybe we just forget all that now. Maybe we just… I dunno. Live in the moment?”

Santiago’s palm draws slow circles on your upper back. You shuffle a little closer to him. “Okay. Then what do you want?” he enquires. “Right now? In this moment?”

His arm weighs over your shoulder, huddling you closer. “Oh. I don’t know. What does it even matter?”

“We leave here tomorrow. So tell me. What do you want right now?”

You could imagine that you are tired of wanting. That all you want is a moment free of wanting anything at all. But that’s not true, is it? You want the very same thing you’ve craved for so long. You want him. Finally though, something in you has shifted. You find yourself able to envisage a future which is far more immediate. Something you can grasp now instead of distantly yearning for.

The words feel hard and tight in your chest, but by the time they reach your lips, they feel so very soft and loose. Easy to sound out. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. All this time I missed you so much.” Unconsciously, Santiago holds you just a little more tightly. “I just…”

“What?” he whispers.

“I want us to fall asleep together. I want to hold you. I just want us to have one moment like that, Santi. Peaceful, you know? After everything, don’t we at least deserve that?” You tug in a breath to launch your next words, your throat closing protectively around them. Making them sound small. “And… And maybe…”

“What? What else?”

“Can’t we just fuck and feel happy about it? Can’t we have just one fucking moment together that doesn’t feel like an ending?”

You wait, your raw-wound words laid out in a line on the sand. You brace. You brace for them to be washed away. To have the salt poured in.

“Okay.”

Your eyes snap to his in surprise, and you find his soft, ardent gaze dancing over your features. “Okay?”

Santiago’s fingers lace with yours, and he tugs you to standing. “Come with me. Come on.”

He gathers up the remaining supplies, slinging the filled beach bag over one shoulder. Then, he folds his other arm around your middle. Tucks you into him. You let him lead you to the house, and it’s nice. It’s nice that for once, you’re not begging him to follow.

You let him lead you up the dunes, back to the house, and up the stairs.

You leave the golden, sinking sun behind you, but with Santiago’s warm, molten gaze shining on you, you still feel the sun on your face.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #santiago pope garcia #ride or die series

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