Chapter Text
The street is quiet, abandoned by life of any kind, save the occasional smoker with their hood pulled over their head, the beginning signs of a storm resounding a low grumble throughout the air. The restaurants surrounding the club are largely empty, the tables laid out beneath flimsy gazebos struggling against the wind. Pedri can see a few people littering the tables inside but knows better than to make eye-contact. The neon sign is visible even from this distance, casting eerie shades of blue and red onto the rain-slicked pavement as quiet echoes of a song begin to overpower the sound of his footsteps.
He inhales sharply, clears the brewing storm away from his head, swats away the impending loneliness already trying to tear its way into his skull and steps towards the door. There’s a group of five men standing before the bouncer but Pedri slips past them quickly, flicks out his newly obtained fake ID and pushes open the door with a long sigh.
There aren’t as many people as he expected there to be, or maybe that’s just Pedri’s tunnel vision forcing his feet directly to the bar. He slides past writhing bodies, lets his ears adjust to the blaring music as he pushes past people without apology. When he gets to the bar, he allows himself a breather, leans against it with an elbow and scans the crowd around him. No one he recognises.
He takes a moment to think of what he must look like and squares his shoulders, stands a little straighter, feels for the stubble peppered across his jaw. He keeps his eyes lowered, his lips frowned.
“Hey,” someone murmurs behind him, and Pedri startles, but schools his expression before he turns to greet the bartender. “What can I get for you?”
Pedri huffs out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. He wonders for a moment how upfront he could be. The bartender has his hair cropped down to his skull, a thin chain tied around his neck as he fiddles with the towel thrown over his shoulder. Only a small slitted scar in his eyebrow and the raw, cracked skin along his knuckles give Pedri any reason to be wary. He leans against the bar and shoots the man a crooked smile.
“How about a job?” He asks, keeps his voice even, just loud enough to be heard over the music. He waits, expects for the man to shoot him a glance, but is surprised when he continues to play with the bottles littered over his side of the bar, snorting out an amused laugh.
“We’re not hiring,” he mutters simply, but there’s no hostility in his tone.
Pedri laughs out another breath to hide his relief, shifting his eyes to pretend to watch a group of girls as they all burst into raucous laughter at the other end of the room. “A beer then,” he says, decides not to look back at the bartender.
The bartender acknowledges him with a slight jerk of his head and reaches for a glass. “Tough finding a job these days,” he mutters as he positions the glass beneath the tap. Pedri turns his head to look back at the man. He hadn’t been expecting conversation, but he welcomes it nonetheless, relaxing his shoulders as he slides onto one of the barstools.
“Tell me about it,” he agrees, watching as the beer makes the glass perspire, droplets of water sliding down over the bartender’s fingers. It froths at the mouth of the cup, and the man slides it out from beneath the tap just before it manages to spill over.
“What are you looking for?” He asks Pedri as he slides the glass over to him.
Pedri considers, makes sure not to pause too long as he takes a quick mouthful of the drink. It’s disgusting but he doesn’t flinch. There isn’t enough time to consider his next words. “I’m fresh out,” he mutters gruffly, taking a moment to wipe away the beer clinging to his top lip, “so anything at all to be honest.”
That catches the bartender’s attention, his eyebrows shooting upward as meets Pedri’s gaze for the first time that night. Pedri takes another casual swig of his beer.
“Fresh out?” He asks, his hand pausing its slow circular motion as it wipes a wet towel over the bar. “What, you were in lockup?”
“Yeah,” Pedri grunts, taking a casual look behind his shoulder towards the swarm of people slowly beginning to thin out behind him. He pauses, rolls his neck with the manner of man that’s simply maintaining conversation, no malicious intent woven into the quiet tick in his neck. “Did almost five years,” he breathes, critically aware of the bartender’s keen eyes really noticing him for the first time that night.
When Pedri looks back, the bartender raises his eyebrows and tears away his gaze, resuming his barely passable cleaning of the bench before him.
“What for?” He asks.
