Fiona's been outside all morning. She'd said something about the impending hurricane but he was still in bed at the time and half-asleep and it hadn't really registered. Now it's a few hours later and there have been various bumping and banging noises from the back of the house which he's been trying to ignore. It's starting to get on his nerves though, especially as something in his mind keeps telling him that she'll probably be pissed if he doesn't at least take an interest in what's going on, seeing as it's his house and everything.

Besides, it's hot out there and she could probably use a drink. So he wanders out eventually, carrying two long, cool glasses, wearing, as usual, just shorts and shades.

'What're you doing?'

He's been looking forward to this though he definitely thought the girl would chicken out when it actually came to following through. He's surprised, in a good way, when she doesn't.

It is also inconvenient that the door to the bar would only open onto the front hallway of his house. Not because the place is small - far from it but because the carpet is brand new and his wife will complain forever about the marks.

'Just wheel it through. Mine's out front, you can follow me to where we're starting.'

There's a smirk and not a very nice one at that.

'If you can keep up. If not, good luck finding your way back to here to get home.'

Ramon is even more of an asshole when at home, surrounded by his hangers-on (there are a few of them around, all armed and eyeing Dinah and her bike up).

It has been a long month. A long, boring month of healing and don't touch and being forced to exercise some self-restraint. He's spiked his drinks, taken drugs and painkillers and lately, those pills that Fi got from bar. They seemed to do the trick but left a problem - if his body literally can't respond to desire, how will he know when it's fixed?

He's so bored of waiting. And everything looks practically normal. So after that conversation on the beach and the lazy, intimate day that followed he decided to risk it. If he wakes up hurting, fine, he'll give it a bit longer.

He wakes up...hurting. But not much, not much at all. It's the middle of the night, pitch black because there's no natural light on an island in the middle of the sea, no sound but the waves hitting the beach below them. He's drowsy and hasn't opened his eyes but then, he doesn't have to to know what roused him from sleep.

It aches. But he doesn't know if that's because of the injury or because he's so hard he could hammer nails with his cock. He does know that it doesn't hurt enough to stop him and without even thinking about it, he's turning, sliding a leg between Fiona's and kissing her neck, her jaw, collarbone, chest; small, wet, open-mouthed kisses that are as gentle as they are insistent.

'Fi.'

He wakes one morning and for a moment, can't remember why he slept badly. It has been a restless night, filled with half-sleep and dreams that he couldn't decipher, moments of wakefulness where, afterwards, he couldn't remember if he'd actually been awake at all. At times he'd been about to get up because he felt so alert, only to discover that an hour had passed and the moments he'd been awake were not real at all, merely a disturbance in the flow of his thoughts that haven't quietened whether asleep or not.

He looks to the window and sees that it's a beautiful day and it's then that he remembers why he's been dreading the morning. Perhaps the lack of sleep was an attempt to hold off time, halt its passage so that today would never come. But here it is, sun shining from a warm blue sky on a city just starting to wake, people going to work as though it's a normal day and not one where he is a condemned man.

Today is the day he'll become a husband. Or rather, today is the day he'll look into a girl's eyes and promise to love and honour her, in sickness and in health, forever and ever amen. Only he'll be looking into her eyes and wishing he'd never laid eyes on her, he'll see that smug little smile she's taken to wearing and dream of cutting it off her face.

But he can't do that. And won't. He needs his son. He is the heir apparent but once he becomes king, there has to be someone to take his place. The name must continue; his father and now himself - they're not going to work their whole lives on this business only to have no one to give it to at the end. So what if he can't stand the bitch who'll give him that heir? Is there any woman he can stand to be around for more than a few hours?

He resolutely does not think of exceptional Irish women who don't want anything from him. She's not real. She doesn't exist in Bogotá, 1979, on this world. And if she did? There's no guarantee he'd let himself think of her anyway. Commitment to another person is not something that comes naturally to him, no matter how much fun they promise to be.

So that's it. That's the end of it. He's getting married and he won't be faithful and she'll hate him and he'll avoid going home like the plague. Pretty much a normal marriage anyway, right?

Goddamn he wants to be free again.


