stupid for you
fandom: prosa, light 'em up
pairing: diego x ely
wordcount: 1285
ficathon: write your darlings - prompt von unpolar
how can i convince myself to not believe in what i know?
when all i see is dominoes falling uphill as we go?
You’ve always known Ely was bad news.
No matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise, it remains an undeniable truth.
You knew when he was struggling beneath you, vicious and untamed and deadly like a force of nature, the only thing keeping him from wreaking havoc the cold steel of your knife at his throat. You could have killed him then. Maybe you should have.
But you’d have to drain the ocean to stop a tidal wave like him from crushing to the shore, and you weren’t ready for that decision. You still aren’t. The day you met him was only the beginning of a flood which is still drowning your judgment, little by little, until you can’t tell murder and self-defense apart anymore. You used to be able to do that.
* * *
When you see him again at the harbour, weeks later, you’re stupid and arrogant and even more blind than the first time. He doesn’t look like a hostage, not a single inch of him. Even tied up and gagged like the others, he’s a greater threat than the bunch of mafia people involved in the ongoing drug trade.
Really, you should have known better. Should have guessed what he was up to when he didn’t run after you cut him loose, foolishly thinking you’d be doing him a favour. He almost broke your nose instead because you had ruined his plans. The fury in his eyes caught your breath as you sidestepped his swinging fist. You wondered how those eyes would look widened and afraid; if there had ever been a time where he didn’t look ready to fight anything that moved. He stared back at you with an intensity like he’d rather put a bullet in his brain than let you find out.
Once again, the flood crashed against your gates and you didn’t even bother trying to hide your curiosity. It’s been so long since anyone sparked your attention like that.
There was a job to do, though. You and him parted ways for a second time, respectively choosing to give ground rather than let your paths collide with consequences neither of you could calculate.
Another thing you didn’t calculate: your assigned mafia boss dropping dead at your feet as you’re about to turn him in to S.A.I.D. a few minutes later.
The gunshot rings in your ears for days after.
* * *
You don’t tell Yana about him and never really consider telling the others.
You’re well aware secrets don’t make friends in a team like yours but you’re too selfish to share this walking, shooting unpredictability with anyone.
You’ve never picked your battles wisely.
* * *
Amsterdam is a close call and includes way too much blood and adrenaline for your liking but it finally puts a name to his face.
Ely, he tells you through gritted teeth as you wrap his bleeding shoulder with your t-shirt. He dug the bullet out himself while you were busy with the attackers he hadn’t already killed, making sure there wouldn’t be anyone left who knew you survived the ambush.
Nice. I’m Diego, you say, just to fuck with him, to see if he’ll try to stab you in the state he’s in. He doesn’t but you haven’t forgotten what he looked like when you found him: a lightning bolt of rage and energy, covered in blood and moving too fast for all of it to be his own. You didn’t plan to get involved in a massacre but the bunch of men surrounding him - at least three already dead on the ground - didn’t really leave you much of a choice.
Ely’s hand is surprisingly steady when he pushes you away, narrowly missing the nasty slash across your chest.
He’s unsteady on his feet. You saw him take a hit to the head earlier that could mean he has a concussion. One of his eyes is swollen shut and he’s probably hiding a dozen more injuries he won’t ever let you see. For a moment, you think you should be worried about the knife he’s still holding but you push the thought away. It wasn’t him who tried to cut you open in the first place.
You remember the silence between the two of you, loaded with tension and lingering traces of violence, the smell of blood weighing heavy on your senses and it feels like standing in the eye of a storm.
High on adrenaline, you tell him, I could use a drink.
The bigger truth is, you could use the company. You feel raw and exposed and vulnerable like you haven’t in years and Ely is looking at you like you’re some kind of answer.
He agrees.
You lead him to a bar that night, numbing the sting of your wounds with cheap whiskey and half-hearted conversation, both of you taking turns glaring at anyone who looks a little too closely at your ripped jackets and bruised faces. Everyone’s too high or drunk to care anyway.
