Chapter Nineteen

A.N. lol hi again. i know i just updated, but i was gone for so long and this chapter is so fucked that i figured i'd just put it out now. next chapter at the end of the week or middle of next. ily <3

She woke up cold, cold and confused.

She could smell him, smell him like he was right there, but there was a stark emptiness consuming the room. It wasn't his chest she was lying on, soft and solid, it was a pillow, cold and slightly itchy against her cheek.

Maybe he was making breakfast, fetching coffee, smoking a cigarette.

"Javi." She called out before she even opened her eyes.

Her voice rang out through the empty apartment, bounced off the walls and rang back through her ears.

Her eyes burst open at that, the first thing her attention snapped to was his jacket, the worn leather one that he wore all the time. It was folded neatly next to her head, which explained the lingering scent of him, but his side of the bed was cold, so cold, not like he'd just gotten up, but like he'd been absent for hours.

"Javi!" She called again, her stomach beginning to twist with dread.

Maybe the narcos came back, maybe they got him, maybe...

Her eyes snapped over to the dresser, a folded bit of notebook paper there that hadn't existed before she went to sleep.

A note, he probably just left a note saying he's getting coffee, that he'll be right back. Everything is fine, he's okay, I'm okay.

She stood up on wobbly newborn legs, shuffling her way to the dresser, rubbing her eyes to rid the sleep before she could read it.

His handwriting was neat, all capital letters, black ink.

It looked far longer than an, I'm going to the store, be back in a few, kind of note.

Her stomach sank for a second time as she frantically began consuming the words.

Chiquita,

I want to start by saying I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I were a stronger man, I would've never gotten close to you, never tainted you with the violence that's surrounded my life for the past ten years. Being with you over these past several months has been a dream, but one I am not deserving of. I promised you I would keep you safe, and so this is me doing that. I never want to risk anything ever happening to you again because of the men who I have wronged, because of the cruel monsters who I tried to catch. You don't deserve that kind of life, that kind of violence. You deserve everything good and safe and sweet. I had to leave, chiquita. I had to leave to make sure you were safe. I'll never be able to tell you how sorry I am. The weak part of me, most of me, wants to stay despite the danger I am putting you in... but I can't risk you getting hurt again. Know that nothing you did caused this. You have been a sanctuary to me. I cannot thank you enough. Please be safe, be well, find someone who can take care of you there, someone who can love you in the way you need and deserve to be loved. I'll carry you with me forever.

Please do not try to find me, for your own wellbeing and safety. I will be fine. You don't need to worry about me.

Forever your Javi

She read the words twice, three times, frantically trying to keep her tears from spilling onto the pages and smearing the ink.

"No." She muttered, shaking her head like she could escape them, like this was a nightmare she could wake up from. "No, no, no, no."

She didn't want to believe it, couldn't.

She wiped at her eyes roughly with the back of her hand, then tugged open her dresser, ripping out a pair of jeans and yanking them on. She grabbed Javier's jacket, the smell of him making her dizzy as she slipped it on, shoving her feet into a pair of sneakers as she darted through the apartment, grabbing her keys and running out the door.

He wasn't gone, couldn't be gone, he wouldn't leave her like that.

Her heart was racing so intensely she felt she might vomit as she raced down the street, past the bar, toward his apartment, her feet thudding against the sidewalk.

He's not gone, can't be gone.

When she reached the building, she began pounding on the door, little fists red and angry as she screamed his name.

Javi, Javi, Javi open the fucking door this is ridiculous.

No one answered, there was no sign of life on the other side of the door, the lights were off inside and when she tried to peer through the window next to the door, the curtains partially blocking her view, she saw his things missing from the counter in the kitchen. His little tray of keys gone, his boots gone from the rack near the door, the painting above his couch— the only thing he ever had hanging on the walls— of some random lake was gone.

Gone. He was gone.

