Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dia De Muertos

Despite having no muscle, no tissue, no working skin or flesh or body, Imelda feels her stomach churn and breath hitch. The cursed photo burns holes into her skull and if she could rip it down, she would. Hector's soft, smiling face is displayed so proudly on their offrenda. The tape makes the image look tainted, though that tear from earlier made it obscure. Imelda just prefered him gone, period. Even the vile chunk of wood propped right beside their picture, her and Coco's picture, a large guitar, hand-crafted and simple. An homage to the deceased great-great grandfather. That stupid instrument shames their altar, and Hector's innocent eyes taunt and ridicule her, the nasty feeling of shame scraping at the inside of her ribcage; she had never felt so much rage building up within her.

"Is that-" Rosita's voice is timid, hands clasped tight against her chest as she gazes over the picture she had seen so many lifetimes ago. The new addition sparks her curiosity, but she doesn't dare speak. Julio removes his hat nervously, glancing between Imelda and the photo. He shares an uneasy stare with his sister before letting out a breath. His voice breaks on a question; the feeling of his suegra on the brink of an explosion ensures he doesn't open his mouth. Victoria steps lightly behind them, hesitant, the room deadly silent with the faint drips of music filling the small crevices from outside bands. She can only stare at the stranger occupying the sacred place on their offerings. It spikes her interest, but her mother raised her better than to interrogate those who would rather much stay silent.

Oscar and Felipe are the ones brave enough to crowd behind Imelda, their arms linked to rest faintly on her upper back. She tenses, they can feel that, but they secure her in their tiny circle. "It's him." Oscar manages. He knows their history, as does Felipe. They've met Hector before, accepted him as another brother before he so cruelly left. They know what he's done to their family, and they've seen what it's done to Imelda.

Felipe shakes his head in confusion. "It's Coco, isn't it?"

Imelda doesn't respond right away, but they wait for her. Her hands are clenched so tight they shake, the bones wrattling with the pressure. Her glare burns so hot she feels if she stares hard enough, Hector's face may disintegrate, along with any memory of him buried deep in the pits of her mind. She feels the weight of her brothers on her shoulders, their comforting touch, and she tries to relax.

"I thought I threw it away." Imelda mutters and it's hardly audible. No matter how hard she tried to will it away, her voice still falters and threatens to break. "I thought I got rid of it."

The twins take that as their cue; she's lost her hard exterior; she's upset. They close around her and envelop her in their one-armed hugs, bones to bone, foreheads to forehead. Imelda shuts her eyes against her brother's touch and sighs. It comes out shaky, trembling the bones in her chest. She aches for the moment.

"Mama Imelda," Rosita attempts from behind and she knows it isn't her place, but this willful woman, who had built an entire empire for the sole purpose of helping her family, of keeping them from being penniless and off the streets, felt betrayed by the very family she only wished to protect.

"She kept the photo, that little tramposa." Imelda says, though, with no malice in her voice. Just a simple observation that yes, Coco had disobediently held onto the picture and yes, she had spoken of the man they swore to never even mention. Even honored him on their ofrenda.

"That's mama for you." Victoria chimes in, and Julio elbows her hip. Imelda doesn't argue because she's right; Coco was always this way. She clung to the belief her father would return home and he would kiss away their heartache and tears, that everything would return to normal. Like the past never happened. But Imelda nursed deep animosity over every little thing. Bitterness never made for a perfect life, but she had every right to be as angry as she wanted. Hector took away her chance of nourishing a loving home for their growing family together, but he cannot take her promise of being upset.

She opens her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the buzzing noise of voices, laughter heard from the entrance of their ofrenda room. Their moment is cut abruptly short as Miguel wheels in their beloved Coco, Socorro curled into his one arm as the other helps his great-grandmother settle beside their offerings. He bends to kiss her wrinkled cheek and the hint of a smile plays at the corners of Coco's lips. Socorro giggles at her and shoves a tiny fist into her toothless mouth, dribbling over her hand.

The dead watch in a comforting silence; Miguel has an obvious, different relationship with Coco, and Imelda couldn't recall the last time she had seen her smile in the past year. And Socorro, la angelita, couldn't be more of a copy of Coco if she wanted to.

If Imelda has heartstrings, they'd be ripping from the force of their tugging. Miguel makes his way happily towards their ofrenda, Socorro babbling along in his arms. He absentmindedly steps through Imelda and she stumbles back, her eyes grazing up and down the child. He adjusts Socorro and stares longingly at the highest picture on their altar, a bright smile painting his face. "Mira Coco," He motions up the picture and her tiny eyes follow. "That is Papa Hector. He was a musician." Socorro responds with jumbles of nonsense. Miguel laughs quietly, "He's Mama Coco's papa. Our tatarabuelo. He...He left us a while back, but Mama Coco had faith in him. We have all his letters, his photos; he loved us very much. And music too."

Socorro can barely understand the stories being spoken to her, but she listens as intently as a three month old can. "Him and Mama Imelda would sing all the time." Miguel adds and turns to his great grandmother sitting behind them, back hunched and expression soft, "¿Verdad, Mama Coco?" 

Imelda watches with torn emotions as Coco tries to respond, but only smiles the very pinched and sweet smile she can always seem to muster. Miguel responds with his own gap-toothed one and trudges over to push Coco up straight to their ofrenda. The dead make way for the old woman, circling her, and Miguel takes down the matriarch's picture. He places it in Coco's lap, kisses her cheekbone once more, and bounces Socorro lightly.

"I need to get some things, Mama Coco. Wait right here!" He says excitedly and heads off with his giggling sister in his arms.

With no energy to respond, Coco only hums. Her old fingers curl over the picture frame and her thumb affectionately rubs over Hector's face, the fading image imprinting in her mind despite her withering age. Beside her, Julio wraps his arm over her back and rests his palm over her wrist. They all know she hasn't got much time left, but with the time she did have, Coco lived a near perfect life. They missed her greatly, missed receiving responses from her, being able to hug her, talk to her, be with her.

Imelda has a few choice of words for her as soon as Coco settles into their land.

"We need to wait until she arrives." Oscar interjects. They agree in silence and Imelda crosses her arms, a scoff leaving her lips.

"She has no idea what she's getting into when she gets over here." She spits. Coco had just reintroduced the one thing she had strictly banned from their business; if anything went haywire, she would be to blame. Imelda just needed answers.

Miguel returns with Socorro balanced on his hip and a steaming bowl of food in his hand. Waltzing up to their altar, he stretches on his tiptoes to set the plate in front of the empty space where Imelda's photo had resided and she nearly looses her head as he stumbles. She desperately wants to pinch his ear and scold him for even attempting to lift hot food while carrying a baby.

Miguel steps back triumphantly, switching arms with Socorro, who pats his cheek with spit-slicked hands. "We almost forgot Papa Hector for a long time, Coco, so I don't know how many offerings we need to give him to apologize. But Mama Coco told me Sopa de Elote was his favorite! So we can start there!" Miguel declares proudly.

Imelda's features scrunch in confusion and Victoria narrows her eyes, lip twitching, "Sopa de Elote? Asqueroso."

"No it's not!" Rosita huffs, offended, "Not the way Mama Imelda makes it-"

Imelda glares between the two women and they immediately pipe down, squirming under her gaze, "How does she remember that?" She mutters, watching Miguel set his hand atop Coco's shoulder. "She was four years old."

"Mama Imelda made it for Papa Hector when he got sick every time!" Miguel continues, like Socorro truly is paying attention to his rambling stories.

Imelda recalls that particular endeavor; Hector was prone to sickness, and she would whip him up an easy batch of sopa everytime to ease his discomfort. It seemed to be the only thing that cured him, and their little Coco would down her plate beside them, smothering herself in broth and corn and Hector was afraid of contaminating her each time. Imelda quickly caught herself and brushed the memory off with a scowl; he didn't deserve to be remembered like that. Not well.

"Now he can have all the sopa he wants." Miguel's voice is full of fondness, and Imelda's hard shell softens, but she shoves that away, like every other emotion she tends to feel.

Quickly, Miguel sets Socorro down onto one of the chairs placed meticulously near the table and takes down the guitar, kneeling inbetween Coco and Socorro. His fingers strum the strings and Imelda has had enough.

She clicks her teeth in irritation, the searing feeling of anger bubbling within her, and her voice is sharper than that of a blade, "If he shows up here, lo mato." Imelda swears and storms away from the scene, out of their ofrenda room with a line of fire trailing behind her.

The family is afraid to move, so they don't. They huddle around Miguel and Coco and Socorro and listen to him play, a melody so bittersweet and calm, the music so foreign and missed from the decades they lived without it.

Miguel plays and sings and the Sopa de Elote grows cold by the end of the night.

Chapter Text

Coco joins them the following months of Dia de Muertos.

Their journey to the Department of Family Reunions is rocky and short; Pepita made for wonderful transportation and even through certain people's hesitance to ride the alebrije, they had made it with hours to spare. Julio was the first out the door of their hacienda, his laugh raspy and deep, but so very genuine for his newly deceased wife. Rosita followed with her own ecstatic giggling and her giddiness could rival to that of a child's, gripping Victoria's hands in a vice-like grip. The youngest didn't mind; her heart was elated at the news, desperately wanting to reconcile with her mother. Oscar and Felipe were just as terrible, shaking Imelda's shoulders and then each others. When she would normally bat them away with a sharp slap, she instead held onto them like they were her lifeline, tugged them along to greet their niece after so, so long.

Imelda's nerves were on end. Her daughter had died, but she returned to her familia. She arrived at the inevitable. Coco had made her family wait a near century, but they had her now, and that's all that truly mattered. 

They ran with smiles plastered on their faces, the men a mess of rattling bones and flying hats; the women pinching their skirts between shaky fingers, filled with the upmost adrenaline. A few passersby sent them several congratulations, whooping and cheering teasingly, knowing the feeling of greeting a family member all too well as they sprinted past in a blur.

Imelda threw open the doors and her family spilled in, hot on her tail. She skidded up to the nearest, free marketer and planted her hands flat on the desk. The woman startled from the abrupt surprise and flew back, papers scattering.

"Por favor," Imelda's voice is pleading, her eyes desperate. "Rivera. Coco Rivera. ¿Donde esta?"

^'^'^'^'^'^'^'^'

There was never a love stronger than that of a mother with her child.

Imelda radiated a blinding glow of absolute adortion as Coco fell into her arms. She was the very first, the one who jumped atop Coco like she'd disappear if she didn't reach her fast enough. Coco's reaction was as priceless as it got; never again did she think she'd see her mother, but much less the entirety of her deceased family.

"Mama," She cried, and the sting of tears felt present in her eyes, but they only glossed over. None came, though Coco still felt the phantom touches grazing her cheekbones. Imelda held her until the bones clicked against her own frame, like a lock ticking shut. She kisses the newfound swirls engraved on her skull and laughs against the smatter of purple in between her eyesockets. Every scold she had ever delivered to Coco, every promise to punish her for the things happening in the Living Land seemed to melt in that instant.

"You're home." Imelda whispers and her tone carries nothing but pure love and tenderness. She pulls back to stare into those deep, rich eyes, soft and droopy and filled to the brim with emotions.

Julio envelops her in a crushing hug and they spin in eachothers arms, her laugh buried within his and they kiss like it's the first time all over again.

"Cien años." Julio manages, and he cups her face gently in his palms, the vibrant colors glimmering and her pristine bones bright. "You made us wait cien años."

Coco's laughter shakes her bones and she pecks the knuckles of Julio's tired hands, holding them close to her cheeks. "Was it worth it?"

"For you, mi corazon, I'd wait un millión." Julio promises and Coco had never felt so complete and free than in the arms of the man she loved.

Rosita is courteous in their moment, but her enthusiasm gets the best of her and she interrupts them as graciously as she can, "So sappy, los dos!" She giggles and envelops Coco's surprised form in her own hug, tight and constricting. She returns it just as feverly, missing the warm touch of her cuñada.

"Mi hermanita," Rosita sounds close to tears and Coco presses her hands to her defined cheekbones, kissing the bright pink around her eyes sockets.

"I've missed you too, Rosa." Coco gasps and smiles and it doesn't weigh on her cheeks, it doesn't take every muscle in her body to do it, and she's content. Rosita squeezes her one final time, feeling the four familiar hands on her shoulders to time her.

"Andale, Rosita, we want our turn!" Felipe taunts, though it's full of nothing but happiness rather than malice. They're impatient, waiting the same amount of time as the rest. Rosita peels herself away hesitantly, like letting go of Coco would warrant in her disappearance. She sniffles and kisses her temple.

