didntseeit: (all that you can see)
She had remembered the feeling from last time, uncomfortable and itchy and get-to-your-room and...

And, well, she hadn't quite made it to her room before she was sprawled out over the hallway floor, human and naked and swearing in gutter-Spanish. Getting to her feet, she quickly checked where she was. Not her floor, but close to his, and so that is how Ajedrez came to be standing in front of Nicholas Wolfwood's door, knocking on it loudly.

"Nick, Nick, mi amor, please let me in. Nick, are you there? Nick, I can't unpick the lock..."

There may or may not be impatient bouncing, because even standing in the hallway in such a state that anyone passing would be able to see both tattooes and every scar on her body, she is still Ajedrez.

Thus has all the patience of a five-year-old.
didntseeit: (Queen and the Soldier)
Ajedrez is, it should be said, drunk. And, somewhere and somewhen on the trip, the sultry challenge of downstairs had dissolved into, well, giggles. Amused, drunk, what the hell am I doing? Of course, that doesn't mean that she has any intent of stopping or running, and as Mary Anne unlocks her door, Ajedrez bends her head down and kisses the back of the other woman's neck.

Being with someone who is her own height is starting to look like it has its advantages...
didntseeit: (gunslinger (of a kind))
Without really saying anything, Mal and Ajedrez have been meeting for fencing lessons. All winter, in fact, since Mal offered. All spring, too, and all of summer up to today and Ajedrez is getting very good at it. Some people are natural fighters, and for all her money and refined voice, Ajedrez is a natural fighter.

Still, she is only human and they've been at it for a while today, so when she pulls back she's breathing heavily and brown whisps of hair cling to her sweaty face.
didntseeit: (all that you can see)
It's been a while since Ajedrez has been a date. Six months or so, and even then on the last time she got stood up anyway, so maybe it's closer to seven or eight.

It's been much, much longer since she's been out on a date with someone she hardly knows. Years, but thinking about it like that makes her feel...


Old, in a way that only the young can feel and she knows this and she really should stop thinking and just find that pair of earrings. Ah-huh, there are they are, and Ajedrez looks at herself in the mirror. High-heeled boots, a long black (mostly black, there are horizantal strips with panels of blue, green, yellow and red, a swirl of colour against the plain black) skirt that falls to her ankles, a simple black top, sleeveless with a high neck, and the red leather jacket that Edna Mode had given her.

Plus the dratted earrings, big and bronze because Ajedrez is of the opinion that it's no use having pierced ears if you don't play with it. Off-duty anyway.

And, for once, no guns. It feels a little odd, and she couldn't leave without the knife hidden in her boot, but sometimes an effort should be made. Even if she isn't entirely sure why.

Still, she's moderately pleased with her appearance, so she takes a deep breath and walks out her room door to try and find Nick downstairs.
didntseeit: (Default)
Ajedrez's room is, when all is said and done, nothing special. A double bed in one corner, a bedside table with a lamp, a table, a door leading to the bathroom. The colours are warm, though. Blues and oranges, which sounds like it shouldn't look nice but it does. There are also books, stacked against the table with a couple on the bedside table. Complete with bookmarks.

There is also a cello in one corner, albeit one tucked away safely in its case. Ajedrez hasn't been here more then a few months, six at the outside, but she's never been one to live somewhere without making it feel like home.
didntseeit: (that's that then)
It's been a week since the door opened, and Beatriz Barillo can't sleep.

It should be November 9th, 2003, and she could have been with her father and Mexico long behind her.

(I too want to start a new life)

It should be Novemeber 9th, 2003, and she could have been with Sands and where ever he was planning on taking them.

(Meet me at La Pileta, 10pm sharp. And, uh, bring only what's important to you)

It should be Novemeber 9th, 2003, and she should be seven days dead, only she doesn't know it yet. What she does know is that seven days ago, her boyfriend was tortured in front of her eyes and she just laughed and laughed. She's been dreaming of it for six nights, dreaming of screams and blood and laughter and the fact that it didn't have to happen.

This time, she doesn't wait for the dreams to come.

She just starts crying.
didntseeit: (paying attention)
It is cold outside. Scotland, she thought she had overheard someone say, Scotland and November and it is fucking freezing.

Or maybe she just has thin blood from being Mexican born and bred.

But outside is better then inside, fresh air and late afternoon sun instead of alcohol and smoke and that…that…window. So she donned her boots and her jeans and pulled on a thick sweater and headed outside with a bottle of tequila to find a quiet spot somewhere.

Guns on her hips, of course, and some knives hidden under her clothes because, well, even without that heads’ up about Sands, Ajedrez just feels plain naked without her weapons.

Naked, and vulnerable.
didntseeit: (girl and her gun)
Ajedrez has claimed a table. Not in a corner, just one where she happens to have her back to the wall and a damned good view point of most of the Bar. Ex-boyfriends and their psychotic new lovers, and all that.

Still, she's not just watching the bar - she's never been that good at being idle. So, she has her guns out and is cleaning them.
didntseeit: (I've got a secret)
Beatriz Ajedrez doesn't smoke. Neither does Beatriz Barillo. It's one of the few things that the two women have in common, so she keeps it like that.

Beatriz doesn't smoke, but she does like fire. Summer at the estate, and Daddy is having a business meeting. Normally she listens in, learning the ropes, so to speak, but tonight she's been banished to the garden. Night-time in summer, in a white sleeveless dress and her hair twisted up, and the young woman is playing with a candle. Flirting with her fingers, bringing them in and out so the flame tries to kiss them.

It passes the time.
didntseeit: (Default)
Friday night after a long week and a big arrest (thanks in part to her, but does she get any credit?), and the boys have taken her out. A club, genuinely sleezy enough that the gringo tourists only hear about it if they have Mexican or ex-pat friends. They had gotten a table in a corner, and AJ the chair at the back. Her turn to mind the wallets, but it’s better then worrying that someone will steal the derringer in her jacket pocket (her jacket is draped over the back of the chair; there is no hiding anything under her blood-red backless top).

“It’s Mariachi Happy Hour! Get your Mariachi song for five pesos! A Mariachi kiss for twenty pesos! And a Mariachi fuck for only fifty pesos!”

The music is good, the green walls under the multi-coloured lights interesting, the girls in bikinis and sombreros on the stage that snakes out into the club the source of much attention.

Men, AJ thinks to herself, raising her glass up and then wincing as all the ice has melted.
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