Something clawing and vicious ripped through her, tearing its way from her gut to her chest, bubbling out of her throat in a rattling cry. Her knees gave out under her, buckling and locking as she slipped down the side of the building, into a crumpled heap on the ground, sore face buried in her hands.

The smell of him on that jacket was overwhelming and her brain couldn't piece the two things together. It was like the ghost of him was hovering over her, a mirage of comfort, the false pretense of some sort of shelter.

I'm here now, I'm going to take care of you.

His voice rang through her head, rattling her skull, alongside the words in his letter. The juxtaposition of the two, the disparity took a physical shape, an uncaged animal in her chest. She wanted to scream, yell at him, punch at his chest with angry little fists, because how dare he leave her... How dare he after he'd forced his way in, built up the first stable foundation she'd had in her adult life. She'd been living in the shelter of him, all warm and safe, for nearly eight months... which was eight months longer than she'd ever gotten to rest.

And now she was just expected to go back out into the storm, brave it alone again, alone again, after the relief of having someone, having him.

"How are you supposed to take care of me when you're gone, Javi? How does that fucking work!" She yelled into the empty street, feeling deranged and suddenly extremely nauseous.

I promised you I would keep you safe, and so this is me doing that.

It didn't make sense, nothing made sense. A thick, bubbling bit of doubt rose in her chest, that maybe the real reason he'd left was because of her. She shouldn't have told him she loved him... perhaps that had scared him away, perhaps after everything that had happened to him, he was incapable of feeling that way about anyone. After all, she'd thought herself incapable of loving someone like that, so entirely and completely, a full ravage devotion of the very fibers of herself to someone else. Until him... only him.

The universe had granted her stability, peace for a finite period, let her stretch her legs and set up camp, consider the possibility of a home, warm and dry and safe. Then it ripped it from her, tore it from her feeble hands, and laughed theatrically in her face.

You thought you could rest? What a joke! Don't you know you were made to suffer, to survive, to claw and fight and get through by the skin of your teeth, you useless little creature.

How insane of her, how utterly mad for her to have thought she could rest, that she could love and be loved by anyone ever again. Those things were not made, did not exist for people like her, beings like her.

Another violent sob wracked through her as she buried her face into the lining of his jacket, trying to breathe in the scent of him, woody and warm, tobacco and coffee and sandalwood, but she could not breathe through her nose, and so even that trite bit of comfort did not grace her.

She was alone again, alone forevermore. She felt that heavy solitude in the empty cavity of her chest, growing wide, threatening to break her bones at the sheer size, the unyielding pressure, snap her ribs open to reveal a set of suffocated organs, collapsed, and corroded.

Her ears were ringing, her brain feeling as though it was rattling around in her skull, so loud that she didn't realize for several minutes that she was speaking without cognition, repeating the same thing over and over and over again.

Scared, scared, scared, I'm so scared.

The realization made her stomach sink. She had lived, for so long, in a steel cage that she had built over years alone to keep her from feeling that... feeling the terror that lives inherently in the isolated, in the abandoned. Javier had ripped down that cage, scooped her up and reminded her that she was soft and delicate, a thing to be protected and cared for. Then he left. And she didn't know if she could find the pieces of steel that he'd butchered. He may have taken them with him, left her all spongy and vulnerable, exposed to the elements, surely to be ravaged, torn apart limb by delicate limb.

And him... what about him. Where had he gone, run off to? To someplace where he would be shot at again? Someplace where no one knew his name? Someplace where no one knew how gentle and susceptible he was under all that armor he wore?

She felt bile rising in her throat. What if he returned to the DEA? Went back to Columbia? What if this time he didn't escape with a few scars? What if this time they finished him off?

She gagged, retching up stomach acid, eyes watering as she leaned over the steps of the building, so close to tumbling down and cracking her skull open.

All the better, she thought obtusely, he left because he thought that would keep me safe, what happens when he finds out I've died falling down the steps of his building, skull broken open, covered in vomit. Will he love me then? Blood on his fingers, brain matter on the cement.