You study Ely’s lips a little too long to go unnoticed, raising an eyebrow when he answers your staring with a scowl. He is rough and unyielding as he pulls you into a kiss and you let him drag you underwater without putting up a fight. He’s flooding your nerves with wild anticipation and it’s dizzying, addictive, almost.
Ely is as wild as he was on the roof top aiming his rifle at you but this time you’re staring into the barrel without moving a muscle.
You won’t try to tame him. You don’t think you could.
* * *
The following weeks are a whirlwind of airports and hotel rooms, hurried touches and sparks in your chest whenever you get to curl your hands around his hips to tug him as close as he’ll let you. You look for countries where your jobs align with his with an urgency bordering on desperation and whenever you see him leaning against the walls of back alleys or hotel hallways, waiting for you, you pretend not to know what he’s doing to afford his travels.
You know what Ely does for a living when he leaves finger-shaped bruises on your thighs and fire in your veins. It shouldn’t be okay, you know that, but he seems to have found an off-switch for your conscience because you can’t bring yourself to care.
You make it work, crashing and falling into each other whenever you dare, and he is your best kept secret and your biggest mistake.
It’s all good until he makes the headlines.
He’s off your radar for two weeks. The next time you hear from him, he’s killed three Europol associates and became S.A.I.D.’s Most Wanted overnight. They caught his face on camera. They know who he is. You leave the office as soon as you hear the news and fight against the urge to get sick on the sidewalk.
What the fuck have you done.
You knew Ely was trouble when you met him at gunpoint on that damn roof.
You should have turned him in at the harbour as soon as you recognized him, it was your duty to do so but you let him pull you into his chaos without hesitation.
In hindsight, you probably should have thought twice before falling for a killer. But that’s the thing about Ely: he never leaves enough room to reconsider, always has you drowning before you even know you need to breathe.
And once he realizes what you’re going to do, he won’t let you come up for air ever again.
You pull your phone out of your pocket and start typing, for the first time since Amsterdam unsure whether or not you’ll live to see the end of it.
pairing: diego x ely
wordcount: 1285
ficathon: write your darlings - prompt von unpolar
how can i convince myself to not believe in what i know?
when all i see is dominoes falling uphill as we go?
You’ve always known Ely was bad news.
No matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise, it remains an undeniable truth.
You knew when he was struggling beneath you, vicious and untamed and deadly like a force of nature, the only thing keeping him from wreaking havoc the cold steel of your knife at his throat. You could have killed him then. Maybe you should have.
But you’d have to drain the ocean to stop a tidal wave like him from crushing to the shore, and you weren’t ready for that decision. You still aren’t. The day you met him was only the beginning of a flood which is still drowning your judgment, little by little, until you can’t tell murder and self-defense apart anymore. You used to be able to do that.
* * *
When you see him again at the harbour, weeks later, you’re stupid and arrogant and even more blind than the first time. He doesn’t look like a hostage, not a single inch of him. Even tied up and gagged like the others, he’s a greater threat than the bunch of mafia people involved in the ongoing drug trade.
Really, you should have known better. Should have guessed what he was up to when he didn’t run after you cut him loose, foolishly thinking you’d be doing him a favour. He almost broke your nose instead because you had ruined his plans. The fury in his eyes caught your breath as you sidestepped his swinging fist. You wondered how those eyes would look widened and afraid; if there had ever been a time where he didn’t look ready to fight anything that moved. He stared back at you with an intensity like he’d rather put a bullet in his brain than let you find out.
Once again, the flood crashed against your gates and you didn’t even bother trying to hide your curiosity. It’s been so long since anyone sparked your attention like that.
There was a job to do, though. You and him parted ways for a second time, respectively choosing to give ground rather than let your paths collide with consequences neither of you could calculate.
Another thing you didn’t calculate: your assigned mafia boss dropping dead at your feet as you’re about to turn him in to S.A.I.D. a few minutes later.
The gunshot rings in your ears for days after.
* * *
You don’t tell Yana about him and never really consider telling the others.