* * * * *


She looks good, he'll give her that. The dress hides the tiny swell of her belly that has just recently started to show and she looks pretty, demure, virginal. The veil obscures most of her face but he sees the smile, sees how she laps up the attention of the families on either side; one half of the audience are casual and mostly indifferent, the other half look like they can't believe they're here, surrounded by such people. Only his family have been talking. Hers look like they're too terrified to open their mouths, fearful of saying the wrong thing, causing insult and inviting retribution, seeing threat where perhaps there is none. He can read it in their eyes: how did we get here?

How did he get here?

The frills of his expensive tuxedo shirt have wilted in the stifling heat. Music is playing (here comes the bride...) but he hears it as though from a great distance away, distorted, something ugly. A fly lands on his ear, attracted by the sheen of sweat and he doesn't shake it off. The knot of his bow tie is cutting into his throat and for a moment, he thinks he might stop breathing. He knows his smile is rigid and he can feel that he's pale; he'd wipe his clammy hands on his trousers if he could move his arms. In the end he focuses on the droplet of sweat running down between his shoulderblades, running away and away before being caught by the shirt held tight to his body by a dark red cummerbund, tight as a vice to stop his trousers escaping his hips.

She looks forward as she's handed over into his protection and care. He catches her father's eye as the man turns away. He looks older. Diminished.

Ramon knows how he feels.


* * * * *


This room is small, cramped, filled with old tables and stacked chairs, relics that didn't make the grade for this wedding of royalty.

The bridesmaid is maybe fifteen and crying now, not enjoying herself the way she thought she would. He can see her trying to hide it, gripping the edge of the table with knuckles that are white, desperately forcing herself not to sob out loud.

He smiles, a grin fixed in his face like the red slash of a child's paintbrush across rough paper. You can't ignore the way it looks like blood, no matter how hard you tell yourself it means happiness.


* * * * *


She's been overseeing the packing for the honeymoon. In the space of a few hours, it became a demeaning task below her station, something to be passed off to the staff but too important to let them get on with without supervision. He stands in the kitchen of his wedding present, smoking in the heat, thinking of the knot in his bow tie and how it's still cutting off his air.

He could have taken it off hours ago. He was afraid if he did, he'd have nothing to blame when he couldn't breathe.

She glides towards him and though he doesn't look at her, he can see her noticing the barely-wiped stain on the front of his trousers, the mark on his cummerbund, the spot of blood lost in the frills of his shirt.

Now you see it, now you don't.

He doesn't move as she stands in his space and raises a hand (droplet of sweat on his back has nowhere to run, fabric saturated now and clammy, grating over skin and cloth if he only dared to move), runs it softly down his cheek and jaw, coming to rest and staying there. Husband, she says, and it's a sound she makes full of wonderment as though this weren't a farce. He looks at her face now and sees that the smugness has evaporated and there's nothing there but...happiness. Shyness. Like the play is over and she doesn't know how to start cleaning up and is looking to him for guidance.

How did you get here? he asks her, quiet. She has a family who love her and have cared for her, educated her and taught her, brought her up to be a woman who could live in the world and do whatever she wanted. What are you doing here, in my kitchen. Our kitchen. Carrying my son, bringing a life into a world where nothing but violence awaits.

Why do you want a man that will never love you?

She looks at him and doesn't speak. For a moment, it seems like her eyes might fill but they don't and her face barely changes. Her hand takes another pass down his jaw and he doesn't push her away, just ruminates on how she'll get his sweat on her fingers. When her hand drops, she doesn't wipe it clean. She looks lost, like a child given a toy that she doesn't know how to work.

We're leaving in an hour, she says and turns to go back upstairs to check the packing. He watches her until she's gone and then drops his head back to hang on his neck, cigarette burning the filter between his fingers. The heat lies on him like a thick blanket, it dims the world, makes it disappear beyond the walls around him...but in the distance he hears the low roar of thunder beating over the tops of the mountains and somewhere a dog barks at the wind starting to rise.

It's late March, the end of summer, end of the warm, dry days. Ramon closes his eyes, loosens his tie and prays for rain.

He'd never really thought that Fiona would take him up on his casual offer to come to watch him fight. Not that it seemed like she was full of shit or anything...but she is a woman. They say things easily, they're flippant and don't have the stomach for anything rough.

His opinion of women at the moment is, justifiably he thinks, low. Maria can shoulder a lot of the blame for that.