Coco turns towards the duo, the twin uncles she hasn't seen since her youth. She recalls their nasally voices and incredible height and she grins when they have to crouch to hug her. They're nothing but thin limbs and clumsy bones, but they absolutely smother her tiny frame.

"We missed you so much, Coco." Oscar mutters into her hair, the same identical braids she'd worn since childhood, and never had she been treated such a young, little girl until she was in the arms of her family.

"Yo tambien," Coco chuckles and they cover her in overwhelming kisses that light up her skull. "Have you stayed out of trouble here?"

Felipe winces and Oscar beams and Coco doesn't need their response to know the answer.

Their youngest seems to stray quietly to the side, holding her arm anxiously, the familiar way Imelda remembers a certain someone in her life would. She fans the memory away and rests a hand on Victoria's shoulder and the poor thing is trembling underneath.

"Calmate. Respira." Imelda coos and Victoria's eyes are reluctant. Her grandmother leads her forwards gently, presenting her to Coco after their small reunion dissolves. They've had they hugs, their kisses, and their words. Victoria couldn't seem to find any of hers.

"I'm sorry, mama," Is all that spills out. Victoria's death was unpredictable and shocking, and Coco had soon felt the pain of losing a child, not knowing where they would end up, not being able to provide them with guidance or reassurance. At least then, Imelda had never experienced the loss of her daughter, because she left Coco. Not the other way around.

Coco never yearned for the burn of tears so greatly than now; losing her daughter, losing her husband, she'd felt unbelievably lonely. But they were here now, and they missed her, and they loved her. She stared into Victoria's pained eyes and takes her hands in hers, gripping the thin bones.

"Never," Coco starts firmly, holding Victoria close, "And I mean never be sorry, mija. Nunca." Coco's smile crumbles Victoria's walls and she sinks to her knees to hug her beloved mother, so long since she's felt the comforting, maternal embrace. The floor is filthy and her dress is sprinkled with grime from the floors but they truly couldn't care less.

Coco kisses any square inch she can find; the dips of her eye sockets, the plains of her skull, her hair and chin and the space where her nose resided, anything to reassure her that yes, this is real, yes, they're all here now.

The moment is serene, and nothing seems to break the shield of love they have surrounded themselves with for the moment. There's still the buzzing of machines, clicks of shoes against wooden tiles, the whine of children and clatter of ribs. The Department is noisy, and Imelda would much rather be at home.

"Vamos." She demands, smile straining her cheeks, "Let's go home. You're going to love the shop, mija, I know it, we-." Imelda's words falter as she glances down at her daughter, who seems to be twisting about in search of something in the crowds. Imelda's eyes narrow. "Coco?"

"Where's papa?" She asks confidently, like she expects him to appear out of nowhere to yell sorpresa, like he's really with them and waiting to give his hug afterwards. Imelda feels her eye twitch.

"What?" Her voice is sharp and indignant, a glare making its way across her face despite the fact she really, really doesn't want to do that to her daughter. Coco doesn't cower like most do usually; she challenges her with a puzzled look. Rosita winces and grips Victoria's wrist.

"Papa," Coco repeats, "I-I didn't see him on the listings. They told me they'll sent a call for him, but he hasn't shown up yet-"

"You did what?!" Imelda's voice is defeaning, filling with so much exasperation it trembles. Her hands are clenched again and she remembers, remembers the anger she felt on their last Dia de Muertos. Hector's photo, the guitar, the tape-

"You called him?" Imelda cannot control her voice and her brothers scramble to calm her down when people begin to stare. The touch sears her bones and she pulls away, eyes never leaving Coco.

"Coco how could you-when did you-why?" Imelda stutters to find her words because surely her daughter wouldn't have done something like this. Surely she didn't call up the single man that had terrorized their family and tainted their name; right?

"I thought-" Coco stares her mother up and down, a defiant look glazing over them. "Mama-you haven't-?"

"He's not allowed near us." Imelda snarls and the volume of her voice begins to tread the valleys of yelling.

Oscar presses down on her shoulder and his tone is warning. "Imelda, not here."

"They said he was on his way." Coco continues quietly, "He didn't come with you?"

It hurts to hear Coco's disappointment, and Imelda cannot have her go through that same dilema again. She was with her familia, the people who genuinely cared about her and loved her. She didn't need that vago running into their life again to ruin it.

Imelda's anger simmers down and her body feels the tight pressure from how tense she was earlier. She cups Coco's cheeks and smoothes her thumb over the familiar purple designs there. "Ay mi amor," She mumbles and her heart aches for her daughter; being sworn promises and promises only to have them continuously broken. "He's not coming."

"Mama-"

"Escuchame," Imelda spits, coming out harsher than intended. Julio pulls Coco close to him and the thought of their matriarch hurting anyone had never crossed his mind until now. He shook his head; Imelda would never lay her hands on any of them, but her voice held threats.

Imelda's blinded. She can't see through the bitterness that blankets her vision, "He doesn't care about us, Coco. Why can't you understand?"

"They told me he was coming." Coco replies. She's trying not to yell, but she's staying her ground. She doesn't buckle under her mother's words, not anymore. "They said he was coming to see me."

"I told you that too!" Imelda snaps and it seems to break the resolve around her. The countless times she'd reassured Coco that Hector would be returning, that her papa would never up and leave her, would never even think about abandoning her. It felt like a lie everytime; she'd been lying to Coco, but she needs to hear the truth now.

Coco reels back; Julio steps in between them and Rosita mutters soothing words near Imelda, to appease her rash words with por favor no grites mama and calmese un poco. Imelda keeps teetering on the edge of making a scene only to get pulled back out. She breathes in deeply, lips pinched in a grimace.

"Abuelita," Victoria interjects tentatively, "Mama just barely arrived. Do we have to do this now?"

"What have I told you about joining a conversation that isn't yours, Victoria?" Imelda returns. Victoria doesn't take it personally; her grandmother is upset, visibly so, and she'd never let this go when it was over. But she shuts her mouth and keeps quiet, preferring to remain silent than get yelled at.

"Riveras?"

A woman's petite voice breaks through their dispute. She seems to regret the interruption when Imelda's piercing glare slices through her and she tightens her fingers around her clipboard, careful of her approach. "Are-Are you the Riveras?"

"Who wants to know?" Coco asks gently, beating Imelda to the question. She doesn't trust her mother to talk to the poor woman in front of them, considering her vicious tone and voice. The woman smiles nervously at Coco and glances down on the sheet before her.

"You requested a Hector? ¿Hector Rivera?"

Chapter Text

The laughter throughout Shantytown emitted the utmost warmth. The acceptance of ragtag strangers into a family of primos, and primas, of tios, and tias. Where the forgotten rested, tried to, surrounded by those they chose as their own.

Hector seeked comfort within them, the people and their homes, their unfinished bridges and dimmed oil lamps, their chipped and missing bones, and even the bright glow of a Final Death. He dived into their arms like a child to their mother. Hector couldn't live without companionship and couldn't survive off loneliness. Even through the circumstances which landed him in the small town beforehand, Hector still laughed and drank and celebrated. He gossiped with his primas and listened intently to his tios stories, never previously meeting such interesting individuals with outrageous lives. And even when they asked of his life, his tales, Hector never uttered a word; the mention of a wife, of a daughter, of a best friend, and twin brothers; they never left his lips.

They knew Hector was young and careless, and he simply died young and careless.

The call came around his usual time of cards with the girls, hardly three sips into his first drink. Tia Chelo had smacked the bone of his arm with a grimace and gripped her deck, "You're cheating, cabron."

"Tia Chelo, I would never!" He grins and his single gold tooth sparkles innocently in the washed-out light. The women beside him giggle, the tipsy air clearly indicating their drunken state. Chelo smacks her lips in annoyance before a smile overtakes it, and Hector's unnecessarily loud laugh fills their heads.

"You just can't play, abuela." Hector brags, slamming his deck to the splintered table. He begins to shuffle them with expertise and yelps as Chelo pinches his high cheekbone, as if he were a little boy being scolded.

"No me faltes el respeto, niño." Chelo's words are clipped and sincere and the girls laugh at his misery. She let's him free with a warning and he rubs the spot on his cheek with a guilty smile.

"You're getting brave, Hector." His prima from across drawls out, her messy braid spiraling strands of hair into her face. Hector scoffs, adjusting the deck, "Since when have I ever not been brave?"

They roll their eyes at his antics and Hector happily sets up another game, dealing their cards for the fourth - fifth? - he can't remember the round they're on, but it's been a good few. He's downed his entire glass and Chelo's pouring back a respective amount in each afterwards when one of their many primos come trudging in, his limp defined and look curious.

"Perdonenme, señoras," He calls, a sympathetic smile on his face for intruding on their game, and motions a thumb behind his back with his eyes locked on Hector, "Compa. There's a call for you."

Eyes narrowed nervously, Hector fiddles with the fading cards. "What now?"

The girls coo at him, a wave of oohs filling the space, like he's done something so terribly wrong.

"What did you do this time, Hector?" His prima asks nonchalantly, because this isn't new. Hector's prone to getting into trouble, sometimes so severe they call the nearest hotline around his home to reach him. He cringes at the memories of past experiences and looks desperately at his primo.

"I haven't done anything this week! Tell them I'm not here!" Hector rushes out and settles into his chair, the legs threatening to snap off the more weight he applies.

His primo shakes his head, a serious expression crossing his face, "No, no, Hector. It's the Department."

A silence washes over them. Their eyes land on Hector and he freezes, the lines of his sockets furrowed in suspicion. Had he heard him correctly?

"Department?"

"Si," The man urges, "They're calling for you; vete."

Hector quickly excuses himself from the table, almost knocking the cards and drinks to the floor on his way towards the hut occupying the run-down phone. The room is dark, save for the flickering candle melting on a desk. He takes the device in his hands, hesitating before pressing it to the side of his skull,

"¿Hola?" He asks, voice quiet, not fully knowing what to expect other than the insolent screaming of an officer for another one of his schemes. But he doesn't hear the usual menacing tone. Instead, there's the typing of keys and clipped voices, professional voices, so cheery they hurt. 

"Señor Rivera?" A woman questions briefly and Hector cocks his head. He doesn't recognizes the formality and tenses up, grip on the phone tightening.

"Presente," He answers and there's the sound of paper shuffling and pens clicking.

"Perdoname señor, but we have a call for a new addition. A Coco Rivera? You weren't on their list, but she requested you."

A whirlwind of emotions flutter through Hector; he's dizzy from the woman's words, his eyes wider than saucers, his entire body feeling light and airy and just begging to faint. He can't find his words, the correct ones, can't seem to form a coherent sentence.

"She," He stumbles, "She-She's here?"

"Si señor, outside with her family as we speak. If you could come over-"

She doesn't have the privilege of finishing her sentence before the phone is slammed so roughly against the wall it nearly shatters. Hector's eyes practically bulge from their sockets; his breathing is shallow, his head fuzzy. He wants to scream but his voice is caught within the conflicting feelings in his chest. There's adrenaline coursing through his non-existent veins and he slams the door open, almost snapping the weathered wood of its hinges.

Hector's feet carry him outside and he runs. He runs until he can't hear the yelling of his family anymore, calling his name, until the metatarsals of his bones strain to keep together from the constant abuse against rough cobblestone, until his ribcage shakes like a rattle so violently he's afraid the faulty one that's been giving him so much trouble might snap clean off. He skids past crowds of people, mazes of skeletons and clothing and hats too big for skulls and dress too frilly for hips. But he doesn't care. He can't seem to wrap her brain around the fact she's here.

Coco is here.

And he's going to see her.

"Hector Rivera is here?" Coco's voice is filled with an unbelieving wonder. His name hasn't left her lips in years. She'd whisper it in the darkest of nights, in seclusion, where neither her mother or uncles or daughters could hear her. She let the letters roll over her tired tongue so she would never forget them.

"Y-Yes, he's confirmed his call, señora." The woman nods, checking something quick off her clipboard. "You can just wait here, he'll be right through those doors-"

"Si, si of course! Muchas gracias." Coco nods eagerly; she'd nearly forgotten the feeling of being so excited her entire being felt like exploding. She wasn't even five when she last saw him, a mere baby, and she'd missed every single little thing about her papa.

She turns to Julio, clasping his hands in enthusiasm. "He's here."

Julio can't recall the single time he's seen Coco's father in this land, but her happiness is his happiness, and he's no less elated for her as she is for her father's arrival. He smiles with her, his mustache curling up along.

Coco wants her family to be happy for her. She does seek their approval, but some things are just meant to be; this is meant to happen. Rosita seems antsy, but she can't keep the smile off her face no more than Coco can keep hers. Victoria isn't either delighted or upset, neutral as always over the ordeal, but supportive of her mother's decisions. They had just been reunited moments ago and nothing can diminish the joy inside of her from it.

