Not!Football AU
Untitled Colombian Project
Chapter 2
Rating: R
Summary: In which Xabi is an Arsenal fan.
Italics dialogue is Spanish. I have NO time to edit this, excuse the fuckups.
“Buenos días… Despierta mi bella durmiente”.
Xabi is about to tell Mikel to fuck off and hold off their mother for just five more minutes before his eyelids finally shake off the last traces of his uneasy sleep. He startles off the army barrack bed wondering why on Earth his pain in the ass brother has started speaking with an Argentinian accent, but the bad dream comes back into focus under the neon lights.
Dinner, or what he assumed was dinner judging by how sleepy he got after, had consisted of what he’d grudgingly admit was not too horrible military rations when you’re hungry and thirsty, and had been served by Baldie in perfect silence, which was just fine by Xabi. The man gave him the creeps. The new guy is shorter, stockier, decidedly more Argentinian and has a far more liberal attitude to shaving.
“Compliments of the chef. My name is Javier Mascherano and I’m here to make sure you eat. El Jefe put me in charge to make sure you don’t go on some kind of noble but stupid crusade to keep those fuckers’ secrets.”
Xabi doesn’t say anything, rubs his now full on beard and grabs the water bottle that’s by far the most appealing item on his breakfast tray.
“Very thoughtful man, your boss. Why’d he send you, did he think I’d get sentimental?”
“Nah, I’m the most annoying one he’s got, ‘s all, weapon of mass irritation. If you don’t eat, I’m going to break into song. How do you feel about reggaeton?”
It’s by far the quickest breakfast of Xabi’s life.
They leave him be for a while and he’s busy counting the cracks in the cement ceiling when the bunker door opens again.
“Do you have a name, or should I just keep thinking of you as The Scouse Jackass?”
Xabi’s eyes never leave the ceiling.
“Steven Gerrard, Scouse Jackass only to close friends.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Xabi sees that Gerrard has placed his Macbook Pro on the table.
“Thought you might need this.”
Xabi gets up grudgingly, runs his fingers over the silver rim of the keyboard with a certain degree of nonchalance that he hopes won’t betray how desperately bored he is.
“No wi-fi?”
“Our tech guys gave it a good scrub and wiped it all clean after they couldn’t find anything with even a whiff of oil, nothing on any oil-refining process. Sorry about all the emo boybands.”
“They’re not boyb…,” Xabi bites the tip of his tongue two seconds too late. “Was all of this really necessary?” His voice is in a whole new world of dulcet tones all of a sudden. “Chamartín is just a bank account that keeps my research funded. I might have been a little more cooperative if you drove me to a nice little beach bungalow instead of sticking me in a cage with the tattoo twins.”
Gerrard lifts an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced.
“There’s no time like the present to start cooperating. We already know that Chamartín asks you for periodical handovers of all the data from your research and test results. It’s stored on their servers, there’s ways to get to that. But they can’t do anything with it because they don’t know how to put it together, that’s all in your head. Good thing we have that,” he shoves his hands in his pockets casually.
It’s only now that Xabi notices he’s not carrying any weapons, there’s no leg holster anymore and no tattooed or Argentinian goon in sight either. Xabi’s under no illusion that his three-mile swim each morning for the last five years is any match for this man though, there’s just something in his bearing that would force anyone to think twice about trying their luck.
“If you want to keep it attached to your neck,” Gerrard continues, now headed towards the entrance, “you better start typing soon.”
“I want my glasses,” Xabi says matter-of-factly, making Gerrard turn on his booted heels.
“I had my reading glasses in my laptop bag. I might consider your offer if my head stops aching from having to squint in this dungeon.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?!?”
Gerrard’s mouth curls just the slightest bit.
“I don’t trust a man who has no porn on his work laptop.”
~
“Bored yet?”
Fuck yes, there’s not even bloody Solitaire left on this laptop, nevermind a single episode of The Wire.
The freckly, less homicidal-looking of the tattoo twins takes a seat across from Xabi with a slightly naughty glint in his eye while the bald meat mountain watches disapprovingly. Mohawk Man is holding a deck of cards in one hand and Xabi’s black-rimmed glasses in the other.
