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her
She has no idea how he got here, and, frankly, she doesn’t want to. If she knew all the ways in which he recklessly endangered himself—and the plan!—just to be there among the crowd when she’s about to get moved from the Police tent outside the Bank to the Audiencia Nacional, her arrest finally official and public, so that he could catch a glimpse of her from afar (because it’s not like he could predict the way in which the crowd rushed towards her and surrounded her, holding out their arms in her direction, as if she were a messiah), she would probably explode. So, she doesn’t think about it at all. She’s too delighted to have him near to care about any of it, anyway. What matters to her is that he’s here.
She realises it’s him from his touch alone—when Sergio touches her, she’s still in a deep embrace with an older woman who reached out to her and held her, making her feel like a religious symbol to be reverenced (this stark contrast of the public’s reaction to her between whatever is happening now and the absolute hatred she’d received as a police inspector astonishes her; they had crucified her once for betraying her country and sleeping with the enemy, but now that she’s on said “enemy’s” side, they take her for a martyr or the personification of the resistance), so she can’t really see him. But she’s able to recognise him by his mere presence, by the delicate brush of his fingers, by his smell. She would know him blind or in total darkness, were he mute and she deaf. She would probably also recognise him in another lifetime entirely, simply through the rush of electricity that surges through her body the second he puts his hand on her shoulder.
Her breath catches at the recognition. She was already emotional from the way the crowd chanted “Lisbon” from all directions, cheering her on with admiration she hasn’t experienced before from strangers, even during the time as one of the most respected and merited Police member, but the moment she realises Sergio is among the protesters, her dam of tears breaks again.
Raquel lets go of the older lady and allows Sergio to take her in his arms next. She can’t fathom how the agents escorting her, or especially Angel who’s right by her side, allow that to happen, but she’s glad they don’t react when the only individual with his face covert in sight (the rest of the people wearing the Dalí mask took it off, or at least raised it so it would rest on top of their heads) gets a hold on the most wanted woman in Spain.
He pulls her close, and for a second, the time stops. For a second, she’s at peace. She’s home. She doesn’t feel afraid or uncertain. She doesn’t feel the cold barrel of Suarez’s gun on her forehead which almost continuously accompanied her ever since the barn. She can finally breathe.
And so, she does. She exhales with relief, overcome with tranquillity.
Oh, my love…
Their souls are finally reunited—after the gunshot ripped the string tethering their hearts and severed the connection between their spirits, causing them to wander restlessly in the celestial plane searching for each other, after the turmoil the two of them experienced, after being forced to separate, while at odds, after begging whoever was willing to listen to let them see each other again and fix what they had almost destroyed.
But right now, it doesn’t matter to her that the last time she saw Sergio in person, they were fighting hammer and tongs and viciously spitting out words they both regretted. They will worry about proper apologies and working everything out later. Because they will work everything out, she is more than certain. Their love couldn’t be more tangible than it is now, and with feelings as strong as theirs, even the hardships seem easy. Nothing ever could shake this love off them. They would never give up on each other and their relationship.
The tears of emotion, of affection, are running down her face, and she’s sure she’s going to leave a wet stain on Sergio’s red jumpsuit.
She inhales his scent, revelling in the simplicity in which his mere proximity soothes her. This moment feels almost intimate, as if they were the only two people her, as if they were taken to another universe, so that they could have this bit of time to themselves, before Plan Paris is in action. He murmurs “I love you” into her ear, his whisper audible to her only, and it takes everything in her to not say it back. She reminds herself firmly that there are, in fact, other people watching them, and one wrong move could reveal the Professor’s presence to them and lead to both of them being taken to court and to prison. She should take a step back, pretending she’s not reuniting with the love of her life who happens to be the man with a dozen arrest warrants, before something betrays them.
Sergio, on the other hand, seems to not care at all. He’s as if incapable of letting go of her, and she can’t blame him, for she also wants to remain like that forever. And she’s bearing half the baggage he is—he, who believed her to be dead (in that moment she believed it as well, as she, too, thought she was to lose her life, but her terror still isn’t comparable to the torment he must’ve felt when he heard her get killed) and who mourned her for hell knows how long. For him, also, this might be first time his heart knew peace since the false execution. She can’t imagine his suffering, the anguish that tore his heart apart when he heard the gunshot or the madness that overcame him and that lead him to declare war in the centre of Madrid. She doesn’t want to imagine how she would’ve felt, had she been in his position.
“Soon, everything is going to be alright, mi vida,” he whispers to her when he finally pulls away. He says it with such certitude that she believes him, even though the thought of everything that is waiting for her in the future leaves her reasonably anxious.
She closes her eyes, fighting the tears of longing, when she stops feeling his touch. She can’t know when the next time they’ll be given a chance to hold each other like this will be, and it’s already killing her. But she knows perfectly well they can’t stay in that nearly perfect embrace forever, so she lets him slowly back away.
To help him cover his tracks, Raquel responds to other people reaching their arms out to her and lets them hug her and show her their support in other ways. And while she’s incredibly touched by the love all those people are willing to share with her, it doesn’t affect her nearly as much as less than a minute with Sergio.