Oscar and Felipe are on edge; the white hot anger was still present in the room. Imelda's furry had not cooled down, and as the woman walked away with a shy wave, she knew Hector would be through those doors in seconds. The longer time went on, the closer he grew. She could nearly feel him already.

"Coco," Imelda starts again. Her daughter opens her mouth to retaliate before her mother starts, but Imelda holds up her hand, effectively silencing her. "Listen to me. Please, Coco."

As indicated, Coco does.

Imelda knows she hasn't got much time before that idiota comes rushing in. So she chooses her words carefully, weighs her options, and breathes in deeply.

"We've been waiting for you for so long, mija," Though she doesn't want to lose her power, Imelda's voice does find balance between strict yet rational. "We...We want time with you. I want time with you. But not with him." Her eyes lower and the anger soon fades to a dull sadness so quick is makes her sick; Imelda was never a fan of exposing her weaknesses, and despite how much she loathed Hector, he was her weakness.

Coco frowns. The change of sentiment feels so abrupt and odd and she doesn't want to accept that part either. "Pero mama-"

"Entiendeme," Imelda hisses and her voice is slack, cracking where the anger from before held it together. She grits her teeth behind a closed mouth.

"The way you feel about him isn't the way I feel, Coco. You may want him, but I don't." Imelda assures her, eyes pleading for her daughter to understand; Coco was unbelievably young when he left. She couldn't grasp the gravity of the situation. He left and took promises with him, took parts of Imelda with him, tore their family to bits, and Imelda could hardly stand the sight of him anymore.

Coco acknowledges the situation. She saw her father in a different light. She idolized him. Imelda did not. It wasn't right for her to think Imelda would accept him, just as it wasn't Imelda's right to forbid Coco from seeing him.

"I understand." Coco nods, feeling Julio squeeze her hand in a tight fist. Her vacant heart flutters and she sighs, "Lo extraño, mama."

Imelda crouches to level herself with her daughter, cupping the sides of her cheeks once again. Her palms fit like a puzzle against the bone of her skull. Her eyes are searching for something she doesn't know, and the lashes flutter when she blinks, like she's removing the trace of tears, "I know mija. I know."

Coco opens her mouth to answer, but startles when the doors to the front fling open, smashing against the wall. There's officers, securities, scrambling behind a single skeleton man clad in worse-for-wear attire and coarse black hair and sickly yellowed bones and an expression so desperate it seems to crack his skull straight in half and ribs making the most hideous sounds and-

And-

"¡Papa!"

Chapter Text

"¡Coco!"

The room felt suffocating. The walls seemed to be closing in and constricting tightly around the bodies it held and Hector couldn't breathe.

Coco was there, before his eyes. Her aged face, gray hair, showing off the years she'd spent alive. Her expression widened in astonishment and there, there Hector saw the little girl he left all those years ago. His exhausted skeleton barely held on by a thread and he could feel himself tearing at the seams, but with the very last drops of exertion he had, Hector met Coco halfway.

They fall into each other's arms with as much grace as a newborn deer, crumbling to the floor in a pile of tangling limbs. Hector can't grasp the idea that she's truly here, she's here and she's with him. His head is spinning and he's hoping, with every single part inside of him, that this isn't a dream, that he didn't pass the Final Death and simply rotted away to an imaginative world.

"Papa-" Coco's voice cracks, hardly managing the words before they break midway and collapse. She tucks her head in the space of her fathers thin neck, arms coiled around his shoulders like a python. Hector is trembling so hard he can hear it. His hands grip her soft dress in tight fists and he curls against her, trying, trying to shorten any space in between them. He doesn't want anything separating them anymore, not even an extra few centimeters of air.

"Coco," Hector whispers softly and his voice is more fragile than blown glass. "Ay dios, Coco, mi corazon, mi Coco." He repeats her name like a mantra dripping from his lips. His sentences are muddled, letters mixing together, voice so thick with sobs it's difficult to decipher. Everything is still so busy trying to settle within him. His entire existence solely depended on Coco. She had kept him alive for a near century and he spent all those years trying and failing to cross over, to see her, to thank her, afraid that as soon as she'd pass, he'd disappear. But she's here. And so is Hector, and he doesn't know how, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters more than the fact he's holding his little girl again. Minutes ago he'd never thought this possible, but the evidence is solid and right there and he's elated beyond words.

Coco's eyes are shut in absolute bliss. The world melts around her, and from the unimaginable sights she's seen today, the pops of blinding colors and enormously winged animals and walking skeletons, nothing could hold a candle to this. She can feel Hector underneath her fingertips, the narrow bones of his shoulders and the sharp cuts of his cheekbones on her neck. They hold each other in a vice-like grip, each not believing the other is in their presence.

"Mi vida," Hector mumbles into her hair, breathing shakily. His hands shake under the strenuous emotions overpowering him and he can't help but clench them to Coco's back, smothering her with every last drop of love he can muster from his worn form. It aches, it aches so much, and Hector feels nothing but relief.

The world continues to turn around them. It doesn't click they're in a public scene, still in the Department, Coco's family just off to the side. They've gravitated away from the two. It was inappropriate to interrupt such a delicate moment. And the family is hesitant; Coco's father looks nothing special, nothing grand. In fact, he's more broken than not. Dressed in rags and duct tape, missing bones, yellowed and unhealthy. He makes them cringe, but not from disgust, nor from anger. They feel a strange sort of pity.

The securities had not dared to touch  the two. Hector was a menace to the Department and its office. Watching him run like a madman made questions fly into their skulls. A few scattered employees clear the air for them, promising he's not trouble, he's here for his daughter. It's a jumbled mess and people are staring and it's so unsuitable for a moment like this.

Imelda feels like she's losing her head. Her nerves are on end and she's so frazzled it hurts. An employee taps her shoulder and she jumps high enough to startle him. Even with her insensitive glare, the man's smile is cheerful and bright.

"Señora, if-if you'd like a bit of privacy," He trails off and throughout this entire hurricane of a trip, this was the only news Imelda quickly agreed with. She nods politely, unable to speak, as the man ushers her family to a secluded room fit for this disaster of a visit. She hangs behind to watch the guards disperse, tipping their hats in apology. Imelda scowls. 

The disturbance was simply white noise to Hector. He couldn't focus on anything but Coco. Their hug hasn't slackened and Hector's afraid he may splinter her spotless bones. But he feels the company of another disturb their moment and its shadow falls over them.

Imelda doesn't want to be near him, doesn't want her daughter to be near him. She despises the way Coco so easily accepted him. But she saves her anger and slides a palm over her daughters back, deliberately avoiding Hector's hands.

"Ven mija," Imelda says quietly. She can feel Hector's eyes on her, peeking up, afraid of completely removing them from their daughter. "We're switching rooms. Levantate del piso."

Coco basks in the next very few seconds of hugging her father before pulling back. She feels his fingers curl around the bones of her arm and laughs at his persistent clinging. Hector loves her laugh; it's not the carbon copy of her shrill giggles when she was four but it's aged like fine wine and continues to make his metaphorical heart melt. He kisses her temple and the area practically glows.

"Papa." She chuckles. Her eyes crinkle lovingly when she meets Hector's own and then his eyes are stinging.  His smile is wobby and his laugh watery, bringing his hands up to cup Coco's perfect cheekbones. He traces her markings, similar to his in almost every way and he chokes.

"Coco," Imelda's voice cuts through the atmosphere and they're brought back down again. Coco smiles sheepishly at her mother before unraveling herself from her father and standing to her feet. Hector scrambles to follow suit, terrified of letting Coco go for even a fraction of a second. He takes her hand in his, still trembling, and feels electricity course through their fingers.

He's missed her so much.

Imelda narrows her eyes. Looks up. They meet Hector's nervous gaze. She quickly averts them, grimaces, and makes her way down the path towards their room.

Coco feels the tension. But she just squeezes her papa's hand and he kisses the knuckles of her own. Glued to the hip, they follow her.

"What do you think's going to happen?" Rosita murmurs, a hand held to her chest. Though they were separated from the rest of their family, grateful for the silence and away from the ruckus, they were absolutely whipped from the early events. They had only planned on seeing Coco, reuniting, crying a few tears and delivering a few hugs, yet-

Things had gotten so out of hand.

Julio anxiously scratches at his skull under his hat, "Ay...no se, Rosa. We couldn't guess if we tried."

Rosita whines with a pout; she hates seeing Imelda so distressed, especially on a day they were supposed to celebrate a new arrival. How long they had waited for Coco, and how little it took for things to fall apart.

"Abuelita was so upset." Victoria sighs. They couldn’t ignore the way Imelda behaved during the visit. Her brothers, a clear comfort to Imelda, were afraid to even touch her during the moment. None of them ever liked the fact she was abandoned, and couldn't find answers to why Coco wanted to see him after all this time. It was a miracle she hadn't grown bitter like her mother.

Seeing Hector wasn't a new thing. They all had various run-ins with him. Imelda continously apologized for his persistence, from the many times he's stood outside their shop to when he decides to approach her out on the market. They know him as awkward and irritating and rude. Oscar and Felipe know him as just Hector.

The twins feel conflicted. It's been awhile since they've seen anything of Hector. Before, his bones weren't as brittle nor were his clothes that torn. As time went on, memories must have taken a toll on him. It was painful to even watch Hector move. Oscar makes a low noise in the back of his throat, "Of course she's upset. It's Imelda. What Hector did was unforgivable."

"Por supuesto, Oscar. Wouldn’t you be too if someone did that to your familia?" Felipe adds. There was a collective nod; he had a point. Imelda had reasons for her anger, even if it lasted so long. She may never feel forgiveness in her heart.

The entire situation felt stretched taut like a metal wire and they treaded carefully in fear of snapping it. There seemed to be no room for their opinions, not yet. It wasn't their place to decide right from wrong.

Luckily, they had no time to stress over it before Imelda shoved the door carelessly open and stomped inside. Hands clenched to fists, she crossed over to her family. Their eyes drilled holes into her head and she looked at them incredulously.

"¿Que?" She snapped and the group mumbled quiet apologies, quick to cover up their previous conversation.

Close behind, Hector and Coco stride in. And as the door shuts behind them, and before the click of the doorknob can be heard, he has Coco in his arms once again. He's spinning her in a circle and the pink dress that brings back so much nostalgia flutters delicately around her. Nothing around them matters as Hector holds his daughter close, the stuttering laughter bubbling from within him. He's overfilled with a joy so violent he's afraid he's going to burst. 

"Ay Coco, mi alma," Hector whispers. He sounds broken beyond repair. He's spent his entire afterlife trying to come home. To prove to Coco he wasn't lying when he said he would return. He'd made a name for himself in the Land of the Dead as a mischievous felon, a pest, just to see his family again. And Hector didn't regret a minute of it.

He sinks to his knees, kneeling with Coco, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders like she's still a young child clinging to her father before he left. Hector's chest aches at the memory; tears had slipped from Coco's chubby face, her large eyes doey and sad. He mumbled vows into her hair, of coming home to her. Of never forgetting her. He hates the ugly truth of only committing to one.

"Mirame, Coco." Hector pleads, pulling away from her to stare at her eyes. Straight through the same ones he owned, but more refined. Older. Aged.

Coco feels the energy engulf them. This time, she holds his face in her experienced palms. The same tired hands that cupped her daughters cheeks when they cried to her great grandsons chin when he yearned to play music for her. Hector holds her wrist and kisses her carpals, smile almost splitting his skull.

"Look at you." His voice is full of awe. Time has been good to Coco. She lived happily and healthy and she's glowing like nothing Hector has seen before. Even when he let her down, Coco thrived. The indents of his eyesockets pulled together in regret.

"I'm sorry," Hector manages softly and his voice is as delicate as fine China. "Lo siento Coco, mi Coco, lo siento; por todo lo que he hecho."

Coco's heart breaks at his words. She rests her forehead against his, eyes closing momentarily to savor the feeling. The stab of tears burn Hector's eyes, but his anatomy is still too stubborn to let anything fall.

"No papa," Coco's smile is kind, "Don't be, por favor, don't be sorry. I have you now." She feels his shaky fingers tighten like rope around her wrists, "I have you."

Hector grins sadly, the pull of his lips tiring his face. He feels like he's floating. All these years he spent thinking Coco despised him. Thinking she would soon forget him too. But here she was, fighting all those nightmares away. He peppers kisses over her face and Coco's reminded of the same way her mother would do to her, the way she would to her daughters, the way her daughter would to her grandchildren.