You’re well aware secrets don’t make friends in a team like yours but you’re too selfish to share this walking, shooting unpredictability with anyone.
You’ve never picked your battles wisely.
* * *
Amsterdam is a close call and includes way too much blood and adrenaline for your liking but it finally puts a name to his face.
Ely, he tells you through gritted teeth as you wrap his bleeding shoulder with your t-shirt. He dug the bullet out himself while you were busy with the attackers he hadn’t already killed, making sure there wouldn’t be anyone left who knew you survived the ambush.
Nice. I’m Diego, you say, just to fuck with him, to see if he’ll try to stab you in the state he’s in. He doesn’t but you haven’t forgotten what he looked like when you found him: a lightning bolt of rage and energy, covered in blood and moving too fast for all of it to be his own. You didn’t plan to get involved in a massacre but the bunch of men surrounding him - at least three already dead on the ground - didn’t really leave you much of a choice.
Ely’s hand is surprisingly steady when he pushes you away, narrowly missing the nasty slash across your chest.
He’s unsteady on his feet. You saw him take a hit to the head earlier that could mean he has a concussion. One of his eyes is swollen shut and he’s probably hiding a dozen more injuries he won’t ever let you see. For a moment, you think you should be worried about the knife he’s still holding but you push the thought away. It wasn’t him who tried to cut you open in the first place.
You remember the silence between the two of you, loaded with tension and lingering traces of violence, the smell of blood weighing heavy on your senses and it feels like standing in the eye of a storm.
High on adrenaline, you tell him, I could use a drink.
The bigger truth is, you could use the company. You feel raw and exposed and vulnerable like you haven’t in years and Ely is looking at you like you’re some kind of answer.
He agrees.
You lead him to a bar that night, numbing the sting of your wounds with cheap whiskey and half-hearted conversation, both of you taking turns glaring at anyone who looks a little too closely at your ripped jackets and bruised faces. Everyone’s too high or drunk to care anyway.
You study Ely’s lips a little too long to go unnoticed, raising an eyebrow when he answers your staring with a scowl. He is rough and unyielding as he pulls you into a kiss and you let him drag you underwater without putting up a fight. He’s flooding your nerves with wild anticipation and it’s dizzying, addictive, almost.
Ely is as wild as he was on the roof top aiming his rifle at you but this time you’re staring into the barrel without moving a muscle.
You won’t try to tame him. You don’t think you could.
* * *
The following weeks are a whirlwind of airports and hotel rooms, hurried touches and sparks in your chest whenever you get to curl your hands around his hips to tug him as close as he’ll let you. You look for countries where your jobs align with his with an urgency bordering on desperation and whenever you see him leaning against the walls of back alleys or hotel hallways, waiting for you, you pretend not to know what he’s doing to afford his travels.
You know what Ely does for a living when he leaves finger-shaped bruises on your thighs and fire in your veins. It shouldn’t be okay, you know that, but he seems to have found an off-switch for your conscience because you can’t bring yourself to care.
You make it work, crashing and falling into each other whenever you dare, and he is your best kept secret and your biggest mistake.
It’s all good until he makes the headlines.
He’s off your radar for two weeks. The next time you hear from him, he’s killed three Europol associates and became S.A.I.D.’s Most Wanted overnight. They caught his face on camera. They know who he is. You leave the office as soon as you hear the news and fight against the urge to get sick on the sidewalk.
What the fuck have you done.
You knew Ely was trouble when you met him at gunpoint on that damn roof.
You should have turned him in at the harbour as soon as you recognized him, it was your duty to do so but you let him pull you into his chaos without hesitation.
In hindsight, you probably should have thought twice before falling for a killer. But that’s the thing about Ely: he never leaves enough room to reconsider, always has you drowning before you even know you need to breathe.
And once he realizes what you’re going to do, he won’t let you come up for air ever again.
You pull your phone out of your pocket and start typing, for the first time since Amsterdam unsure whether or not you’ll live to see the end of it.