Pedri knows to be wary of that question, has walked through enough prisons to know the reactions it got. He stretches his neck from one side to the other, drags his eyes over the bartender’s face and waits for a glance up, for a tick of his jaw. The bartender pulls his eyes back up to meet him. Pedri feels his palms begin to sweat when he sees no fear in the bartender’s face.
“I was a cop,” Pedri mutters out finally, follows it with a long swig of his drink as though it was a great labour to say the words. The bartender’s eyebrows shoot up. Pedri spares him a small smile. “Not a very good one,” he adds, and watches with warm amusement churning in his stomach as the bartender’s eyebrows draw impossibly higher up his forehead.
“Oh yeah?”
Pedri decides against indulging his curiosity, instead choosing to look off to the side once more, an easy smile pulling at his lips. The bartender watches him, Pedri feels his eyes against his cheek, wants to pull his eyes back to see his reaction but forces himself to keep calm.
“Busy today, huh?” He breathes, switching the subject easily. He returns his eyes to the bartender, is pleased with his work when he sees that he’s still watching him curiously.
“Nah,” the bartender murmurs distantly, still raking his eyes over Pedri’s face. Pedri notices the slight crease between his brows. “This is a quiet night - oh!” The bartender’s eyes suddenly turn over Pedri’s shoulder, and Pedri looks up in surprise. “The room’s ready for you upstairs,” he says to someone who apparently stood behind Pedri. “I’ll join you in a minute.” Pedri spares a glance over his shoulder and feels his blood run cold as he sees a large group of men standing by the door to a staircase, their eyebrows raised in the bartender’s direction. Familiar faces flash across his vision. He tries to scan each face, each scarcely hidden tattoo, matches them with the blurry photos he has etched hastily into his memory. The man leading the group is especially familiar - spiked brown hair and denim slacks. The name burns across the back of Pedri’s eyelids. Robert Lewandowski. Pedri sits up straighter and takes a hasty swig of his drink.
He turns back to the bartender and sees him rolling down his sleeves. A dagger of panic strikes through to his heart, spiking its already panicked beats with adrenaline strong enough to make him fidget. He’s missing his chance.
“Who’s that?” He breathes, regrets it almost instantly. Tactless. Stupid.
But the bartender doesn’t bother to look up at him as he replaces his towel in its proper place. “My boss.”
Pedri pauses a second too long to reply, decides to play into the amusement he remembers being in the bartender’s eyes at the beginning of the night.
“Looks like a wanker.”
There’s a terrifying drop-of-the-stomach pause, a beat of silence that makes him reach into his pocket and curl a tight hand around his burner, his only way back home. His pistol lays steady in its holster, concealed just above the hem of his jeans. He focuses on the way the warmth of his skin bleeds into its metal.
The bartender snorts.
“Careful,” he warns, but his lips are twitching upwards at the corners. Pedri sighs in relief.
Pedri watches as the bartender walks around the bar, undoing the top button of his shirt as he waves goodbye to his coworkers.
“He wouldn’t be able to stitch me up with a job, would he?” Pedri smiles, feels opportunity drip like acid from between his fingers.
The bartender spares him a smile, thumping him on the shoulder as he passes. But just as hope just about slips away from Pedri’s fingertips, the bartender fastens a hand on his shoulder, leans in until Pedri can feel his breath against his ear, and murmurs, “I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Pedri bites back his sharp inhale, turns his head slightly to catch a glimpse of the man’s wicked grin, his teeth glinting a strange luminescent colour in the neon light of the room.
“Ferran,” someone calls behind them, and it’s only barely loud enough to be heard over the music. They both turn around. Pedri squints against the light to see the dark figure standing by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. A boy, Pedri realises with a start. Someone young, much younger than anyone he had been expecting to encounter. His eyes gleam even in this light, from his distance, a boyish innocence even in the impatient furrow of his eyebrows, the sweat-tousled ends of his hair. Pedri combs through his memories, finds none that matches this boy. He then considers the name Ferran. Another he doesn’t remember knowing.