Hector hardly has the energy to laugh but he does and pulls Coco into his arms again, hugging her tightly. Her first day here, and she's finally seen him. Finally. He doesn't want to let her go. He wants to take her out of this eye-sore of a building and show her his land, show her the group he adopted as familia, show her every sight he's seen throughout his attempts in staying alive, but-

She has other family.

Other family he can't dare to call his own.

Slowly, he pulls away. Despite their attempts at not disrupting, their eyes feel like lazers cutting through Hector's ready battered skeleton. Coco's rightfully puzzled before she catches his wary gaze, looking behind her back towards her deceased family.

Imelda is fuming. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest from habit and her fingers grasp at her humerus, itching to do something. Anything other than stand here and watch the two before her. When Hector turns his attention towards them, Imelda grits her teeth so hard she's afraid they might crack.

"Razonable, mama. Con calma." Rosita says, ever the voice of reason. Her hands come up to massage the tight bones of Imelda's shoulders and though still tense, Imelda takes the advice to heart.

He doesn't bother her.

He doesn't bother her.

Hector can see the screws turning in her head. She's having an outright war with herself. He hates being the cause of it, of all her despair and torment. He stands cautiously to his feet and helps Coco on her own, taking a reluctant step forward. "Imelda-"

"Callate el hocico."  Imelda lashes out. The words cut her teeth and bruise the inside of her mouth, but Dios la ayude if she doesn't mean it. Her family gasps behind her and she feels their hands on her shoulders, her arms, her back, and out of sheer anger, she yanks away from them.

Hector isn't surprised. He's gotten used to her curses and used to being berated, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. Coco winces at the swear that flies from her mothers mouth and squeezes Hector's hand in reassurance, "Mama..."

"We're not starting this," Imelda growls. Coco looks at her in desperation, seeming to retaliate once more. But Hector grips her shoulder in a silent demand to keep quiet. Imelda's running on blind rage and Hector can either feed the fire or control it.

"Imelda, listen to me-"

"You have no right to be asking that of me." Imelda seethes, her stance tall as she trudges up to Hector and it's the first time throughout the situation she's confronted him head on, their faces a hair's breath apart. Hector challenges her eyes with a glower, a foreign expression he isn't use to. He was never angry at Imelda and Imelda had forgotten what a day felt like not being angry at Hector. But he's been thrown into a pile of various emotions he can't comprehend and right now, he wants to be heard.

"Just listen. Por favor, just this once." Hector holds his hands out in a plea. He feels Coco's fingers on the small of his back, grateful for the support. The moment is awful and he doesn't want to start a fight, not in front of her family and not in front of Coco. The last thing Imelda wants to do is just that; she's resentful, yes, but just the tiniest bit sensible. Hector takes her silence as a response and sighs, running his fingers through the hair underneath his hat.

"I know, Imelda." Hector begins and he watches her tense. "I know I can't ask much of you-"

"Get to the point." Imelda barks and her tone stings. She doesn't want to discuss Hector's actions here. Of all the places they could talk, this wasn't on the list. Perhaps in the future, she may want to yell at him until her voice gives out, but right now, still, after all these years, she hates the very sight of him.

Hector's jaw wobbles, but he swallows down the pain. Nothing made him think Imelda could change like that.

"Just a day with her." He continues, "I just want the day with her-"

"No." Imelda's immediate in her response. After everything he's done and he expects to see the daughter he abandoned without a second thought? Hector understands her hesitance, but doesn't agree with it. He reaches to hold her hands, out of habit, he swears, but catches himself quickly. Imelda stumbles back like she's been burned.

"Just for the day, Imelda." Hector urges. His voice is borderline hysterical. He wants nothing more than to spend the next few hours with Coco, and he just can't be denied that right. "I lost the life I had with her. I haven't seen her in a hundred years."

"And who's fault is that!" Imelda's voice startles even him and she's right. She's right and that hurts more than anything she's ever said to him before. He's to blame. He left. He chose something other than family, when he should've just stayed home with them. Hector missed all of Coco's life because of a stupid musical fantasy. 

Coco's fingers tighten on the ripped cloth of his jacket, but she remains silent. This isn't her fight.

Imelda scowls up at him, "That is no one's fault but your own."

Hector's eyes search Imelda's, scanning them for any sign of rationalism. His shoulders droop, "Please. Please, Imelda. I...this is all I ask of you. Just for today." His hands itch to cup her face, her shoulders, hold her in his arms again, "She's my daughter too."

Imelda's in the process of shaking her head and the strict no almost spills from her lips before Coco interjects. She steps in front of her father, almost shielding him from the inevitable blows Imelda was willing to throw at him.

"I want to see him, mama." Coco tries weakly. The day of her new life had just begun, and though she'd enjoy nothing more than to spend it with her family, Hector was a priority. Right now, nothing mattered more than being with him.

"You've been with me since I was a little girl, mama. Y lo alegro mucho, but," Coco exhales a breath she's been holding in for far too long, "It's been años. You've had me so much longer than he has. I-I miss him." There's agony in her voice. She doesn't want no for an answer. She can't accept no for an answer. "Por favor mama."

Hector has pleading desperation in his eyes. The tension is thick. Imelda's head is filled with static. She feels unbelievably conflicted, like she's lost control and can't gain it back. A sigh vibrates in her ribcage and she rests her lips atop Coco's head, fiddling with her even braids. It's so quiet Imelda can hear a pin drop.

"This is what you want?"

"More than anything." Coco responds. Imelda strains to hear her quiet voice. She can't deny her daughter. She had just died, just left her living family, and Imelda couldn't be the bearer of more bad news.

She takes a deep breath, tilting Coco's chin up with her fingers, "Just for today-," And her daughter's smile is blinding, "-but you will return home by sundown. As soon as the sky turns red, you come home. Me entiendes?"

Coco beams and warmth spreads through her as her mother pulls her into a hug, squeezing her tight and kissing her forehead.

"Gracias mama, gracias." Coco's exultant. She feels Hector's excited grip shake her shoulder and though he'd rather not show it in front of Imelda, he's glowing with joy. He opens his mouth to thank Imelda, only to have her finger shoved in his face, eyes narrowed in warning,

"If she's not back by sunset, I'll have your head."

Imelda doesn't hold empty threats. She's known for keeping promises. So Hector nods silently, swallowing thickly as her stare pierces him. She confirms his honesty, hard to when he's been nothing but a liar, and clears her throat.

"Ten cuidado, mija." Imelda tuts at Coco, planting a final kiss to her hairline before brushing past Hector roughly. Hector stumbles back, only slightly giddy that she even touched him at all.

"Let's go." Imelda calls to her family behind her back, the group huddled behind them throughout the entire ordeal. They were too terrified to move a finger out of place and relaxed as soon as Imelda granted them permission to go. Rosita, Oscar, and Felipe say their goodbyes, muttering quiet we'll wait for you's and come home on time's. Julio kisses her softly and Coco chuckles at his mustache tickling her lips. Victoria hugs her a lasting time but Coco assures her, assures them all I'll be home soon, no se procupen.

Imelda holds the door open for her family as they spill out. Coco blows them a kiss, Imelda's heart melting, before hardening again at Hector's willful gaze. His eyes don't meet hers. They're downcast, staring at the floor like there's a message scrawled out before him. He shuffles under her stare,

"Nos vemos, Imelda." Hector calls out, but Imelda purses her lips, bites her tongue to hold back sharp words. His voice grinds her bones and without a sound, the door slams shut and the walls shake with its force.

Hector flinches. The uneasy feeling still settles like a rock in his stomach, but it soon melts away, and his attention turns to Coco. He may never see her after this. He might have to wait a long, long time before visiting her again.

But he's with her now, and she's with him, and Hector has to make these short few moments count.

He has to.

Chapter Text

Leaving the department was a messy trial. Hector felt anxiety creeping along his bones; he had numbed that feeling during his various run-ins with the security a long time ago, yet today, it increased tenfold. He held onto Coco's hand like his life depended on it. Noise usually calmed him. Hectic sounds and commotion. He loved nothing like it but...

Right now, Hector just wants to be alone with his daughter. Just their silence and just their words.

Hector grazed the bones of her palm with his fingers. As if reminding himself she's still here, she's not leaving again. Even towards the brisk walk to the trolleys, the giddiness inside his skeleton ceased to leave. Coco feels the pull on her arm like a magnet, threatening to detach. Getting use to her new body would be difficult. She had the phantom pains here and there, the slight soreness from arthritis when she clenched her fingers and the immediate stinging twist of a kneecap. But it was all in her head, and she knew that. It would be long before she could welcome this life with open arms. For now, she just enjoys the fact she can simply walk with her own two legs again.

"Mija, you're gonna love it here, I know it." Hector says eagerly and squeezes both her hands in between his own larger ones. He has the same nimble fingers, tired fingers, a musicians fingers, and Coco can feel their strength in his grip.

"You have so much to see Coco! Everything, everything, is wonderful here." Hector announces. She chuckles at his enthusiasm as they board the trolley. He snakes their way through the crowd of skeletons, voicing loud excuse me's and con permiso's, until they end up at the furthest door. He shields Coco like she's still a young girl, and perhaps it's out of habit, but she doesn't complain.

Hector shuts the door behind them and Coco's grateful to be freed from the stuffy compartment. She rests her hands on the railing as the trolley begins to move, a look of wonder crossing her eyes. She can't remember the last time she'd seen so much color. Despite the sun shining warmly over them, the bright lights were blinding. The buildings were something straight out of a child's imagination, each one absolutely impractical yet inviting. Coco had never seen such structures layered so meticulously on top of each other.

"¡Que hermoso!" Coco gasps.

Hector smiles. He sits on the thin railing bars and rests his elbow on his knees, enjoying the look of absolute awe on Coco's face. In these times, he forgets she's nearly a hundred years old and not the tiny, chubby girl he had in his arms a century ago. His smile falters at the memory. Not much good comes out of regret; he has to live and let live. He can't change the past now.

There's a sudden sharp intake of breath that makes Hector jump, the sound erupting from Coco's throat. She yanks at her fathers forearm, keeping a steady grip on him.

"Papa, be careful, you could fall!" She scolds. Even in death, he seems to only enjoying teasing la muerte. Hector laughs at her worried tone. She sounds like a mother, a grandmother. Which isn't far from the truth, but it's been too long since the last time someone cared for his well-being.

"Ay mija," Hector steadies his feet on the floor, swaying, "That...it's nothing! I've been through worse."

Perhaps he shouldn't have said that, because now Coco looks upset, and that's the last thing Hector wants her to feel. Her eyes gaze over the battered form of his skeleton, how discolored the bones are compared to hers. His tibia and fibula are patched up horribly in duct tape, causing the slight slouch and limp of his stance. His ulna and radius are casted in the same flimsy tape that seems to already be peeling. There's a definite crack on one of his ribs and they shaky so violently at even the lightest bit of movement.  Hell, there's an entire rib missing from underneath. His clothing is tattered. Full of holes and dirt and barely hanging on by the few threads it possesses.

He doesn't even have shoes.

A family of zapaterios and he's barefoot.

"Papa don't say that." Coco murmurs. Her hands skim the worn-out tape and the adhesive sticks to the tips of her phalanges. It's odd touching another human being with no skin; the flesh isn't there to cushion anything and the ordeal seems far more intimate and special.

"How did this happen?" Coco mutters, picking at the edge of the tape. Hector laughs sadly and Coco cringes as his ribs tremble like a rattle.

"It's nothing, mija. So many years in the Land of the Dead does things to bones as brittle as mine." Hector announces like it's the most obvious thing in the world. That answer doesn't sit well with Coco.

"But mama," She begins and it seems any mention of her mother is still a fresh wound to her father. "She doesn't..."

Hector's eyes soften. He knows the answer to her question before she even asks it.

"Why am I falling apart, and she isn't?"

Coco nods silently. Her family. They were all intact. Their bones couldn't compare to the ones that Hector owned. Her mother's bones were a near perfect white. Her father's looked like aged wood.

Hector felt a lump in his throat. The coners of his lips pulled up into a sad attempt at a smile and quietly, he mutters, "It's because she's remembered."

The sudden memories came flooding back to Coco. Upon arrival, a few employees had graciously explained the dynamics of her new home. If she is remembered by a living person, she can exist on as she is now in the Land of the Dead. One night a year, on Dia de Muertos, she can cross into the Living Land to visit family only if she has a picture on an ofrenda.

Coco knows for a fact her impact is displayed proudly on their ofrenda.

"I was the only one who remembered you." She realizes. Throughout the gradually rising age, Coco had still clasped onto the memory of her father. He was all she thought about. Every now and then, her mind flickered, but she couldn't let Hector be forgotten in the darkness of her own memories. It seemed to be a fate worse than death.

