Chapter Text
They stare at each other, gasping—no, panting—as if they had the entire time in the world. There’s hunger in their eyes; the utterly mind-blowing kiss leaves a deep and insatiable desire for more, and it takes a lot from both of them to not give in and lose themselves in the moment in which they have all the time in the universe, in which they are the only two people in the entire universe, in which they are just Sergio and Raquel, identical halves of the same burning heart, two people destined to be together, tethered by fate or some other higher power, and not el Profesor and la Inspectora, opponents doomed to destroy one another in this chess match. Except this moment that they’re clinging to is an illusion, or a magic trick. They don’t have the entire time in the universe. They’re living on borrowed time, praying to whoever is willing to listen to gift them just a few seconds more, because that is all they can afford right now.
Raquel raises her brows, glancing at Sergio intensely with her eyes glistening with tears (she can still taste the salt on the tip of her tongue from the effects of their combined crying) in a silent plea. Whatever that plea is for, she isn’t sure—whether it’s for him or for him to believe in what she told him.
She is with him, though she isn’t sure what that fully entails yet. And it’s not like she has the time to think it thoroughly through.
What she knows, is that she means to help him save his plan.
But for that to happen, he has to free her from the shackles first. He’s not doing it, though, he’s just glaring at her, agaze, almost stunned, as if he still couldn’t believe she kissed him. There’s awe and astonishment in his dilated pupils (in this light his dark brown irises look just as black), and something that looks like trust flickers in them as well. He’s with her, too.
They’re on the same side now. At the first glance it looks like she is on his side—the right side, the cynical voice full of resentment caused by Sergio’s deception mocks—and maybe there’s merit to this notion. Maybe she is choosing wrong. But even if that’s true, even if she’s losing, at least for now, she doesn’t care at all. If everything goes well, at least one of them gets to escape. And for her, that’s enough. If Sergio’s able to win this, then she will be winning as well.
Because, despite everything—his lies, his omissions, him fucking up her career, her wishing at times she didn’t want him as much as she does—she still has feelings for him. And they’re bright, burning with passion. She doesn’t want to fight it anymore, not like she did earlier, before the call from the hospital forced her into action and into deciding whose side she’s on. Being on his side means that she’s finally following her heart and doing something for herself.
She allows herself to glimpse at his lips again. Yearning overcomes her again.
If he kissed her again now (she sees he wants to, and that he sees she wants him to, as well), she would respond with equal ardour. But they don’t have any more time to spare, as much as it pains her to admit it.
Sergio realises it too. And so, he uncuffs her (he frees her from the real binds, not the metaphorical chains of his love—those chains she will never be free of; it’s the only thing she can fully believe in the vastness of his lies) and supports her when she, to her surprise more than to his, staggers. His arms are strong, delicate. He’s cradling her as if he wanted to never let go of her, and her frame fits perfectly, as if she was meant to be held by him. It’s nearly a hug, the way he aids her to regain her balance.
“I’m terribly sorry for this, Raquel,” he utters, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.” That it hadn’t been necessary.
Tenderly, he caresses the reddened skin on her wrists. It burns, when he’s touching her—she scraped herself on the tie wraps around her wrists, foolishly trying to loosen them up, even though she was perfectly aware that it was in vain—and she fights the urge to hiss in discomfort. But she’s strong enough to not let a sound. She’s been through worse, anyway.
She pulls her hands close to her and takes a step back, however, sharply, almost aggressively, when his care turns into a reminder of the hurt he put her through. An instinct, more than a display of any indignation left in her (or rather temporarily buried deep inside), but Sergio flinches in shame either way. He winces at her, confused and abashed. Her eyes immediately soften, as she tries to convey with them that she’s not angry with him, that she understands, and that her snatching her arms from his, her wanting to tend to herself on her own rather than allowing anyone else to do it, was nothing more than a habit from all the times she’d been left alone to mend her wounds.
“I wish I knew the right way to apologise to you,” he carries on.