“I’m coming,” Ferran mutters impatiently. The boy walks up to them, his eyes turning to Pedri as a scowl takes shape on his face.
“Who’s …”
“Oh,” Ferran laughs, patting Pedri’s shoulder once more. “This is - shit, I don’t even know your name.”
Pedri realises a moment too late that he’s talking to him. “Pedri,” he offers.
The boy doesn’t acknowledge him. “Let’s go,” he tells Ferran, his hand waving impatiently towards the elder as he turns to lead him back up towards the stairs.
“Hang on, I’m coming,” Ferran mutters, rolling his eyes at Pedri. Pedri spares him a laugh, hoping it doesn’t come up too nervous. He watches as Ferran places a cigarette between his teeth, cups a lighter in his hand until the end smoulders and ignites. He takes a long drag, blows it out, and grins wolfishly down at Pedri. “Ask Diego,” he jerks his head up at another bartender, “if you need anything, yeah? I’ll be about an hour. Stay back.”
Pedri feels his eyebrows raise, feels a cool chill travel gently down his spine. “Why?”
“Do you want a job or not?”
Pedri clears his throat, letting his lips twitch just barely upwards. Relief and unease battle to spread their way through his veins, fights to bloom the larger sprout in his chest. “I thought you weren’t hiring.”
Ferran pats his shoulder once more. “No guarantees. Just stay back.”
“Ferran,” the boy calls again, a shoulder leant against the doorframe as his finger taps impatiently at his thigh. Pedri feels that cool drop of panic cloud the contents of his stomach once more.
“Thanks,” Pedri manages to mutter to Ferran and tips his beer with a grin before Ferran turns and jogs up to the boy. He throws an arm around the boy’s shoulder, tapping his chest as they disappear into the darkness beyond. Pedri sees a flash of the boy’s eyes glued pointedly at him before the door shuts with a snap.
Pedri pushes the beer away from his numb fingertips and hides his sigh of relief into his elbow.
[3 months earlier]
Pedri’s fingers graze over the tactile rise and fall of the paper sat resolutely on his desk. He brushes his fingers together, over names and buildings and numbers, feels the tease of the ink pressed into the sheet like stitches on a cotton shirt. Pedri’s never felt that before, not until now, not until he gives it too much of his notice.
The file sits before him, quiet, but alluring. Unassuming, but real.
He sighs and straightens in his seat, feels the prick of his muscles remembering to move after hours of stillness and closes the folder shut. His lip is between his teeth as he gets to his feet and props the folder to his side. It’s heavy. But Pedri had been expecting no less. It seems to weigh him down, to slow his steps to an amble as he approaches the door, takes a breath, and wraps against it with his knuckles.
He opens the door before he receives a greeting, but the commander doesn’t seem to mind, only looks up with a gently raised eyebrow, creases of exhaustion rooting themselves into his face. Streaks of grey make his normally dark hair catch the light above him, as sterile as the gloomy lamps that accompanied hospital beds.
Pedri glances at the clock. Almost eleven.
“Pedri?” Xavi murmurs and Pedri nods, sliding the door shut behind him to take a seat in front of his commander’s desk, setting the file down with a heavy thump . It seems to stick to his skin as he attempts to relinquish, the smooth sinewy residue of intention already threading into the tips of his fingers. Xavi pays no mind to the folder.
“I’ll do it,” Pedri murmurs.
There’s a rasp clinging to his voice, a dryness in the back of his mouth that makes his words sound hesitant. He clears his throat. “I’ll be at the briefing tomorrow,” he says, louder, firmer.
Xavi only stares, his worn, experienced eyes trailing over Pedri’s face. Pedri remains lax, knows that there’s no lie in his face for Xavi to find. Finally, Xavi sighs and nods. “Alright. You’ve already got the briefing time and location?” Pedri nods, pulling the file back into his lap. “Then there’s nothing left for me to say.”