Hector exhales steadily, shakily again. He rests his palms on her cheeks, circling his thumbs under her large eyes and swiping a few strands of hair off her face. His smile doesn't brighten nor does it fade.

"And that's all that matters, Coco. My brave girl. I owe my entire life to you." He whispers quietly and rests his forehead onto hers once more. A hundred years and she's kept him alive through it all. Without her, he'd be nothing.

However, the spark of curiosity still lights inside Hector's mind. How can he be here if she died? Did someone else from his previous life remember him? He couldn't recall that many friends, much less people from his time still living. Yet, someone had to have the littlest, faintest recollection of him...

"I-I told them about you." Coco suddenly interrupts. Hector's eyes furrow in confusion. "Mi familia. Back in the Living Land. I told them about you, I passed down your memories."

And just in that moment, Hector feels lighter. He had time. He wasn't going to die. He had time to reconcile and reconnect and simply be with Coco. The fear of a Final Death had always plagued his mind; Coco had helped fight that off.

Hector couldn't imagine how he'd gotten so, so lucky.

His jaw still slackens in disbelief at the news, wobbling, and he grips Coco's shoulders, "You...told them about me?"

Coco nods happily and the smile Hector adores so much paints her face wonderfully, "¡Si! I- Miguel, they found out he wanted to play music. Elena wouldn't allow it but, my Miguelito, he's so talented. He reminds me so much of you, papa."

Though Hector has no inkling as to who either of those people are, he's ecstatic. Two. Two people already know about him.

"They almost broke his guitar, el pobrecito." Coco reminisces. She recalls the way Miguel and Elena shouted at each other, each inheriting a firey passion for what they loved, and not backing down from what they stood for. Miguel venomously cursed his family's ofrenda. Elena was close to smashing his instrument to pieces on the dirt.

"I tried to stopped them from yelling. From fighting." Coco continues. "I told them stories. Of-Of you playing music and mama singing and-" She stops abruptly. A bewildered look crosses her face.

"Your photo." Coco gasps. She holds her father by the wrist, enclosing her hand carefully around the sensitive bone.

Hector's look is anxious. The talk of a photo always brought a bad taste in his mouth. "I-I have one, I do but...but I don't know how to get it on an ofrenda." He sighs and from the satchels attached to the weak rope around his hips, he pulls out a folded photograph, graying and old. He smoothes it out to present his lively, full-of-flesh face. The uneasiness of his smile, the oversized teeth, known for sticking out, the large nose protruding from between two bright eyes. Coco had almost forgotten that what that all looked like. 

Coco takes the picture gently in her hands and her fingers pinch it so hard it creases. Her voice is lower than she wishes it to be, "You were trying to cross the bridge."

Hector leans back on the wall of the trolley. The sun feels warm against his bones. "I tried every Dia de Muertos Coco. Lo juro. But no photo on an ofrenda, no crossing the bridge." He sighs distastefully, his hat shadowing his sullen eyes.

"No, no, papa!" Coco exclaims suddenly and pulls at the end of his purple vest. "Papa, I put up your photo!"

Hector looks down at her disbelievingly. He had only ever taken a handful of pictures in his life. The head shot in Coco's hands, and a family portrait were the most memorable. By the scanners, through his numerous attempts, he'd watched Imelda and her growing family cross. Her picture would come up on the screens, the same family picture of her and Coco and the body of a man with his head torn clean off. The image seared itself into his brain and it was then he truly realized any attempt to mend the relationship he had with Imelda and his family and even Coco, was tarnished.

"Your mama's photo?" Hector manages.

Coco beams, "Yes, that photo, papa, she-" Her sentence wavered. She clears her throat, "-mama tore it. But I kept your photo. I had Elena put it up, so you can cross over now!" She sounds triumphant. The amount of suffering her father was subjected to must have been inhumane and to her, this may not be enough to comfort him.

But to Hector?

Hector feels the ghost of happy tears pool in his eyes, misty they've gone. With a deep breath, he bellows out un grito louder than a grown man's laugh and, once again, has Coco in his arms. He spins her, hugs her, holds her, and they laugh together in celebration. The ramp teeters the slightest bit, and Coco's maternal instincts come into play when Hector staggers too close to the edge.

"¡Papa, con cuidado!" Coco chuckles and Hector sets her back down to her feet. His grin is as crooked as ever and just as warm as Coco remembers.

"We have to celebrate!" Hector encourages. "You're here. I'm here. Next Dia de Muertos we can cross over, juntos y todo, Coco!" The tone of Hector's voice is optimistic and enthusiastic; the same tone that grew excited for future experiences that hadn't even taken place yet.

Even though every wrong factor that could ruin this for her runs through her head, Coco can't think of that now. She has to look at everything good. There's no happiness in dwelling on the negative. So Coco agrees and smiles, "Of course, papa."

Hector's golden tooth shimmers in the light. An odd little trait giving him so much character. Coco doesn't remember it and worries for the missing tooth. He doesn't even have it in his photo.

"May I keep this?" Coco asks nonchalantly at the picture still in her hand. Hector scoffs passively, the trolley slowing.

"You can rip it up for all I care, mija," Hector says mindlessly. That photo's held onto hope he doesn't need anymore; Coco is his hope now. That photo taunted him for a number of years and he doesn't need that reminder anymore.

Their trolley comes to a stop. The skeletons filter out in groups and Hector pulls Coco out into the busy plaza. The streets are decorated up and down with stands of home food, skillfully made trinkets, clothing, blankets, jewelery. Anything a person seemed to need, the markets had it.

The area was riddled with people of every age and time. Coco noticed the abundance of women in their traditional huipil dresses, the men downed in charro suits, yet mixing in with the girls in blue jeans and boys in satin button-ups. Even the alebrijes, mismatched and multicolored, had an authentic, unique tone to them. Not a single one was the same, and Coco simply oogles at the variety.

Hector places his hands on her shoulders and declares proudly, endearingly, "Welcome to Plaza de Juchipila."

Coco has stars twinkling in her eyes.

"No to emociones tanto, mija, we're just passing through." Hector says almost apologetically. He wanted so desperately to show her this new world. He wants to take her to his favorite dulceria, to the stages, to the markets selling a million different foods they're famous for creating. He wants to be able to make sense of her surroundings, to teach her everything he knows.

But the day wasn't very young. Though the sun was still out and Hector yearned to show Coco what the Land of the Dead had to offer, he only had a day.

He only had a day.

Coco understood the rush. Their viaje was long, their early encounters hectic. And she knows all the spare time in the world could never make up the years she lost with her father.

But they were both certainly ready to try.

"Where are we going then, papa?" Coco asks and he takes her hand again, marching his way through the crowds with a definite goal. He makes her feel so young and little again. Like thing's haven't changed.

"Home! Well, to my home at least. We have a lot of catching up to do, mija, an-and I have some people for you to meet!" Hector says, "I-It's not much, where I live, but it's quiet." His unsteady grin is back. Shantytown is sharp change to what Coco knows, perhaps not the best place to be. But it's all he has.

Coco chuckles, "Ay papa, just as long as we are together, that's fine."

Even with the lack of a stomach, Hector still feels butterflies knocking about. He clenches a fist to his chest, "Hijole, chuiquita, are you trying to make me cry again!" He laughs and kisses her knuckles once more, then the swirls on her temple, and Coco eyes squint with her smile.

They sweep through the streets and pass stands smelling of sweet cinnamon and sugar. The warmth emanates from behind the counters of those selling food that makes Coco's mouth water. The markets are lively and full and Coco feels a giggle bubble up from her throat at the simple genuineness of it all. Hector can see her eyes wander and stop at a specific little shop, dripping with pops of color, and of course Coco would drift towards it.

"La neveria?" Hector smirks and it's full of knowing mirth. Coco unconsciously smacks at the bone of his shoulder, careful of his wounds, and scoffs.

"Just because I'm old, doesn't mean I don't enjoy ice cream, papa."

Hector grins, "Ah, of course, you're absolutely right." He yanks her forward with as much tenderness as his excitement can manage. The entirety of the situation gives him an overall sense of home. Of things from before. So naturally, like he remembered, Coco still retained her violent sweet tooth.

She clenches her father's hand tightly. Behind the glass, tubs are littered in a variety of flavors and combinations, overfilled with toppings, gleaming of color. Hector nearly presses his skull to the pane like a child, "¿Cual quieres?"

Coco purses her lips, thinks, and opens her mouth to speak before Hector interrupts.

"Wait-wait-espera, I know!" His teeth bared with a grin as he scans over the menu filled to the brim with options. Knuckles to his chin, he pauses. Snaps his fingers.

"¡Fresas con crema!"

Coco awes at the choice; if she were honest, she was going for simple vanilla. Nothing extravagant. But fresas con cream, ay, she hadn't had in such a long time. She's reminded of the sudden little parlor down their street in their living days, where they knew Coco by name and Hector by sound and he would get mango and Coco her fresas. She sighs pleasantly.

"You remember?"

Hector pulls on the red sash around his neck, "Mija, of course! My body may be falling apart, but my memories are still intact."

Though the macabre joke doesn't fully sit well with Coco, she brushes it off. He speaks so little of himself and Coco's ready to scold him and address it. He orders her dessert with anticipation and they watch in captured admiration as the woman behind the counter assembles it with expertise. The frosted cup numbs Coco's hand as it's handed to her, and Hector struggles to keep his own chocolate scoops upright as he pays. 

"¡Muchas gracias!" Hector calls behind and the stocky woman kindly waves them goodbye, back on their track through the streets. The first bite Coco takes chills her teeth sharply. She'd wished she could forget what that felt like. But the sweetness makes up for the coldness and she hums in satisfaction.

"I haven't had this in so long." Coco voices aloud. She chews on the various slices of fresh strawberries buried into her ice cream and gasps when Hector's quick fingers dip down to steal one of them. She bumps her shoulder into her fathers arms.

"¡Papa!"

Hector laughs, biting into the frozen fruit, but his features soon scrunch in distaste, "Dios, esta agrio; those are so sour, Coco!"

When they were alive, Hector was prone to do the exact same thing and proceeded to complain the exact same way. Coco would slap his hand away with her tiny ones when he tried to steal her strawberries and giggle at him when he whined about their flavor. They were either too sweet or too bitter and nothing satisfied him more than the mere annoyance it brought out from his daughter.

Even now, the faint hint of irritation is present on Coco, but overswept with infatuation. Her papa hasn't changed one bit.

"Te lo mereces." Coco huffs.

Hector exclaims in feign hurt, licking the ice cream dripping onto his fingers to soothe the tart flavor, "Que groserita eres Coco," And he pinches her cheekbone in obvious mischief. She bats his hands away with a smile and continues to gradually down the fresas. The inside of her mouth has lost feeling to the cold, but it's sweetness still remains.

The sun begins to hang in the sky. It's still a lively, soft blue. Their path grows narrower, away from the cities and civilization. Hector guides Coco down a rickety bridge threatening to break underneath their feet, suspended in the air by towers of wood looking far too thin to hold them up. Hector withstands the urge to jump from the ledge like he usually does, considering the circumstances, and hops the creaky stairs two at a time instead.

"Watch your step mija." Hector warns at the end, watching Coco pick up the end of her pink dress to step carefully down. The ground was much filthier here, caked in soot and blackened dirt. Hector lead the way towards an opening decorated in paintings of dancing skeltons and the planks of flooring felt looser than before.

There was a warm glow in their new surroundings. The dimmed lanterns casted faint shadows over their skulls and, barely a few feet in, her father's name is already called by a group huddled to their side.

"¡Cousin Hector!"

Cousin. They called him cousin.

Hector greets them with his own forceful acknowledgements, voice loud and full of admiration, ¡Tios! Que onda!, and they come back with hearty laughs built only for older men of their stature. Coco nearly glues herself to Hector side as they pass by, stumbling slightly on a faulty plank.

Hector catches her quickly and chuckles, "Mija, I said watch your step."

Coco holds onto his arm, the one free of tape and fractures, and watches the flooring like a hawk, "It seems dangerous down here, papa. What is this place?"

"Shantytown. And, it's only dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."

"I don't know what I'm doing," Coco pouts. Her eyes skim the passing homes and skeletons, each look just as devastating as the last. "This is where you live?"

"That's why you have your papa here to help you!" Hector convinces and that guilty grin sets onto his face like glue. Even through his next choice of words, which he shouldn't be smiling at, but does so anyways because what else is there to do. "And yes, this is where I live. I told you it wasn't much but, it's where the forgotten end up. We have no photos, no ofrendas, so we stick together. Call each other a family, y'know?" Hector explains easily. It stopped hurting so much awhile ago, but voicing it aloud for her daughter, it hurt an entirely different way he wasn't so sure he could manage. Coco knows the way to survive the hardships he suffered, Hector had to sacrifice emotions and feelings, perhaps even entire memories to keep himself sane. He made a life for himself here. It wasn't with her mama and her family like she would have hoped, but it was something.  