“Heard you want your glasses,” Mascherano says from behind him in the thickest South American accent Xabi’s ever heard from someone attempting to speak English. “Like to play for them? Is to warn you from now that Dagger cheats like a puta though.”
“I thought your boss’ plan was to break me down with boredom. Would he approve of you entertaining the prisoner?”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t,” Dagger winks and Xabi’s beginning to wonder if this is some twisted Good Cop Bad Cop scheme devised by Gerrard to break his spirit. “And he’s not my… It’s more of a… partnership. We’re all going through some severe fucking cabin fever here…”
“Agger…”
It speaks!
Not for very long though as Agger silences the oddly beautiful but terrifying looking man with a single cheeky look and a defiant:
“You afraid you’ll get your ass kicked by a nerd?”
~
Xabi’s earlier misgivings about Dagger’s intentions are obliterated by the speed with which the next two hours of his life pass by compared to his previous staring at nineteen shades of concrete activities. He’s completely engrossed in his hand of cards, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his brow furrowed, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Mascherano, who is currently peering at Xabi with a cross-eyed stare from behind the glasses he’d won off of Dagger in the previous round, had had a good laugh earlier when Xabi’d won his first cigarette with a spectacular full house.
“I quit smoking almost three years ago. I would have never bothered if I knew I’d end up with you lot,” Xabi almost moaned in pleasure after his first lungful of poison.
He’s won a couple more hands in between two or three won by the (apparently) Slovakian sphinx, but aside from Mascherano winning Xabi’s glasses, it’s been pretty much all Dagger for the better part of the last hour.
“This is against every tenet of statistics…”
“Che, is called cheating like a pro. Ya te dije que este cabrón …”
“Fuck off, Evita, I know that word,” Dagger smirks, stubbing his latest cigarette on the aged wood of the table.
Xabi studies their faces. He feels like he’s in a pack of wolves where the young betas are jostling around taking practice bites off each other while the Alpha is away.
“Have you all known each other a long time?”
“Are you trying to bond with the boys, Alonso?”
Dagger squints at him suspiciously.
“Just killing time. I don’t doubt you can tell me and still shoot me in the head without even blinking.”
“True,” he confirms as if to remind himself. “I met the boss in Afghanistan. Allegedly,” Dagger purses his lips expressively, folding his hand. “Since neither of us was officially there… And we both met this hijo de puta in the seediest dump of a sailors’ pub in Zanzibar.”
Xabi’s eyes pause for an uncomfortable long moment on the Slovakian who surprises absolutely nobody by remaining completely motionless, save for the cards he throws on the table.
“He came with the job,” Mascherano clarifies while remaining as vague as possible.
“Is he always this chatty?”
“Just deal,” the bald man says coldly, his eyes boring holes into Xabi.
Xabi proceeds to do just that when a muffled but undeniably powerful thud echoes through the bunker. He feels the air shifting around him with lightning speed, the pack now fully alert.
The Slovakian barks an order at Mascherano who, for whatever hierarchical reason Xabi can’t quite grasp yet, waits for a silent nod from Dagger before he sets Xabi’s glasses on the table and goes out to check the commotion. Dagger grabs his walkie talkie, gives it a few nervous clicks, but the only feedback he gets is static.
Everything happens with such dizzying speed next that Xabi feels like he’s in one of his advanced physics classes again; he fully expects old, certifiable Mr. Hudson to materialize next to them and ramble about time contracting and dilating. It’s contracting faster and faster on Xabi as the tattooed forearm of the Slovakian wraps itself tight around his neck and he watches the man’s other arm pull a gun on Dagger.
“Put your gun on the floor and get out! Now!” His voice thunders menacingly, too close to Xabi’s ear. “Get Gerrard and tell him if he doesn’t show up in two minutes, I’ll put a bullet through his paycheck’s head.”
Dagger’s face is completely blank as he complies and walks out with his hands up, while Xabi is stuck inside with the parasite attached to his back. Every move he’s tried to make to struggle free of his grasp has only increased the pressure on his larynx and he’s done pushing his luck for now.