“Thank you, sir,” Pedri mumbles, flinching against the screeching of the chair as he pulls it back and gets up. His feet reach the door before his head does, and for a moment he stands before it, fumbling awkwardly for the door handle.
“Pedri?”
Pedri’s fingers close around the cool metal of the door handle. Smooth, not like the paper tucked beneath his other arm. “Yes, sir?” He asks, turning back towards the commander.
“Come back in one piece.”
A hint of a smile makes Pedri’s lips twitch. “You have no faith in me.”
Xavi snorts, leaning back in his seat as he rubs a hand over his face. “Get out of here.”
Pedri manages a smile, lifting a hand in goodbye before he slips out of the door.
***
“I took the job, mamá.”
Pedri hears the low bubble of water in the kettle, hears Fer’s knife beat down against the wooden board, hears the murmur of the commentator on the TV. The warm yellow light of the kitchen is only visible in the corner of his vision, contrasting vividly against the cool brightness of the TV illuminating his face. Like a spotlight, an interrogation room. His mother is silent for a moment on the other side of the call.
“How long is it again?” She asks after a moment, and Pedri lifts his eyes as Fer walks into the room, his arms crossed over his chest and small splatters of tomato sauce rooted into the seams of his shirt. Fer raises his eyebrows and Pedri sighs, putting their mother on speaker.
“Nine months,” Pedri recites, fiddling with the cushion he has laid out on his lap. “Or more.”
Fer’s lips purse, his jaw clenches.
“And where are you going?”
Pedri pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m staying in Barcelona but I can’t tell you where -”
“You told us last time.”
“Yes, mamá, but I wasn’t in deep cover -”
“Why can’t you tell us?”
“Because,” Pedri sighs exasperatedly, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, tries to ignore the faint tingle dancing across his skin as Fer’s eyes bore into him. “It could put you all in danger -”
“So how will Fer look out for you if he doesn’t know -”
“Mamá stop interrupting and listen, okay? Please?” Pedri waits for his mother to interrupt him once more, but only hears the shaky breath that slips through the phone, then a rustle, a murmured conversation, and silence. “Okay,” Pedri sighs. Fer walks around and takes a seat beside Pedri, his elbows resting on his knees. “This assignment is different from all my others. When I say I’m going undercover I mean indefinitely, until the end of the assignment. I can’t - we can’t be seen together, as far as anyone knows we’re not family anymore, understand?” He’s met with silence. Pedri takes a long breath and continues. “I won’t be leaving the city and we’ll be able to communicate through my handler -”
“We don’t even get a phone call?” Fer interrupts, a deep furrow rooting itself between his brows.
“I don’t know, I’ll have to - we probably do,” Pedri settles on instead, because Fer takes to his feet, pacing the living room with his chin gripped between his fingers. “Just not often.”
“This is fucking crazy,” Fer murmurs, pushing a shaky hand through his hair.
Pedri hears a faint sniffle from the other end of the call.
There’s a jolt to Pedri’s stomach, a sickening lurch in his chest. He swallows. “Come on guys,” Pedri appeals, desperately attempting to swallow down the guilt hurtling up his throat. “We all signed up for this when I chose the academy, right?” But there’s a quiver in his own voice now. Guilt isn’t what he had expected, but it ate away at him, licking up the insides of his stomach and swallowing every ember of pride that remained. He greeted it, made it known that it was unwelcome, but allowed it to settle there at the pit of his stomach. Allowed it to dull the gratifying light that had been set alight earlier this evening, but not extinguish it. He has learned to be good at that. “I was always working up to this,” he mumbles, because he knows he deserves this, knows his parents know that he deserves this. Their sadness must be pressed away too, into barely noticeable tactiles along smooth edges, like fibres pressed into paper. He meets Fer’s eyes. Fer can’t seem to hold his gaze. Pedri knows his brother like he knows himself, knows the war waging behind the firm grit of his elder brother’s teeth. It’s like he tastes it, swallows down the bitterness of his brother’s hurt, the salt of his worry, the sweetness of his pride. “I can handle myself,” Pedri mutters, and it’s only meant for Fer, even though he knows his parents are listening. Fer sighs, and shuts his eyes, his fingernails digging into his arms.