The flavor of missing him was bitter and forceful, it felt condemning and lethal. She hadn't allowed herself to get that close to anyone, not even Robert and Macie, no one had snuck past her guards, scaled the tower she locked herself in. Just him. She hadn't been made to miss anyone since her parents. But now she was damned to miss him too, unrelenting and all consuming. She had purposely pushed the memories of her parents away so she could go on, so that the pain of missing them wouldn't pull her under. She could not forget him, could never forget him. She didn't know if she would survive this. She'd already survived too long. It all felt like it was crumbling down.

__________

"Sir... sir."

Javier's eyes finally snapped up to the flight attendant who'd been trying to get his attention for a good minute.

"Could I get you anything to drink?"

"Oh." He shook his head, it felt too heavy on his neck, like it would snap off and roll down the aisle of the plane. "No thank you."

The flight attendant huffed and rolled her cart further down toward the back of the cabin.

Emma was surely awake by now.

The thought sent a rolling wave of dread through his core.

Before he'd left, he'd hired a private security officer— a man named Charles— to keep tabs on her, out of sight unless required, report back weekly, or on the day should— god forbid— anything happen to her.

He knew it was slightly mad, but he had no other choice. He would keep her safe by removing the threat of the narcos, but that also meant he couldn't keep her safe there, from everything else that could possibly harm her— drunk men, out of control motorists, sex traffickers, rapists, deranged men with a gun and a violent mission. The world was fucking dark, he'd learned that the hard way, and he was going to do everything in his power to keep that darkness from touching her precious head ever again... even if it bankrupted him.

He needed to call Charles, ask him about the state of her, as a bit of punishment, a way to further sabotage himself... but he had four hours left on the flight. Four more hours, each mile they trekked putting him further and further away from her. He could feel the tug, the gruesome undoing of the fabric that held him together.

Oh god he missed her, already. He hadn't even been away for five hours and already he felt empty and sick and dizzy, so fucking dizzy, like his entire equilibrium had been thrown off.

He had the little airsick bag held in his hands, rubbing the paper between his fingers in a frantic manner as waves of nausea rocketed through his core. He'd never gotten sick on a plane, or a car, or a boat. He knew it wasn't the motion of the plane making him sick, it was simply the absence of her, the knowing that the absence would never cease, he would never be graced by her presence ever again, never get to hold her, never get to hear the sound of her laughter, smell the sweet honeysuckle that lingered on her hair.

He tried not to, but he couldn't stop himself from trying to piece together what her morning had looked like. She'd woken up to find him gone, but what kind of reaction had that elicited? Had she cried... oh god, please, no. The thought of her crying without anyone there to comfort her, without him there to hold her through it, made him keel forward in his seat, resting his head between his knees, his breath all staggered and broken.

My baby, my chiquita, I'm so sorry, so sorry.

He preferred a scenario in which she was angry with him, disappointed, pissed off. That he could handle, that he deserved.

Don't leave me.

Her words ripped through him, carved a new hole in his chest, worked to disprove his most favorable scenario.

But she'll be okay, he tried desperately to convince himself, of course she will. She's so strong, my strong girl.

Another thought crept in, far more vicious, clawing through his skull, After you'd told her she didn't have to be so strong, after you promised to take care of her, you left, left her alone again.

He crumpled the airsick bag in his fist, clenching his jaw tight, hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes. There was no scenario in this that existed without pain. He should've never touched her, should've never tainted her perfect form. But even then, even that, wasn't good, didn't fit, because that scenario involved her still being alone, unprotected, and that thought alone was enough to send fits of panic racking through his core.

__________

As soon as the plane landed, the minute he got inside the airport, before he even went through customs or picked up his luggage from baggage claim, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, along with the little scrap of paper that he'd written Charles' number on.