“Martin, cell 5. Come in. I got Alonso,” Martin informs someone at the other end of his com station.
Xabi can’t make out the response, if there’s any, because he’s being dragged towards the exit, from where sounds of gunshots are echoing louder and louder. He’s desperately looking around for something to grab once they’re out in the concrete tunnel, but the walls are barren and cold and Baldie has the tip of his Beretta shoved painfully into his aorta.
In the next instant, a bullet lodges itself so close to Xabi’s ear, he can feel the concrete dust ricochet from the wall and settle onto the side of his face. Martin spins both of them around, his arm stiff and looking to lock onto a target. The last thing Xabi sees clearly is Gerrard pointing a gun at both of them. There is a second, louder, shrill explosion splitting the stuffy air of the tunnel and Xabi closes his eyes, fully expecting a Zapruder reel of his life to flash before his eyes. There’s nothing but darkness instead of images of fishing in his grandpa’s boat or throwing stones with Mikel at unsuspecting spectators in the lower stands of Anoeta or his first kiss; when he opens his eyes, a thick, warm wave hits his cheek and his neck. Xabi tastes salt and metal on the side of his mouth and he has a second or two to realize what’s happening as Martin slumps against the wall and eventually drags him down to the floor with him. By the time they hit the deck, the Slovakian’s blood still running down Xabi’s face, his eyes are completely empty and his python grip on Xabi’s neck finally loosens.
The adrenaline in his system makes Xabi so jittery that for a moment he just flaps desperately under the dead weight pinning half his body to the floor, but he’s quickly on his feet once Gerrard picks him up by the scruff of his shirt.
Xabi’s mouth is trying to form an interrogative, but his brain is still short-circuiting like a submerged switchboard.
His lips move, but his voice is helplessly lost.
“I never liked him,” Gerrard almost shrugs once he gives Xabi a onceover to convince himself all the blood
splashed on him is Martin’s.
“We need to go. NOW!”
To be continued
Chapter 2
Rating: R
Summary: In which Xabi is an Arsenal fan.
Italics dialogue is Spanish. I have NO time to edit this, excuse the fuckups.
“Buenos días… Despierta mi bella durmiente”.
Xabi is about to tell Mikel to fuck off and hold off their mother for just five more minutes before his eyelids finally shake off the last traces of his uneasy sleep. He startles off the army barrack bed wondering why on Earth his pain in the ass brother has started speaking with an Argentinian accent, but the bad dream comes back into focus under the neon lights.
Dinner, or what he assumed was dinner judging by how sleepy he got after, had consisted of what he’d grudgingly admit was not too horrible military rations when you’re hungry and thirsty, and had been served by Baldie in perfect silence, which was just fine by Xabi. The man gave him the creeps. The new guy is shorter, stockier, decidedly more Argentinian and has a far more liberal attitude to shaving.
“Compliments of the chef. My name is Javier Mascherano and I’m here to make sure you eat. El Jefe put me in charge to make sure you don’t go on some kind of noble but stupid crusade to keep those fuckers’ secrets.”
Xabi doesn’t say anything, rubs his now full on beard and grabs the water bottle that’s by far the most appealing item on his breakfast tray.
“Very thoughtful man, your boss. Why’d he send you, did he think I’d get sentimental?”
“Nah, I’m the most annoying one he’s got, ‘s all, weapon of mass irritation. If you don’t eat, I’m going to break into song. How do you feel about reggaeton?”
It’s by far the quickest breakfast of Xabi’s life.
They leave him be for a while and he’s busy counting the cracks in the cement ceiling when the bunker door opens again.
“Do you have a name, or should I just keep thinking of you as The Scouse Jackass?”
Xabi’s eyes never leave the ceiling.
“Steven Gerrard, Scouse Jackass only to close friends.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Xabi sees that Gerrard has placed his Macbook Pro on the table.
“Thought you might need this.”