He always fights on a Friday and this week, he's definitely in the mood to cause some pain. He'd almost forgotten about Fi but when he opens the bathroom door and looks out onto the bar, he figures why not? He can even see her from where he's standing and she doesn't look like she's doing anything important.

'Busy tonight?'

He's never been much good at small talk.

When he first enters the room, he's surprised to see that it's obviously been used. He was expecting this to be like a hotel, with everything new for the next person. Still, he approves of the furnishings, though it's a little smaller than he would have liked and not done in the sort of style common in 1979. Which is to say, it's furnished with taste, style and obviously expensive.

He heads into the bathroom to shower. There are bottles of shampoo and cologne, all expensive enough to be even out of his price range. They smell good though, so he uses them liberally. Wandering back out to the main room, he opens the wardrobe and looks at the clothes. Again, tasteful and expensive. He tries a shirt on and it fits around the shoulders but is too loose at the waist and the pants just fall off him. Exasperated, he turns back to pick up his original jeans...and that's when he sees the pictures.

At first, he thinks they're of his dad. Would his father know about this place? If so, why would he never mention it? He picks one up and...there's another man in them. And his father...doesn't look like his father. Not quite. There are similarities but not enough for them to be the same man.

The picture falls from his fingers and breaks on the floor. What did those people say? The doctor, and Teja. They knew me.

Older. They said they knew me older.

He yanks his boots on with shaking hands and bolts from the room, still shirtless and with damp hair.

What the fuck is going on?!

There are a few details that it might be good to know if your pup wants to interact with the younger version of Ramon. In essence, he's like his older counterpart in many ways - for example current!Ramon didn't become a sociopath out of nowhere. He's always been that way. But cosmetically, there are some differences.

- Current!Ramon is polished and charming when he wants to be. Ramon aged 19, is not. He looks, and acts, like a punk. He hasn't taken over the cartel yet and has no responsibilites. But he knows he will someday and has been training to take over the helm for a number of years; ergo, he is every bit as arrogant and self-centred as his older self. If not more so because current!Ramon has learnt that he can be taken down and young!Ramon has not.

- When he's not learning the drug trade, he fights for money. He has none of that extra weight and ease that comes with prosperity and good living. He's lean and fit and muscled and carries himself like a boxer. He loves fighting and will do it for fun at the drop of a hat. He is also far easier to rile than current!Ramon, mostly because he just likes the sight of blood. Preferably someone elses.

- He will hit on practically anything that moves. He treats practically anyone like shit. Mun apologises in advance for any offence caused to your pup and wants to state once again that anything he says are his views, not mine.

- He is always carrying a knife or two, and one gun. He will threaten people with this because he thinks it's cool. Like his older self, he's not frightened of pain and often welcomes it so if you want a fight, just say so.

That covers the basics. Really, he's not so different from the one that's been around nearly four years now. Just...ruder. And even more full of himself.

:D?

He sleeps late. It was a long day yesterday and it had taken longer than normal to drop off, after the uneasy way they ended the day.

When he wakes, it doesn't seem to matter. It's Christmas and he's determined not to purposefully spoil it with problems that are miles away right now. So his arms reach for her and he closes his eyes, smiling a little, trying to doze off again.

It had taken three attempts to get Bar to open the door to where he wanted to go. Three times he looked out on a truly scummy bar filled with sweaty, running men and the sounds of choppers bearing down in the distance; Hell on the edge of a jungle.

Not where he wants to be right now.

On the fourth attempt - it's warm. Not hot, but pleasantly mild and the view is of a comfortably lived-in sitting room, with child's toys in a corner and overstuffed sofas and armchairs dotted around. The first thing his eyes rest upon is a glass still half full of Scotch; the second a stone block on the table, a sculpture with a woman's face looking out of one side. He pauses for a moment (so long since all that), then wanders in and puts his bag down, goes to the French windows to look over the garden that ends in beach and then, nothing but sea. Three thousand miles of sea standing between him and home.

But it's alright. It's nice to see the place again. He'd had mixed feelings the night before, wondering if it would be unpleasantly strange to have Fiona here. But it's not. He wants her to see it. For some reason, letting her see the places he lives is like letting her see himself. It's not even about showing off, this time. The house is not small but still modest by his standards. And it was a real home, for a while. Maybe he wants her to know that he can live normally, sometimes.

'Want a tour or do you want to head straight off? I just need to make a couple of calls before we go.'