“Mamá,” Fer calls, loud enough for it to be heard from where he’s standing. He sounds strikingly young, a little boy calling for his mother. Pedri looks away. “Tell papá to book a flight here tonight, alright? Just - come as soon as you can.”
Pedri’s head drops, his chin against his chest. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s dread.
His brother continues to talk to his parents gently through the phone; slow, quiet, coaxing, something he has gotten used to in previous years. They always seem to hear Fer better than they did Pedri.
“Okay, we’ll see you both soon.”
Pedri blinks. It’s his fathers voice on the phone now, it’s faint but firm. Pedri knows his father wouldn’t stop him. Pedri had always taken more after him.
“Okay, bye,” Fer mumbles, falling back against the couch.
“Bye,” Pedri adds, but they hang up before they can hear. Pedri sets his phone down beside him and shifts his eyes up to look for Fer’s reaction. His brother is already staring at him by the time Pedri’s eyes catch up. “What?” He asks, wishes it comes out a little less accusatory.
Fer remains silent for a moment, but murmurs, “nine months.”
Pedri swallows, holding his gaze steady. “Or more,” he returns.
Fer takes a long breath, gets to his feet, and returns to the kitchen.
***
The coming weeks pass in a blur of colour and noise. Pedri feels as though he’s been stumbling along a swaying bridge, clutching onto railings that are too slippery to the touch, haphazardly prying himself loose from the delicate knot of his family. Fer pulls him through it, uses his hesitant fingers to push him across that bridge, lets him mould himself into his own person, like the elder hadn’t allowed for himself.
Pedri ducks his head as he enters the small alleyway that had been specified in his briefing notes. It has a distinct aroma to it, the mingling scents of garbage and smoke and wet pavement combined into a thick cloud of dread that hung around beneath Pedri’s nostrils. He coughs, and walks toward the man leaning against the wall near the other end of the alley, a cigarette between his lips.
The man lifts his head as he approaches, inhaling shakily as he pulls away the cigarette and drops it into the puddle beneath his feet.
“Sir,” Pedri nods, extending a hand when he gets close enough.
“Check for anyone following?” His handler murmurs, glancing over his shoulder, then behind Pedri.
“Yes sir, there’s no one around.”
Gundogan nods, pulling a long sheath of paper out from within his pocket. Pedri has memorised the rough edge of paper beneath his fingers now, is almost exhausted just by watching Gundo scan his eyes through the contents. “Name?”
“Pedri González-López,” Pedri recites, hours spent on forging his new identity, staring at sheets of paper with a life that was unfamiliar but would soon become his own burned into his memory.
“Employment?”
“Ex-officer of the Barcelona police force. Currently unemployed. Recently completed a sentence of four and a half years after having been found guilty of the crimes of collusion, corruption and unauthorised disclosure of classified information.”
Gundo nods, his eyes continuing to scan over the profile clutched between his fingers. Pedri scans the alleyway, notices a pigeon fluttering about on the rooftops above their heads. “Family?”
“Parents are Isabella López, and Antonio González, both deceased -”
“From?”
“My father from leukemia, my mother died on the force,” Pedri swallows around the words, attempts to let them feel real. “I also have a younger sister living in America but we’re not in contact anymore.”
Gundo nods again, his lips pulling into a grim smile. “Your assignment?”
“To infiltrate the new suspected drug cartel in Barcelona and gain an understanding of their influence, workings, and suppliers,” Pedri mutters. A cool touch of foreboding revelation seeps into his chest. No backing out now, whether he wants to or not. He inhales shakily, and lifts his eyes to meet Gundo’s. The older man’s briskness disappears with the paper he pushes back into his pocket, a sympathetic softening in his eyes as he looks up at Pedri and breathes out a long withheld breath.