He shook as it rang, his hand quivering, threatening to drop his phone onto the ground.

"Lewis Security." His voice rang through after minutes of ringing, causing Javier's heart to jump into his throat.

"It's Javier Peña, just checking in."

He coughed, the sound low, crackling through the phone.

"She's um— she left her apartment at 10:30 this morning sir, and um—" another cough.

Javier was on the verge of screaming.

"She ran to a building down on 11th and Judah, was pounding on the door, and now she— well she's just been sitting there sir, for hours."

He palmed at his chest, the pain there so excruciating he thought he might be suffering cardiac arrest, a heart attack, something physically and seriously wrong.

"She's just sitting there—" Javier started, his voice caught in his throat, it sounded like he was speaking through a small tube.

Charles coughed again, "She's been crying, sir. She threw up in the street at one point."

The detached way he was speaking about it, about her— the physical embodiment of everything he cared about, the woman who quite literally held his heart in the palm of her tiny hand— made Javier feel like he was about to pass out. The room around him spun violently, colors whirling together, shapes losing their edge, voices muffled and strewn into one clattering chorus that was loud, too loud, fuck it's loud in here.

"Please call me when she gets home." He heard himself say.

"Of course."

Javier pocketed his phone, then stumbled over to a bench near the entrance to the restrooms, resting his head back between his knees, trying to get his heart rate back to something normal.

Maybe he'd made a mistake, maybe this was all wrong, maybe he should get back on a plane right now.

No.

He'd already put her through enough.

He deserved this pain, but she did not.

She'll get through it. She'll get over me. I never deserved her in the first place. Everything will be okay, she'll be safe, safe, she's safe.

Javier sat there for a good fifteen minutes, trying to compose himself before he went through customs. As soon as he got his bags, he was to be taken to the field office. He wouldn't even have time to deposit his bags at his new apartment. No time for rest, no time for distraction. He was going to take down more of the pendejos who had done this to his girl.

__________

It was getting cold outside, the fog rolling in from the coast, but Emma still couldn't move. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there in front of his door... not his door anymore, but it was long enough that she'd watched the sun reach the top of the sky, and then begin its course toward the edge of the horizon.

How the sun could even shine, could even continue its burning, its path, was beyond her. It didn't seem natural or possible that time kept ticking on, but it did, it always did. It had when her parents died, and it did when he left.

She tucked herself further into his jacket, curled into a little ball and pressed herself against the wall. She didn't want to go home, to her empty bed, to that note on her dresser, she thought she might as well stay here, cocooned somewhere that felt near him, even though he was gone, even though she had no idea how far away from her he actually was by now.

A soft whimper echoed out of her throat as the wind picked up, nipping at her exposed ankles, her neck, her face.

Javier was always warm, like a fucking radiator especially when he slept. She could curl herself around him and feel her limbs defrost, feel the tension in her muscles melt away.

Not anymore.

She whimpered again, more of a whine this time, her eyes so raw and overworked that it was beginning to burn, ache deep in her sockets as more tears churned their way out of her. How much could she physically cry? At what point would she be so dehydrated that the tears would just stop?

She buried her face in the lining of his jacket, breathed in deeply, dreaded the day, perhaps in a week, or a month, maybe even tomorrow, when that jacket would no longer smell like him, when that woody scent would exist only as a faint memory.

She'd spent so much of her life trying to forget, but god she didn't want to forget anything about him. Not a single thing. Not the dimple that would carve itself into his cheek when he smiled, or the v that would etch more deeply between his eyebrows when he was angry or lost in thought, the deep, warm shade of brown that composed his irises, the feeling of his plush lips sweeping across her neck, the low baritone of this voice.

This was going to be the end of her, missing him would surely kill her.

She hugged her knees tighter, buried her face entirely into his jacket. Maybe if she fell asleep like this, here, surrounded in the smell of him, she could dream of him, exist, albeit briefly, in a world where he hadn't left.