During her little self-interrogation, Hector's attention soon strays away, out-of-the-blue, and he erupts into a loud, shrill whistle. Coco startles from her thoughts, glancing towards whomever caught his eye.

"¡Tio Hector!"

A child. A young boy.

Tio. Her papa's also a tio.

"¡Chamaco!" Hector says warmly and his voice holds nothing but tenderness. The young skeleton couldn't be older than eleven, covered in clothing looking far more cleaner than most occupying the space here, but still not quite clean to call normal. His bones were a touch nicer than the others too, a bit more lively and vibrant. But his smile could blind a diamond and his eyes couldn't compare to the glimmer of a star.

"Ven, ven," Hector calls him over and the child runs into him so directly Coco's afraid he'd fall apart like pins. Hector nearly topples like a tower. The child giggles as he ruffles his messy, jet black hair.

"Toma." Hector bends to one knee, presenting the child his cone of chocolate ice cream nearly dripping down his hand. But the boy still gasps enthusiastically and takes the cone in his small hands, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh! For-For me?"

"All of it, kid."

The child sucks the drop of chocolate landing on his fingertip and grins, "¡Gracias Tio Hector!"

Coco's heart melts at the child's adorning words. So young and he holds so much love for the littlest favors. He licks around his dessert as Hector pinches his non-existent cheeks between his fingers and thumb. "You're welcome, hijo. Ve, andale, con tu tia, I'll be over in a bit, si?"

The child nods politely and brushes past Coco with another thank you trailing behind him. He reminds her fondly of Miguel, down to the messy hair and gapped teeth.

"Children too?" Coco asks gently. She'd understand the erasure of older people, those who don't have much time left, who age as well as their memories do. But children are so young. So influential. Could no one remember him?

Use to every individual walking through Shantytown, Hector only sighs. He's seen it all from toddlers under eight to adults over a hundred. Nothing lasts forever, and it's worse when it's someone so young.

"Si mija. Anyone can be forgotten. He has his own story, mis tios, mis tias tambien, and so do I. We all have a reason." Hector explains. It's not as solemn as one would expect, because they understand. Things aren't always very fair nor are they nice; life goes on, however. And they live.

Coco slips her arm around her fathers own, smiles. No amount of wishing could erase what had happened, but they were in the midst healing. Of reconnecting. Coco had all the time in the world now.

The explanations don't cause Hector the pain they had in his earlier years, but telling his daughter of the extremities certain souls were forced to go through hurt in its own way. Shaking it off, he holds Coco's arm to his, descending down his entended path once more.

"But enough of that!" Hector brushes off, "Today's about being remembered for us, mija. We have...a lot to discuss anyways." He murmurs and his shoulders curl up. He'd have to tell Coco everything. He'd been preparing that before she'd even turned ten.

After a walk down a deck so rickety Coco's afraid they're going to end up drenched in the water below, they come upon a series of little dark huts, illuminated by the glow of a few candles and lamps. Some of the homes are nearly falling apart, but they emit a strange sort of comfort. Coco begins to ask which one is his, which one had he lead her to for their talk, before Hector's loud voice rings out into the cold air once more.

"¡Tia Chelo!"

His tone is so bright and cheery and genuine and Coco rolls her eyes at the very thing. He's always so distracted.

"¡Hector!" A woman's harsh voice spat. They'd approached a little group of women around a wooden table, playing cards. The one speaking stood, eyes narrowed as she trudged up to her father. Coco had the faint feeling of standing in front of him and protecting him, but his nervous grin told her this was his predicament. And he knew he was going to get into trouble for it. 

"Where did you go running off like that!" Chelo demands, pinching Hector's sleeve between her fingers. She lifts his arm and it dangles weakly, her prowling eyes checking for one thing out of place. She props his chin up, props it down, opens his jacket to peek inside the ribcage so delicate and ready to crumble. Hector yelps and bats her hands away, flustered.

"Tia Chelo, I'm fine!" Hector huffs. Chelo's eyes soften.

"They didn't hurt you?"

"Of course not, but-"

"You're not in trouble?"

"No, no, I had-"

Chelo's eyes harden again and she interrupts him with a sharp flick to the bone of his nose, his head tipping back in pain as he cups his palm against it. He cries out in surprise, holding his hands to his face. Coco grasps the end of her fathers arm, eye sockets furrowed in worry. This time she does trust her instincts and steps in front of him, shielding him from the stranger before her. "¡Señora-!"

"¡Que te pasa Hector!" Chelo spits. Her words are like venom to Hector's invisible ears. She seems to ignore Coco's obvious protective stance and the snickers heard from behind, his primas laughing at his misery. "Dios mio, why were you running off like that then, menso?"

An uneasy chuckle. It does nothing but harm his explanation. He takes Coco by the shoulders, soothing her worry, and pulls her to his side. Chelo wasn't very known to grow angry but it never ceased to frighten him when she did. She was an exceptionally strong woman and had no issue in keeping those in line. Hector chews on his lip.

"Tia Chelo, I-" His words get caught in his throat. The fingers on his daughter's, his daughter's, scapula's tighten. "The Department-"

"Ya se. We were yelling to you after you ran, why didn't you stop?"

"Ay Tia, I got called up-"

"That's no excuse to leave us in the dark!"

"That's why I'm trying to tell you-"

"Do you know how worried we've been? We have no way of contacting you Hector!" Chelo's arms fold across her chest, "We don't know where you are ever. And you nearly broke the only operating phone in this town!"

He whines, "Tia I'll fix it-"

"That's not the point!"

"Then let me get to the point!" Hector's voice in borderline manic now. He's desperate to get his two cents in and the grinding sound of his primas laughter in the back deepens his annoyance. The two women nearly topple off their stools with gasping breaths and Hector can smell the alcohol from here.

Chelo hisses at them sharply, ya basta, las dos, and their laughter only seems to simmer down to sputtering giggles. Hector narrows his eyes, but cowers under Chelo's own. Coco can feel his hands shaking on her clavicles and she rests her fingertips atop them. Easing his anxiety, or excitement. She can't read his feelings very well.

"Tia Chelo," Hector begins, glancing down at Coco briefly, "I'd like you to meet my daughter."

For the first time during their argument, Chelo seems to acknowledge Coco's existence. The anger leaves her eyes and the laughing dies out from the table. Coco stands straight, defiant. Countless times she'd spent under the scrutiny of her mother's gaze, one that could cut through a living, breathing body and this felt like nothing to what she had had been through. But there's no ill intent in Chelo's eyes. Just surprise. Pure surprise.

"You're lying." Chelo says bluntly. Hector looks taken back.

"Lying?! Why would I be lying?"

"She," Chelo motions to Coco. Her eyes skim over her form, over the markings on her face, almost identical to Hector's. The cheekbones as defined, but rounder. His same eyes with the same depth hidden in them. Chelo shakes her head, "She?"

Coco holds out her hand, wary, "Coco Rivera, señora." Her words are polite and courteous. Hector makes a weak noise behind her.

"Coco, I wanted to introduce you-"

"¿Tienes hija?" Chelo's voice is full of disbelief. His primas from behind whistle, and one speaks with a precise drawl, "You're a Rivera?"

Hector manages a grim laugh. He didn't expect it to go this way, but if he were honest, he'd never thought about the possibility of presenting Coco to his little family at all. The outcomes were unpredictable and this seemed to be the way things were playing out now. He'd have to run with it. So he pinches the bridge of his nose, still faintly stinging from it's earlier assault, "I'm not a liar, Tia."

"Yes you are, Hector." His prima accuses from the table, nursing a drink in her hand.

"Aleida, callate." Chelo commands and only receives peals of snickers in response. Coco smiles vaguely; she remembers her mother and the many accidental curses flying from her lips towards her uncles, their mischief causing headaches and sore throats. Her papa's family seemed no different than her own.

Even if he was technically, actually, really apart of her family too.

Coco's arm was starting to get tired.

There seems to be a switch that flips inside of Chelo. Her eyes widen, she clicks her teeth, "Baboso, you never said you had a daughter!" She bends nearly in half to level with Coco, taking her extended hand in a firm grip to pull her close. Surprising Coco, Chelo cups her face and she'd know for a fact her cheeks would be squishing up childishly had she still owned them. Chelo coos at her softly turning her skull this way and that and swiping her fingers over the stray hairs framing her face.

"¡Que linda estas! And you're Hector's daughter?"

A nod. "Si Señora, I-"

"Aye chamaca, no formalities! His family is our family." Chelo smiles, skimming her fingers over the same markings on her bones she'd grazed on Hector's own. Coco feels warmth in her heart; through the hard shells these women had grown, there was am incredible softness that seeped out when important things came into play. Like family. Coco chuckles lightly

"Of course, uh-"

"Tia, niña. Just tia."

"Tia. Of course, tia." Coco emphasizes. She hears the impatient groan behind her and recognizes it all too well, her father standing in the space between them.

"Mira, we're doing this all over again."

"Papa-"

"Coco," Hector cuts off, motioning to the woman in front of them, "This is my Tia Chelo." Chelo plants her hands on her hips, fed up, but amuses him. The tweak of her smile, however, isn't forced.

"And over there," He indicates behind her to the table of two girls Coco had already taken a strong liking to. "Those are my primas, Aleida y Elise."

Aleida, or Elise, Coco isn't very sure who's who, tips her head to her while the other raises her glass, the drink sloshing around in the cup. Coco waves back. A blanket of contentment now drapes over Hector and he smiles, fulfilled. It was the sense of normal that he strived for. The concept and being of family. Chelo claps a hand on Hector's back and Coco worries for his tired bones. They shake, but there's no pain visible on his face, at least none that Coco can see. It's unsettling. He only beams and disguises the fact it almost popped his rib out of place.

"You have to tell us everything! Ven, ven," Chelo guides them towards their table, one of the girls shuffling their aged deck and looking at them expectantly. Hector shakes his head as his fingers fiddle with the bones of his wrist.

"Oh, no," He frowns apologetically, "No, no, tia, I don't have much time with her left, I need to talk to her-"

"Time?" A puzzled look from Chelo. "What do you mean time?"

Hector doesn't want to recount the events from earlier again. They were embarrassing and difficult to process, save for the part of meeting Coco. His heart still felt heavy whenever he spoke of Imelda, but Coco's presence eases the weight of it just a little. He can't stand the thought of telling his family his wife hated him to the point of banning him entirely from his other family.

Hector grimaces, "I'll tell you later, tia, I promise. But now," He looks down at Coco, his daughter quiet and ever so patient through this messy process. She hadn't complained once, nor objected while he tried so desperately to give them a moment to speak. She'd waited almost a hundred years; she could take a few more hours.

"It's complicated right now." He chuckles, tense. Chelo raises her eye socket at him. Hector has learned today that nothing will stop him from getting to speak with her. Even if he was a bit abstracted and tried to come back on track. Hector was just antsy and so horribly emotional he isn't sure if his feelings had ever settled to begin with.

After enough convincing, Chelo let's them free. She's confused, as anyone would be, but she releases them with the promise of answers to her questions.

"Tell us everything when you're done, Hector, or I swear-"

"¡Si, si, lo prometo!" Hector breathes out, relieved. Even Coco's tense shoulders relax underneath his hands. He rushes to their goodbyes and kisses Chelo on each high cheekbone too quick for her to comprehend before he's making his way back down the path.

"¡Hasta luego, tia!" Hector calls.

Chelo rolls her eyes and sighs, waves when Coco does as her words and the ones from Elise (or Aleida) mix together.

"¡Adios Coco!"

"It was nice meeting you, mija."

"¡Igualmente!" Coco bids as well. They were an interesting little trio; not even a fraction to what seemed to be her father's entire family here. She felt relief knowing they were whom Hector had surrounded himself with. Societies haven't changed and people never do and she was grateful her papa was as safe as safe could be in his situation.

Chapter Text

"They're nice." Coco voices once Hector tugs her down yet another rickety bridge, still seemingly unfinished.

Hector laughs minutely, "Yes, overbearing, but nice."