Xabi gets up grudgingly, runs his fingers over the silver rim of the keyboard with a certain degree of nonchalance that he hopes won’t betray how desperately bored he is.
“No wi-fi?”
“Our tech guys gave it a good scrub and wiped it all clean after they couldn’t find anything with even a whiff of oil, nothing on any oil-refining process. Sorry about all the emo boybands.”
“They’re not boyb…,” Xabi bites the tip of his tongue two seconds too late. “Was all of this really necessary?” His voice is in a whole new world of dulcet tones all of a sudden. “Chamartín is just a bank account that keeps my research funded. I might have been a little more cooperative if you drove me to a nice little beach bungalow instead of sticking me in a cage with the tattoo twins.”
Gerrard lifts an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced.
“There’s no time like the present to start cooperating. We already know that Chamartín asks you for periodical handovers of all the data from your research and test results. It’s stored on their servers, there’s ways to get to that. But they can’t do anything with it because they don’t know how to put it together, that’s all in your head. Good thing we have that,” he shoves his hands in his pockets casually.
It’s only now that Xabi notices he’s not carrying any weapons, there’s no leg holster anymore and no tattooed or Argentinian goon in sight either. Xabi’s under no illusion that his three-mile swim each morning for the last five years is any match for this man though, there’s just something in his bearing that would force anyone to think twice about trying their luck.
“If you want to keep it attached to your neck,” Gerrard continues, now headed towards the entrance, “you better start typing soon.”
“I want my glasses,” Xabi says matter-of-factly, making Gerrard turn on his booted heels.
“I had my reading glasses in my laptop bag. I might consider your offer if my head stops aching from having to squint in this dungeon.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?!?”
Gerrard’s mouth curls just the slightest bit.
“I don’t trust a man who has no porn on his work laptop.”
~
“Bored yet?”
Fuck yes, there’s not even bloody Solitaire left on this laptop, nevermind a single episode of The Wire.
The freckly, less homicidal-looking of the tattoo twins takes a seat across from Xabi with a slightly naughty glint in his eye while the bald meat mountain watches disapprovingly. Mohawk Man is holding a deck of cards in one hand and Xabi’s black-rimmed glasses in the other.
“Heard you want your glasses,” Mascherano says from behind him in the thickest South American accent Xabi’s ever heard from someone attempting to speak English. “Like to play for them? Is to warn you from now that Dagger cheats like a puta though.”
“I thought your boss’ plan was to break me down with boredom. Would he approve of you entertaining the prisoner?”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t,” Dagger winks and Xabi’s beginning to wonder if this is some twisted Good Cop Bad Cop scheme devised by Gerrard to break his spirit. “And he’s not my… It’s more of a… partnership. We’re all going through some severe fucking cabin fever here…”
“Agger…”
It speaks!
Not for very long though as Agger silences the oddly beautiful but terrifying looking man with a single cheeky look and a defiant:
“You afraid you’ll get your ass kicked by a nerd?”
~
Xabi’s earlier misgivings about Dagger’s intentions are obliterated by the speed with which the next two hours of his life pass by compared to his previous staring at nineteen shades of concrete activities. He’s completely engrossed in his hand of cards, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his brow furrowed, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Mascherano, who is currently peering at Xabi with a cross-eyed stare from behind the glasses he’d won off of Dagger in the previous round, had had a good laugh earlier when Xabi’d won his first cigarette with a spectacular full house.
“I quit smoking almost three years ago. I would have never bothered if I knew I’d end up with you lot,” Xabi almost moaned in pleasure after his first lungful of poison.
He’s won a couple more hands in between two or three won by the (apparently) Slovakian sphinx, but aside from Mascherano winning Xabi’s glasses, it’s been pretty much all Dagger for the better part of the last hour.
“This is against every tenet of statistics…”
“Che, is called cheating like a pro. Ya te dije que este cabrón …”
“Fuck off, Evita, I know that word,” Dagger smirks, stubbing his latest cigarette on the aged wood of the table.
Xabi studies their faces. He feels like he’s in a pack of wolves where the young betas are jostling around taking practice bites off each other while the Alpha is away.
