HEROES & VILLAINS ▹ call of duty oneshots

✭ around me (menéndez & f!oc)

Told from my OC's perspective. 

︻デ═一

Raúl safeguards me. 

It's him, his cause, the very idea of his world that keeps me grounded - in something to fight for, somewhere to call a home, a friendly faction. Cordis Die is a home. Several members of an extended family living together in the same commune, regardless of however the hell they got here. Whoever is with us, we find a spot for them. 

It's no coincidence, either, that the closer to Raúl you are, the more like home it feels here. Most everyone knows each other in his inner circle. You could strike up a conversation with anyone, invite them for coffee or tea, spar with them, show them a glimpse of the quilt you're making. And he plays the role of gracious host perfectly. Once he chooses to believe you have good intentions, he's far more welcoming than he might seem. He'll offer you a drink, ask you about yourself for no darker motive, have someone show you around. 

(I suspect it's from his upbringing - from a culture where family and community are such core values, certainly far more than any place I've lived in, he'll take them to heart no matter how many crimes we decide to commit together.) 

But does that mean I love him? 

Do I reach for his hand at every banquet because my heart compels me to? 

I don't, really. I can't remember a single time I have. 

Raúl makes me laugh. 

Even underneath his ever-present exterior of charisma, of something another person would describe as smooth - suave, perhaps, but I'm not that person - I can see right through every negotiation we've glided our way through. His cover is not that deep. He's angry. He's vengeful. He's unhinged; a snarling demon probably lives inside him, tamed only by his beloved shoulder devil. He'll easily resort to extreme measures, whether or not he sees it necessary to cover them up. 

He'll never admit it to the public, but the motivation his heart seeks is revenge. To burn the US of A and their capitalist bigotry from the inside out, the way they did to him so many years ago. 

I know I have virtually no room to talk, as I'm similarly (I like to think) charismatic and angry in equal parts, but I do think I'm better at slipping into and out of my own facets. He likes to think he knows subtlety, but he's so awful at it I almost laugh to myself. Or maybe I've always been the kind of person who eggs her friends on, always claiming to be a step above them all. (Curiously, it felt like that in the SAS, so similar yet so different. Nowhere near as light. A drive to prove myself ate at my existence then, maybe that's why I still seek it out now.) 

I listen in on the talk sometimes. It's entertaining. The Yanks say Raúl's ego is supermassive, greater than the sun itself, but he's not like that. They obviously haven't met me. I like to be full of myself, it's one of my few hobbies. Besides, I can safely say that if my temper sparks into a wildfire, his is strong enough to wipe out entire worlds. 

(Maybe they should meet me one day. I always have negotiation terms and a revolver on me.) 

Raúl exhausts me. 

Not that I've ever been directly on the receiving end of that world-destroying temper of his, fortunately - it surprised me at first to find he's not at all the type to throw women around like toys, as men like to do, but it started making more sense the better I got to know him - but I might as well have been, on all those nights my arm reached dangerously close to his. Every time, we were fractions of inches away from making contact, from our hands lacing together like any other perfectly heteronormative couple at the parties. 

It never happens. Our hands never touch. At least we've mastered creating the illusion. 

There are times, of course, when I nearly do it, when I think our cover will nearly be blown. But one glance at him, one ghost of a touch and a shiver rushes through my whole body. A flash of a man I never wanted to see again returns. I pull back as though I've touched a burning stove. 

I feel like a coward, sometimes, when it comes down to that. I hate cowardice, in others but most of all in myself. But who wouldn't cower away if confronted by his shoulder devil? 

He's not a figment of Raúl's hyperdrive of an imagination. He's real. And Raúl can't take his eyes off him. I almost dread Decembers now, because a month in advance I can already see the roses, the candles, the inexplicable gifts he'll be wheeling in week after week. It doesn't matter what time of year it is, really, I've found myself asked to watch over his shoulder devil while he's preaching before a crowd - whether pre-involved members or potential recruits - more times than I can count. He's endearing, they both are, but I find myself bracing for the moment they rush right back into each other's arms. They're so goddamn sappy. It's cute, but I don't want any nearer than this to them. 

They also have tempers that could destroy worlds. If one is hurt or even in someone else's vicinity and the other sees, consider yourself fucked. 

I'm at least grateful neither have launched themselves at me for this. 

It's cute, too, how hard Raúl has to try to keep up our little game. This is not to say it takes almost a Herculean effort for us both - yes, I have to pretend my only other hobby isn't charming lovely women, and he has so much to pretend too. Whereas I can hide the fire in my eyes well, you can practically see him seething. 

Sometimes I regret this. It was all my idea, for me to pretend I'm his perfect little trophy wife so we can blend into the crowd just enough. But there's only so much either of us can pretend. I could never be attracted to a man, much less him. He could never be attracted to me - or, really, have eyes for anyone other than his shoulder devil. (I have a feeling they're in actuality each other's shoulder devil, on which I digress.) Still, though, the game must go on. He's got to keep me around, as useless as proving a point of perceived heterosexuality might ultimately be. 

"Now, Reyne," he'll say to me, venom at the tip of his tongue as even the first sign of a term of endearment fades out, "we don't want to get too... ahead of ourselves, do we?" 

And I'll nod, inching away from him by the little distance I can afford. I know what that means. That knowledge alone delights me - that we always have a time during which I'll run free. Once my eyes are set on my next target, the next shimmering dress to bathe in the light of. It's not that I don't trust him to remember; merely that this is an exhausting game to play. Even so, I keep at it, for the more important part. To keep him around me. 

For our cover. For myself. For my own ambition, my own fight. As I play the game of deals and charm and ultimate revenge I've been wanting to for years, even before hell rained on me in the SAS. 

Scratch the earlier. I'll bet I exhaust him more than he exhausts me. 

No, I do not love Raúl. I never could. It's exhilarating to know I am not his target either, in any sense. Never for love. He has only ever needed one, who he has wrapped around him and vice versa. I, however, change targets regularly. People see us side by side and assume the opposite, but there is barely anyone who has really met us yet. 

(They'll be terrified. I sometimes like that thought.) 

He stays around me. I keep him in my orbit, as he does for me. But it never goes beyond that. 

I don't love him. I couldn't be happier.