They make it near the very end, where the water was vast and open and the low sun shone down on its dark waves. A small shack just barely passing off as housing sat beside it, water lapping at the sides and withering the wood. Coco chews on her lip at the sight. Hector simply pushes the door open to let them inside, pulling Coco into the place he had resided in for the last century. It wasn't anything close to special; the floor was built with planks chipping away almost entirely. The walls almost a carbon copy of it. In various corners of the home lay boxes of small trinkets, unnecessary items stacked upon each other of no valuable use. There was a single window by the side of the water, open with no glass. A hammock hung beside it and a candle flickered faintly on a makeshift autemen, illuminating a small stack of books. The buzz of a radio, vaguely playing music, was heard throughout the house. Not much else seemed to be around.

Hector felt the claws of shame unsheath when he watched Coco's evaluating gaze, but refused to let that overcome him; he had somewhere to sleep, a roof over his head, a place to call home. He didn't mind it. He couldn't afford to mind it. He had to live with what was given to him and make the best of a bad situation. Whatever his situation was anyways.

Coco wouldn't dare judge the way things were like Hector would. He thinks of himself as shabby and unwanted, scrapped away like something off the bottom of a shoe. Coco thinks of him as a survivor.

"It's nothing special," He says gently. His voice seemed quieter than when they were outside. "But it's mine." A sad smile makes his way to his face as he limps towards a bed tucked against the wall straight across the hammock. Coco notices the stained bedding and the springs coiling out; it's nothing more than a mattress with a sheet and a pillow in need of a wash. He sits atop it with a clatter and beckons Coco forward.

Coco watches the clinking of his ribcage when he sits and feels sympathy stir within her. He looked so rushed, so barely put-together. Any movement from him looked like it hurt and she was certain he had become accustomed to the pain.

"Papa?" Coco asks as she climbs on beside him, afraid for the weak wood.

"¿Mande, mija?" Hector answers. He rests his arm on his bent knee, awaiting her questions. He knows this isn't what normal feels like, nor what a home should be. How he lives and how he is? It's disgraceful to him. But he's never wanted more than what he has right now. His daughter. And he's ready for anything she has to say to him.

"Tu cuerpo," Coco questions and it's absolutely not what Hector was expecting her to say, especially out of everything present around them. She continues without a thought, not really caring for their surrounding area. It doesn't compare to the things she wants to ask him now, "If I put your photo up, and remembered you, shouldn't you-," She swallows, "Shouldn't you not be looking like that? Shouldn’t you be healing?"

Hector blinks. Surrounded by junk and mess and pure poverty and Coco still only worries about his well-being, his person, him. He can't remember that last time someone asked about his health. How he was doing, if he fixed that faulty femur, if it hurts more today than yesterday. Hector exhales a breath, looking himself over. Confusion flashes across his face, "I suppose so. When did you tell people about me?"

"Last Dia de Muertos."

That was only a good two months at the most. "On the day?"

"Yes." Coco assures, "Did you not notice? You didn't visit then?"

Hector's memories card through the previous holiday, a certain upset seamstress, and a missing Frida Kahlo dress. He winces in embarrassment. Then sadness. Another failed attempt at crossing the bridge had prevented him from actually standing in line to take his picture; continuously being denied entry had just stuck to his mind that he was never going to get past those scanners via getting scanned. He smacks a palm to his forehead.

"How could I be so stupid?" He mutters. Ruffles his hair and takes the straw hat down with him. It's a mess of pure black strands that haven't changed since the last time she saw him. Nothing of him has changed at all, really.

Coco's smile is crooked and it bears a near resemblance to Hector's own. "Papa did you forget?"

He nods sheepishly, massaging his temples, "Si Coco. It never-" Hector clears his throat, "I tried a lot of ways to cross that bridge. I never thought of standing in line anymore. I got rejected so much." His laugh is bittersweet. In a sense, it's not funny. It's not remotely funny to Hector, but if he doesn't laugh or make jokes or ridicule, he'll be buried. It'll weigh so heavily it may crush him completely. It's a coping mechanism. And Coco knows he can't control it, but maybe she can ease it for him.

"Not anymore papa." Coco takes his hand and holds it; she wish they had flesh, skin calloused and aged, dry and smooth, wrinkled and rough, so she's certain they've both aged and grown. But their skeletons clack like rocks and it's all she has for now. Much more than she's ever had in the past. "You can visit anytime you'd like now."

Hector squeezes her palms, "The only reason I wanted to cross was because of you. You're here now, so I'm not sure..." He trails off. Imelda and her family visit every holiday. It'd be awkward and odd so show up in a place he knew he had no means of being in. Coco shakes her head, "Papa I want you to be there. If I cross, you cross. The world has changed so much and I want you to see it with me."

"Has it?" He says with a chuckle. The world kept turning around him and he hadn't ever stopped to notice. Coco would be so excited to show him her sights, her home. She'd be that excitable little girl all over again. Perhaps by next year, he could heal enough to cross. Appear presentable and formal, to not have those same dirty looks from passersby pierce him.

"Well, I'll be honest with you, this," Hector points to his right clavicle, the faint line of a crack tethered in. "It was chipping about a month ago. Now it's better than ever. I thought it was done for, Coco." His laugh makes that one irritating, loose rib shake and Hector catches her worried stare, "¿Y este? Nearly a goner! Almost fell out the same month but," He shakes it underneath his finger, "Stronger than before."

He knows it's a stretch, but it's the truth. In the last year, he was worried he'd lose so many bones he may as well fall apart there and then. Some of his family, his tias or primos are missing entire limbs, like arms or legs, and he'd been too afraid to get to that point. But he doesn't take care of himself. Now that his daughter's dead, he has a reason to stay whole. For her.

Coco sighs. Takes his word for it. Let's time take it's tole. "If you say so papa." Her fingers grip his own and they pinch easily through each separate bone. She studies him from wrist to elbow to shoulder to neck. His markings are bright and colorful and so vastly different than anything else; they're brilliant and pretty, though a little faded. They're the most solid thing about him. He looks undeniably young with his hair and high cheekbones, his childlike smile and eyes. He seems to not have aged a day. Coco's hand shakes as she holds him tight.

"Papa," Her eyes are terribly sad. They gloss over with fresh tears, the apparition of them, and it burns something fierce. "Papa, what happened?"

Hector feels the wind knocked out of him. His nerves are on end and it aches to even look at how upset Coco is. He can't help but think she's upset with him. He exhales deeply, soothing himself, clenching Coco's hand. This was it. "I'm sorry, Coco. I'm so sorry-" His voice breaks off into a choke cry. It's been years since the last time he's allowed himself to cry, to feel any sort of emotion relating to sadness because he deserved this.

That is no one's fault but your own .

Imelda's words echo through his head. He had a choice, and he chose wrong. He's the reason why everything is so awful.

Coco holds him hard enough she's afraid he may snap. But Hector's unbreakable. His eyes are just so sad and his teeth nearly chatter when he speaks, "I should have never left, Coco. I should have stayed home. I'm so sorry." His words are thick but clear. If there's anything Coco needs to hear, it's this. "It's my biggest regret, mija. I haven't forgiven myself, I could never forgive myself."

If skeletons had ducts in their eyes, Coco was certain her father would be spilling tears over like waterfalls. She's almost grateful they can't. Seeing Hector only barely misty makes her wish it were all just okay again. She'd never seen her father cry, she may never see him cry, but this was so much worse.

"If I could go back, Coco, I would." Hector sniffs and holds Coco's trembling hand to his cheek. Comfort. Closeness. He holds her there and sobs, "It's the worse choice I've ever made."

"It's over papa." Coco tries. She skims her fingers over his cheekbone. "No matter how much we wish it, how much we want it, we can never go back. This is us now."

Hector sighs and it seems to make his entire body throb, "It didn't have to be. If I just stayed-"

"No more ifs papa." Coco shakes her head. Her voice is sharp and she hates that it has to be, but the need to get through to her father is strong. "We cannot live through ifs. The past won't change. We have what we have and we must work with it."

A beat of silence. A sniffle and a forced chuckle, "Mi angelita. When did you get so wise?" Hector wipes at his eyesockets, squeezes his fingers under her chin and she smiles. Everything's so different, and they have to live with the fact there's nothing wrong with different. It's calming now. A good different.

Though, Coco still has questions, bad-memory questions that she doesn't want to bring up in fear of the answers. But if not now, then when? It never seems to be the right time and she just needs to clear her brain, clear her conscious. The terror runs through her when she opens her mouth, "Can I ask you something, papa?"

"Anything, Coco." Hector nods but those words make his entire body freeze. It's a scary sentence and no one ever truly knows what may come after it. It sets off a vibrant alarm in his head. But he keeps his composure and ignores the way his hands quiver against his daughters.

"Why didn't you come back?"

Her question tears into him. He's had explanation after explanation, eulogies and apologies rehearsed over and over, saved for this very moment. To hear that question finally, after a long, long time of waiting was agonizing. Everything flew from his head and he only spoke on the very few words that managed to scramble together in his brain.

"I died, Coco."

She expected that. Rumors flew her pueblo that her father was unfaithful, ran into the arms of another to betray her and her mother. Rumors that music was more important and his career could never match up to his family. She'd never believed them. Hector loved her, loved Imelda, and Coco could never explain why he never returned, but knew it couldn't have been what others had predicted. She glances up at him with uncertain eyes, "When...When did you die? How did you die?"

Hector feels his face heat up. He thanked all the stars above for his lack of blood and skin. "It...I-,"

Coco leans in, eyes worried and frantic. He sighs.

"Food poisoning." He murmurs. It hangs heavily in the air, the very thing that held him back from going home. An embarrassing way to go out and Hector knew that, of course he did. Had he not died so stupidly he could have...he may have...

I shouldn't have left in the first place.

When Hector expected anger, he only received relief. Coco lets free a breath she had seemed to be holding for years. Her head spins so horribly she presses her palm against her temple. "Papa-"

"I know, I know, Coco, I-"

"I thought you got hurt." She rushes out. Her breathing comes out in small pants and Hector has to grip her forearms to keep her from completely lossing everything. "I thought...I thought someone hurt you." She cries. For years she'd accepted the fact her father had gotten into some sort of trouble, had been beaten or left for dead, had been attacked or killed or tortured. Murdered.

But it was just food poisoning.

Knowing that had never made her so happy.

She jumps her father in a hug and Hector's taken completely back. He's been through laughter, merciless mocking, pity and disgust; not anything close to this. It's unusual. It's strange. His arms wrap tentatively around Coco and she laughs a quiet laugh into his neck.

"You seem excited about that." He teases lightly and Coco pulls back to shove at his shoulder.

"That's not why, papa," Coco huffs. Her eyes soften, "Solo pense..."

A smile pulls at Hector's lips. He swipes her hair from her eyes and kisses her cheek lovingly. Only Coco had the ability to make him so affectionate after nearly crying his eyes out mere seconds ago. "Mi chiquita, I was fine. Just bad chorizo. Nothing more."

Coco shook her head. Clearing her thoughts. Everything she had been telling herself throughout her living life was either a lie or too terrible to be true. She was glad for the truth and felt complete comfort from it. Her father had died, but so had she and so had her family and everyone died but-

She couldn't put into words how elated she felt knowing it was just an accident that brought him here, like any other living person would go through.

"Did you try to come home at all?" Coco's voice was low and quiet.

Hector squeezes her shoulders, "I died on my way home, mija." He hates the way those warped memories play through his head. They're not completely clear, but they're there. Enough that he remembers the pain and the call of his name and the rough impact of hard dirty floor and the sour tase of tequila lingering in his mouth. Coco can only hold her breath at that. On his way home meant she was still nearly five years old. He died the same way she remembered him; he hadn't aged since that very year, then. Her shoulders droop. "You died so young."

"Twenty-one." He bares his teeth in a grin. Coco was ninety-nine. He hardly lived a fraction of her life at all. So much he had missed. So many things had passed by him without his realization. She grew and grew and Hector hadn't even had a white hair on his head. It struck a cord in her.

Hector had made peace with the fact his life ended too early. Had he stayed home, maybe he could have lived longer. But fame and persuasian pulled him out the door, along with a greedy friend, and that was that. Life was cruel and unusual, but Hector was destined to live through it. Had overcome every trial and would again if he had to. Coco couldn't fathom the amount of strength her father had to keep going; he was a persistent young man and Coco found the greatest love and respect within that.

"You never stopped trying to come home." She confirms.

The tears make it back to Hector's eyes and he's so tired of the blur they cause, "I thought about nothing else, Coco."

She'd never left his memory for a century.

Hector pulls her close, rests his forehead on hers again, feels his chest heaving with deep breaths that he didn't know he needed. He needed air and he needed to breathe and his chest felt entirely constricted. "You and your mama, Coco. You two were all that kept me going." The bones of his hands pop as he balls them into fists and Coco eases them open with her own. "I left to help you. You both deserved so many wonderful things, a better life, and I only wanted to make that come true, but," He shook his head, "I-I messed up. I was selfish and I just left. How can a father do that to his family?"