“First assignment in deep cover,” he murmurs, and there’s something in the way he smiles. Pedri can’t tell whether it’s pride or worry. He seems to be getting that look a lot these days. “How are you feeling?”
Pedri nods, forcing his lips to pull into its own smile. It feels foreign, like something he isn’t allowed, but he manages it anyway. “Good, I think.”
His handler shakes his head disapprovingly. “Be confident,” Gundo mutters immediately, and takes a firm grasp of his shoulders, forcing Pedri to stand up straight. “Otherwise you’ll convince no one.”
Pedri clears his throat and staggers up to his feet, his cheeks warming as Gundo’s firm fingers force him straight. “Yes sir, sorry,” he mutters sheepishly, and realises belatedly that he hadn’t even followed the elder’s advice. A soft laugh bursts out of Gundo’s chest, his fingers squeezing warmly around Pedri’s shoulders.
“We can’t stay here long,” Gundo mutters, taking another hasty look around the alleyway. “Stay calm. If you need anything your burner has my number in it. Did you remember -”
“Yes sir,” Pedri interrupts, patting the front pocket of his jacket reassuringly.
“Alright. If there’s any chance your cover is blown, notify me immediately. Be consistent. Be true to yourself. Don’t do anything illegal unless it directly risks your safety, understand?” Pedri nods again, that cool touch of dread rooting and spreading itself through his veins, making the tips of his fingers tingle nervously at his sides. Gundo’s face makes a shift, one only someone on the force with years of detecting a lie could’ve seen passes over his face and Pedri stiffens. “Remember yourself, Pedri,” Gundo mutters, slow and deliberate, each word punctuating and slicing like sharp knives into the tender flesh of Pedri’s chest.
Pedri swallows, holding his gaze steady. “Yes sir,” he returns somewhat belatedly.
Gundo inspects his face for a few more seconds before nodding. “Okay. You know where to go?”
Pedri nods, stuffing his fists in his pocket to hide the way his nails dug into his palms, leaving crescent shaped curves over the thin lines etched across his hand. He swallows, goes to turn but remembers to nod hastily to his handler in goodbye. “Thank you, sir,” he mutters, and hopes he says it loud enough for Gundo to hear.
“Good luck, Pedri.”
Pedri swallows heavily around the stench of the alleyway as he turns and leaves Gundogan behind him.
[Present day]
Pedri stays sunken back into the shadows of slowly dying dregs of the club, the thinning crowd making him feel astoundingly present as he hears the calls of the storm raging beyond the door. The music feels quieter now, like it’s booming only within the confines of his own skull. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here but it’s much longer than the hour he was promised. He stands steady though, doesn’t bother talking to the drunken girl who’s friends are waiting impatiently for her to finish guzzling her drink, pretends he doesn’t hear them considering whether to just abandon her.
The smooth wood of the bar keeps him bound, grazing rough fingertips over polished oak, forcibly smothered into a cool gloss of its past.
“Hey.” Pedri’s head snaps around, a wary hand stuffing back into his pocket, curling around the smooth metal of his phone, remembering the warm weight against his ankle. It’s the boy, that firm furrow still dug between his brows. Pedri straightens in his seat, and meets the boy’s eyes. “Pedri?” He asks, and Pedri jerks his chin upwards. The boy considers him, eyes travelling down his face, then back up to meet his gaze. Pedri doesn’t cower, but his exhaustion makes him complacent, makes his teeth sink into his lip when he doesn’t mean them to. “Come back tomorrow night,” the boy mutters after a long sigh, his eyes shifting away from Pedri to stare across the bar. Pedri’s pulse is suddenly thundering against his ears, louder than any of the assaulting music from the night. He feels the beat of his heart somewhere in his throat. “You’re hired,” the boy mutters, glancing back at Pedri as he nods towards the bar before turning on his heel.
Pedri lets his eyes follow him, memorises the curve of his jaw, the furrow of his brows, the gleam in his eyes. “Thanks,” he calls, and isn’t sure if the boy ever hears him.