“Have you all known each other a long time?”
“Are you trying to bond with the boys, Alonso?”
Dagger squints at him suspiciously.
“Just killing time. I don’t doubt you can tell me and still shoot me in the head without even blinking.”
“True,” he confirms as if to remind himself. “I met the boss in Afghanistan. Allegedly,” Dagger purses his lips expressively, folding his hand. “Since neither of us was officially there… And we both met this hijo de puta in the seediest dump of a sailors’ pub in Zanzibar.”
Xabi’s eyes pause for an uncomfortable long moment on the Slovakian who surprises absolutely nobody by remaining completely motionless, save for the cards he throws on the table.
“He came with the job,” Mascherano clarifies while remaining as vague as possible.
“Is he always this chatty?”
“Just deal,” the bald man says coldly, his eyes boring holes into Xabi.
Xabi proceeds to do just that when a muffled but undeniably powerful thud echoes through the bunker. He feels the air shifting around him with lightning speed, the pack now fully alert.
The Slovakian barks an order at Mascherano who, for whatever hierarchical reason Xabi can’t quite grasp yet, waits for a silent nod from Dagger before he sets Xabi’s glasses on the table and goes out to check the commotion. Dagger grabs his walkie talkie, gives it a few nervous clicks, but the only feedback he gets is static.
Everything happens with such dizzying speed next that Xabi feels like he’s in one of his advanced physics classes again; he fully expects old, certifiable Mr. Hudson to materialize next to them and ramble about time contracting and dilating. It’s contracting faster and faster on Xabi as the tattooed forearm of the Slovakian wraps itself tight around his neck and he watches the man’s other arm pull a gun on Dagger.
“Put your gun on the floor and get out! Now!” His voice thunders menacingly, too close to Xabi’s ear. “Get Gerrard and tell him if he doesn’t show up in two minutes, I’ll put a bullet through his paycheck’s head.”
Dagger’s face is completely blank as he complies and walks out with his hands up, while Xabi is stuck inside with the parasite attached to his back. Every move he’s tried to make to struggle free of his grasp has only increased the pressure on his larynx and he’s done pushing his luck for now.
“Martin, cell 5. Come in. I got Alonso,” Martin informs someone at the other end of his com station.
Xabi can’t make out the response, if there’s any, because he’s being dragged towards the exit, from where sounds of gunshots are echoing louder and louder. He’s desperately looking around for something to grab once they’re out in the concrete tunnel, but the walls are barren and cold and Baldie has the tip of his Beretta shoved painfully into his aorta.
In the next instant, a bullet lodges itself so close to Xabi’s ear, he can feel the concrete dust ricochet from the wall and settle onto the side of his face. Martin spins both of them around, his arm stiff and looking to lock onto a target. The last thing Xabi sees clearly is Gerrard pointing a gun at both of them. There is a second, louder, shrill explosion splitting the stuffy air of the tunnel and Xabi closes his eyes, fully expecting a Zapruder reel of his life to flash before his eyes. There’s nothing but darkness instead of images of fishing in his grandpa’s boat or throwing stones with Mikel at unsuspecting spectators in the lower stands of Anoeta or his first kiss; when he opens his eyes, a thick, warm wave hits his cheek and his neck. Xabi tastes salt and metal on the side of his mouth and he has a second or two to realize what’s happening as Martin slumps against the wall and eventually drags him down to the floor with him. By the time they hit the deck, the Slovakian’s blood still running down Xabi’s face, his eyes are completely empty and his python grip on Xabi’s neck finally loosens.
The adrenaline in his system makes Xabi so jittery that for a moment he just flaps desperately under the dead weight pinning half his body to the floor, but he’s quickly on his feet once Gerrard picks him up by the scruff of his shirt.
Xabi’s mouth is trying to form an interrogative, but his brain is still short-circuiting like a submerged switchboard.
His lips move, but his voice is helplessly lost.
“I never liked him,” Gerrard almost shrugs once he gives Xabi a onceover to convince himself all the blood
splashed on him is Martin’s.
“We need to go. NOW!”
To be continued