“Sergio—”
“I want to tell you that I will do everything that is in my power to make it all worth the risk. I will make sure that you won’t suffer any consequences.”
“For that to happen you gotta escape first,” she remarks.
He just nods.
“I know. And if I—we—will, I intend to make good on the promise I made to you at Hanoi. I will help you, I vow it. I know I can’t fix everything, but please, at least let me try.”
“Then do it. Now. We can’t waste any more time.” Don’t make this any harder than it already is. Saying goodbye to you.
She doesn’t want to go yet. (She’s the one who’s going now, even though it’s him who’s leaving permanently, and the irony doesn’t go unnoticed by her.) She wants to memorise every millimetre of his face, remember every detail: every mole and even the number of his eyelashes. She’s sure he wants the exact same thing. But they’re running out of time. And while she’s able to switch sides from him, just this time, she can’t afford to fail. It’s not her career that’s at stake—she doesn’t really care anymore about that; her Inspectora days are already over—it’s her entire life and her family. She’s aware that a single fuck-up might lead to Alberto taking Paula, and her daughter’s safety is the most important thing to her, more important even than Sergio.
“No, we can’t,” he admits regretfully. His voice is hoarse with sorrow, but also with longing.
He closes on the distance between them in a single jump and catches her lips with his with one last urgent kiss. His hands are on her face, and his entire body is shaking, as if he was desperately trying not to break down. She allows herself to get lost in this sensation. This kiss is long—though not as long as either of them would like; it lasts only until they both run out of breath—continuous and just as sensual as the way they were making out just mere minutes ago; a beautiful, or rather beautifully painful in its unfairness, farewell between people unwilling to part.
When they finally do, their hearts, which for that prolonged moment were beating as one, start pounding frantically with intense strength, unwilling to accept the separation they are about to experience. If they could tear themselves out from their chests and unite somewhere in the space between, so that they could never have to bear the weight of their goodbye, they would. But the invisible string attaching them is already straining and will inevitably tear soon, the distance playing its cruel role in this play.
“May we meet again,” Sergio says, and it surprises them both, since they both have already accepted the impossibility of that scenario. Raquel recognises the honesty in his voice—he must be truly wanting it.
“I hope we will not.” Uttering this as a response breaks her heart. But they both know that the only way their paths would cross again is when they both ultimately end up in prison. If they met again, that would mean that one of them—or either of them—failed to do their part. That the plan failed.
(In this particular moment, Sergio’s postcards are the last thing on Raquel’s mind. She doesn’t think to use them later as a clue to find him—and, obviously, she doesn’t even know there’s a clue on their backs in the first place—she simply accepts that this is the last time they’re seeing each other.
She doesn’t think to ask him to return for her later, either. Maybe she doesn’t want him to, as the buried bitterness prevents her from fully forgiving him or being eager to come with him. Maybe she presumes it’s too big of a risk, to send someone to fetch her, not to mention her family, or to leave a trail for her to find. Maybe she foolishly hopes that Sergio truly is a lucky man, and she will be granted his luck, and so everything will work in their favour, allowing her to save her career or at least giving her the curtesy of stepping down with dignity, instead of being laid out without notice, but with a long list of charges. Because while she told Sergio she was with him, she isn’t sure if she is ready to throw her life away for him—not yet.
Sergio doesn’t propose it. He doesn’t try to assume how she feels—if she’s willing to exonerate him of everything he did, if it’s enough to go with him and accept him, if estoy contigo meant that she was willing to truly be with him or if it only meant that she was on his side, willing to help him protect the plan and his crew. Hell only knows, she’s giving him more than he deserves, anyway.)
Sergio understands. He lets her go, with a heavy sigh of a man unwilling to part with the woman he loves so deeply, and with an even heavier heart.
And so, she starts walking away. She makes a few steps, before he shouts behind her:
“Raquel! Be careful.”
She turns around and says:
“If they catch you, I’ll kill you.”