PEDRO PASCAL IMAGINES

Happy Anniversary Pt.2 (Javi x reader)

A/N: Sooooo it only took me literally 6 years to write this, but it has been requested a lot so here it is. I hope you like it <3

Warnings: angst, mentions of violence

Javier sat slumped on a weathered barstool, his hands wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey. The amber liquid glistened under the dim, flickering neon lights of the bar, casting warped reflections onto the sticky countertop. Muffled voices and blurred faces surrounded him as he drowned his sorrow, his guilt. He stared at the liquid, unblinking, as though searching for answers at the bottom of the glass.

The bar was a quiet one, tucked into a corner of Bogotá most people ignored unless they were trying to disappear. Faint music played from a jukebox in the corner, a melancholic tune that paired well with the taste of regret. Around him, the patrons were only figures—shadows moving, laughing, drinking. None of it registered.

He took another sip, the whiskey burning its way down, though the pain was muted compared to the ache in his chest. Her face wouldn't leave his mind. The shock in her eyes, the hurt that seemed to radiate from her like a living thing.

How had it come to this?

Javier had always prided himself on being in control. At work, in the field, even in their relationship—he was the one who stayed calm, composed, rational. But tonight, he'd crossed a line he never thought he'd approach. The image of her recoiling, tears streaking her face as she told him to leave, was burned into his memory.

He rubbed his temple, his jaw tightening as the memory replayed for the hundredth time. The whiskey wasn't helping. It wasn't numbing anything.

"¿Otra ronda?" the bartender asked, his voice cutting through Javier's haze.

Javier shook his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate. He didn't need more whiskey; he needed clarity, but he wasn't sure where to find it.

He looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused, the hands that had inadvertently hurt the one person he'd sworn to protect.

"I didn't mean to hurt her," he muttered under his breath, his voice so low it was swallowed by the bar's ambient noise. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

But the intention didn't matter. Not now. Not when the damage had been done.

The door to the bar creaked open, letting in a gust of cool night air. Javier glanced over, his heart jumping for a second, foolishly hoping to see her there. But it wasn't her. It wouldn't be.

He turned back to his drink, his shoulders sinking further.

The fight hadn't been about the anniversary, not really. It was about everything else. The late nights, the missed moments, the way his work had consumed him. He'd thought she understood, that she'd known who he was and what he'd signed up for. But understanding wasn't the same as accepting. And love wasn't enough to fill the gaps he'd left.

Javier clenched his fists, the tension radiating through his arms. He wanted to fix it. To go back. But he didn't even know where to start.

For now, all he could do was sit in the quiet hum of the bar, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a vice.

Tomorrow, he'd face her. Somehow. If she let him.

Tonight, though, he'd sit here, drowning in a sea of what-ifs and should-haves, with nothing but a glass of whiskey and the sound of his own guilt for company.

*

You sit on the sofa, knees drawn to your chest, the glow of the candles still flickering on the dining table in the corner of your eye. They've burned low now, their once romantic light reduced to sad, wavering shadows that stretch across the walls. You tell yourself to blow them out, but you can't move. Not yet.