Even such a short time with him gives her strength to face whatever is coming. She’ll do what needs to be done, and then she’ll be reunite with him again—this time for good. And nothing will keep them apart again.
him
His heart soars, when he sees her emerge from the tent, accompanied by two police officers and Angel Rubio of all people, looking extremely tired—with her shoulders slumped and sluggish walk—but beautiful, nonetheless. Most importantly she is, miraculously and gloriously alive. Sergio has already known that but seeing her for the first time since a single shot that he believed to be meant for her killed him as well, pushes life back to his chest, where a fist-sized muscle pounds with a strength of something much bigger.
Oh, how much would he give to be able to hold her…
He knows it wouldn’t be possible—when he was coming up with a plan to arrive at the Bank of Spain, once more clad in a red jumpsuit and a Dalí mask, around the time Raquel’s arrest was to be made public and she would be taken to testify at the Audiencia Nacional, he tried to predict every variable, every probability of him getting close enough to reach out to her, and he always ended up disappointed by his inability to figure out any way to get to her. But her sight is enough, at least for now.
However, when something surprising happens (though it isn’t really unexpected to him, who saw it coming from miles away and predicted a chance of that scenario happening at around sixty eight percent), whatever restraint he’s got left evaporates. When the crowd rushes towards Raquel, chanting her city name, he doesn’t disappear and leave the square in front of the Bank, like he originally planned to, but rather follows the protesters and runs in his mujer’s direction.
He prays that he’ll blend right in with them and that him not taking his mask off won’t raise any suspicions among the officers stepping in front of Lisbon to, rather fumblingly, in his opinion, shield her from the crowd. But fortunately, he isn’t the only person with his face covered up, and he thinks to himself that some higher power must be protecting him right now.
He isn’t exactly sure what he’s doing when he pushes through to get to her. It’s so unalike him, to recklessly put himself out there, as he much rather prefers to observe the play unfold itself from a safe distance, though it’s not the first line he’s ever crossed for Raquel (she’s worth crossing every line; he would burn the world just to bring some heat to her) and not the first time he’s acting almost completely out of character because of her. She’s changing him, without even attempting to.
The moment he finally arrives by her side, an older lady is taking a place he wishes he was in. He extends his hand (it’s shaking in anticipation, he realises) and places it on Raquel’s shoulder to get her attention.
Raquel takes in a sharp breath at his touch. She raises her head and looks in his direction—recognition flickers through her eyes. Her chin trembles, as she tries to stifle a sob.
She can’t see it, but he’s beaming at her, teary-eyed, and his underlip is quivering. Raquel isn’t the only one doing their best not to break down.
She lets go of the woman and falls into his arms next. She crashes into his chest with a force of a tidal wave, and he holds onto her so tightly that he fears his nails will dig into her skin through a thick layer of a police uniform she’s wearing. He wishes he could take of his mask and clash their mouth together—kiss her so desperately that he would draw blood. His longing for her is grotesque; it deprives him of reason, of common sense and any survival instinct. It overcomes him and makes him forget about the entire world, to the point he can’t even remember that one wrong move on his part would lead to him losing his freedom.
Nothing matters now, except her.
She’s safe in his arms. She’s real. Alive.
And so is he. He can finally feel like he’s living again.
Whatever is happening around them fades away. The world could be falling apart, and all he cares about is that she’s in his arms—even if it’s just for less than a minute.
He feels as if a ton of weight has been lifted off his shoulders. As if he was pulled out of hell he’s been in ever since he heard that gut-wrenching piercing sound of a gunshot, walking barefoot through the burning embers which filled its bottom. What he felt when he’d believed her to be gone was more painful than the worst, the most horrifying torments from the darkest pits of inferno. But he’s no longer in agony. With her in his arms he’s the closest to peace he could be in those chaotic days of the heist.
He weeps in relief.
Chest to chest, their hearts beat as one. There’s warmth in his lungs, as he takes her and her scent in. He feels as if there was something swelling inside, threatening to burst, and he knows that it’s his deep, unconditional love for him that’s filling him whole.
“I love you,” he whispers to her, and he hopes she knows how much she means to him and how grateful he is for her. He needs her to know it; he can’t bear the thought that she would still assume that he didn’t want her—he was a moron to allow her to presume it in the first place. He took her for granted, made her feel unwanted and disregarded, and he regrets it more than he’s able to admit aloud, forever too proud to fully acknowledge being in the wrong about something. But he’ll do his best to apologise to Raquel and admit she was right, once he has a chance to do so.
There’s no time for it now, he’s perfectly aware. But he’s unable to let go of her just yet. He’s just got her back, he can’t lose her again, even if this time he would lose her merely out of his sight and not for good.
Raquel shifts in his arms, a movement that’s barely noticeable, but of course he felt it. He knows he has to release her from his arms and inconspicuously back away, before someone recognises him.
Before he does, he reassures her softly that everything is going to be okay. And he believes it—he has to. The plan is faulty, but if anyone can save it now, it’s her. She’ll save the plan, and he’ll get them home.
He breathes heavily, as they part. His heart throbs in his chest, trying to escape the prison bars his ribs create and remain with its better counterpart. It’s so difficult to leave Raquel behind, to allow her to endure whatever’s coming, but he knows he has no choice.
Slowly, he takes a step back, and then next and next. Soon, she’s out of his sight, and he dies a tiny bit once more.
Soon, he repeats to himself, everything will go back to what it used to be. We’ll be together again. Forevermore.