Coco scowls, "Papa, none of this was your fault. Leaving wasn't the best choice you've made pero," Her mind struggles to find the words, "You wanted to come home. You didn't ask to die. It's not your fault. If you hadn't died, you would have come home." Coco swallows, "Right?"

Hector searches her eyes and kisses the space in between them, rests his lips there momentarily, the phantom feeling of her mother doing the same before departing rushing through her person. "Of course I would Coco. You-," Words fail him. He sniffs, "You're the only one that understands how long I've been waiting. How long I've needed this because-"

"-because I've needed it too." Coco finishes and they stare at each other with faint smiles and soft looks. "I've waited as long as you have."

"Exactamente." Hector groans and it's breaking every worry he had built up through the course of a hundred years. He curses the tears building in his eyes and Coco giggles at him, at the way he so desperately wants to rid himself of the emotions only she can seem to extract from him.

He kisses her cheeks again and Coco laughs again and it's wonderfully warm, with an acceptance and understanding they can solely grasp. His voice breaks away whenever he tries to create sentences and Coco pities him quietly. 

"Can you ever forgive me?"

A bitter chuckle escapes Coco, "Papa, I can't forgive you-"

Flashes of worry wash over him. The blink of panic and distress and Coco's quick to ease the fear so ready to take him over.

"-only because I was never mad at you. I can't forgive you when I wasn't upset. No te procupes, papa." She smiles as softly as she can and Hector whines dramatically, pulling anxiously at the knot of his bandana.

"Coco, don't do that to me!" He gasps, "I have an old heart, niña."

"You're twenty-one, papa."

"Ah, ah, ah, I'm a hundred and twenty-one. Still very much older than you, pequeña." He teases and pats the top of her head in mocking motions. Coco bats his hands away. Their conversation wasn't close to done. They have so much to discuss, so many things to share, so many feelings to express. Not enough time. Her eyes glance over to the window, on the face of the water where the sun lit it up in a soft pink.

"Is the sky red, papa?"

"It's orange at best." He scoffs. There's no time limit on reconciliation. Before, his anxiety would be skyrocketing. With Coco here, he feels untouchable. Able to do so much more than he was allowed in the past decades of living.

"Tell me how everything is over there," Hector begins. Their conversation on the trolley had revealed she had more family, or even friends, whom she loved deeply. Hector wanted to understand her living life just as much as he would her dead life.

The smile that Coco develops almost splits her face in two, "There's so much, papa! What-What do you want to know?"

Hector doesn't know where to begin, so he starts with what he knows. "Elena and...Miguel, was it? Tell me about them. ¿Son tus amigos?"

"They're family," Coco chuckles, "Elena's mi hija and Miguel's my great grandson."

"Great grandson?" Hector whistles, "And a daughter? How many grandchildren do I have?" He asks breathlessly, but it's genuine curiosity. Despite the way he exerts himself, Hector had always wanted to know what ties he had into the family. Seeing Imelda with hers, he'd desperately wanted to figure out who was who and which person related to which. He had to have his own tier on it.

"Two. Both granddaughters." Coco smiles. "My oldest is Victoria and my youngest Elena."

"Did they marry? How many children do they have? Are they still alive?" Hector shoots out question by question and Coco laughs at his enthusiasm.

"Victoria never married. Elena did, to a nice man, Franco. They had my grandchildren, Gloria, Enrique, and Berto." Coco continued, recalling her growing family. "Elena's still alive. She's a wonderful woman, takes after mama."

Hector can picture that almost clearly. Coco had never truly inherited the ways of her mother, not fully. She didn't embraced her strict lifestyle and controlling ways, but maintained a firey exterior that protected her. It was no surprise one of her daughters had ended up with Imelda's strong personality.

"Victoria's quieter. A bit of an attitude, on her, but she's perfect. She was here earlier, actually. If-If you saw her. The one with the yellow skirt?"

"She's dead?" Hector questions, disbelieving. He'd expected her daughters own children to remain alive at least as long as she had.

Short lives must run in the family.

A brief wave of hesitance crosses Coco's face and she shrugs, "She was sick. She died so young." Coco felt the uneasy feeling of grief and sorrow snake it's way into her skeleton. "I lost Rosita a good year before her. Then Julio after mi Vica. Mama and the twins had already passed awhile before, I had no one but Elena and-" Her voice breaks off into a quiet mess of nothing. Hector can't make sense of most of the people she mentions, but their deaths still seem fresh to her. She's felt lost and afraid and alone.

But her family grew. Her daughter had children who had their own children who now cause all sorts of noise and chaos around the house. It was noisy and loud and everything Coco wanted. Their home was filled with the sounds of family and she was grateful for it. Even when she lost her previous loved ones, she made room for more.

Hector presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Senses her despair. It hurts watching his daughter in pain. "Mi corazon, they're here with you now, are they not?" He soothes. Coco sniffles, thankful for his reassurance.

"They are. They're all here, you're even here. I just," Coco swallows down a cry and her eyes are heavy with a clinging sadness that hurts. It aches. "I just wish we were all together."

The confession pulls something in Hector's ribs and he's certain it's not an out-of-place bone. He'd wanted family his entire life. People around him that cared, that support him through everything, people he's grown up with and people he's helped grow. Yes, the folks of Shantytown are all that and more, but he's always thought about connecting with his own family. The ones with his blood and his name. Those dreams are everything he wishes for. Everything he wants and to most it may not seem like much, not even a dip in the pool of desire, but Hector had spent his entire afterlife striving for just that.

Coco rests against his side and Hector holds her close, the bed creaking underneath their weight. "Angelita, the things we want sometimes sound impossible. I mean, I never thought I'd see you again. It's a miracle I was able to." Hector threads his fingers through her loose braids, the white hair tickling his bones. "You think I don't want us to be together? To meet my grandchildren, my great grandchildren, their own kids?"

Coco sniffs. Pouts, "I know, papa. I know you want to see them too. A-And you deserve to see them."

"I can't Coco-"

"They're your family too!" It takes everything in Coco to not yell, "You're apart of his family. You have every right to see them as much as I do. I want you to meet them. None of them would be there if it weren't for you, papa." Coco pleaded.

"Your mama won't let me-"

"She doesn't speak for me!" Her resolve breaks and Hector's taken back from the force of her words. Coco loves her mother unconditionally, but she's so tired of her choices being made for her. Imelda chose to forbid music. Imelda chose to forget her father. Imelda banned him from the family and the ofrenda and Coco's tired of every decision made only by her mother. Granted, she's helped them immensely, more than they could have ever hoped for, but there's a line that must be drawn. And this is where Coco draws hers.

"They're my family too. Not just mama's. I've met your family here and I want you to meet mine." She smiles. Her eyes shine with profound love and adortion. Hector has the instinct to wipe her tears where there are none, so use to the way she would cry from pure happiness and pain and sadness. But he simply smiles and ruffles her already messy hair.

"Rebelion suits you, mija." He laughs and he knows she's right. He doesn't know how Imelda raised their daughter, what she's done or what's happened, but he knows Coco is anything but compliant and quiet. Her spirit is vigorous.

"I only want you to see your familia, papa." Coco picks at the frayed end of the sheet, it's threads separating finely. "They're apart of you as much as they're apart of me."

"She won't be happy with it." Hector sighs and the self-loathing is back. The absolute hatred he harbors for himself because of everything that's happened. Things so out of his control, but easily been prevented had he listened to his wife and child. It was a sick feeling. A mistake he continues to dwell on decades later.

Coco waves a hand dismissively, "I'll talk to her. She can't stay mad forever."

"She's done a fine job for the past hundred years, Coco."

"Pues, I'm here now. I've changed things in my living life and I'll change them in my afterlife." She huffs confidently. Mind made up, nothing seems to fluster or change her. It's a solid tactic she's working on to assert herself against rules her mother's prone to make. She won't have any of it. Hector's nothing but proud for his daughter. How independently she's thinking and how focused she is on the better, in a future far from the slums and the forgotten.

Hector wraps her in a tight hug, still not at all tired of having her in his arms. She clasps him firmly. Afraid to let go. She still feels like that small little girl kneeling on her bed, or tiptoeing by her window, awaiting her fathers arrival and mulling over his departure. Having him embracing her like she's the most important thing in the world feels unreal.

"You're very stubborn," He snickers quietly. The teasing doesn't seem to cease with him. Coco hums in retaliation, "I wonder who I get it from."

"Are you accusing me of something, Coco Rivera?" He gasps is false shock, clutching a hand to where his heart would lay.

"I never said anything about you, papa." Coco lifts her head in a faux-poised manner. The dam of giggles seems to break from that and they spill over along with the snorting laughter of her father. The moment is nice, and throughout the entire ordeal, the concept of time seems to slip directly past them.

A deep thump interrupts them.

A collision so hard it rattles the tiny shack and startles the two almost completely off the bed. The outer bridge shakes with whatever weight seems to be pressing upon it. Coco clings onto Hector in fear and the red flags in his head seem to go off.

They dissappear when the flashing mess of colors presents itself in all her feline glory.

"¿Pepita?"

The creature emits a faint purr of acknowledgement, her wonderous eyes raking over both Coco and Hector. She lights up the entire room with a strobe of colors too bright to handle and Hector leaves the comforting presence of his daughter to march up to her.

"Ah, ah, no, back up," Hector says a hairs breath away from demanding. Pepita looks at him. Blinks. She lifts one massive paw and steps through the open window.

"Pepita no!" Hector seems to use his entire body strength to lift her arm, pushing back against her perseverance to get into the home. "¡Pa fuera! Now, go!"

Coco had never seen such a beast. Everything about her was tremendous; from the body to the wings to the air surrounding her. There was nothing close to her in the living land and she was almost too frightened to ask questions.

"What...What is it?" Coco asks.

Hector digs his heels into the planks of wood and presses his back to rival the animal's strength. It's close to ineffective, "This incredibly annoying little thing is Pepita." 

Pepita growls lowly.

"She's an alebrije. Your mama's to be exact." Hector huffs as her large head nudges into the bones of his spine, almost severing him in half.

"Does she always show up here?" Coco asks as she steps forward. The panicked feeling from before rushes out of her as the curiosity sets in. She reaches her hand out to brush her knuckles against Pepita's cheek. Her fur is soft to the touch.

"Sometimes. Not usually. But today she seemed to want to be very rude." He spits the last words behind clenched teeth. Pepita wasn't welcomed or unwelcomed company, but Hector had no space for her.

Plus, he doubts Imelda would be happy with the thought of her alebrije making friends with her forgotten husband.

Coco laughs gently as Pepita hesitantly licks the bones of her palms. Hector manages to pull her foot from inside his home and slips out with her from the low window. Coco follows enthusiastically; every new feature of the Land of the Dead only seemed prettier than the last and this alebrije was no exception.

Their combined weight on the deck worries the old wood. Pepita shines an array of brilliant colors and the sun, low in the sky as it is, hits every spot on her right.

The sky.

The sky's begun to turn red. And Pepita's visit is no coincidence.

Hector watches the alebrije's eyes shift towards Coco and Coco steps forth to pet her again. Her nose bumps into Coco's hands and her head lifts when she caresses underneath her chin. Hector scratches the back of his neck.

"Imelda sent you?"

Pepita stops. Blinks at him again. Bows her head once, enjoying the feeling of Coco gliding her fingers through her fur. Hector sighs. "You're here for her?" He jabs a thumb in the direction of his daughter. Pepita's throat vibrates with a low noise and Hector takes that as a yes. He limps up behind Coco, smiling at the wave of affection she gives the large creature so willingly.

"She's very pretty." Coco comments quietly, lost in her own little world, and Pepita's purring grows louder.

"She's come for you." Hector places his hands in her shoulders, squeezing. She has to go soon. He wishes he had more time.

Coco's furrows her sockets in confusion. Turns back to look up at him. "For me?"

"She has to take you home. The trip back will take too long; Pepita's a fast flyer."

"Flyer?" Coco whispers. Pepita knocks her snout into her arm. "A-Are you sure?"

"Ay Coco," Hector chuckles, "I know your mama and I know Pepita. They've come for you."

Pepita finalizes his statement by sitting flat on the floor, her back at a much easier access now. Coco glances between the alebrije at her feet and her father standing above her. She clenches her fists.

"I have to leave you?"

"Just for a little while longer, mija." Hector reassures. He's not sure if it's for him or Coco, but they need reassurnace. He struggles down to his knees and after his body going through nearly everything today, he hasn't stopped to acknowledge the way his bones scream tired. But he holds Coco just the same and stares directly, deeply into her eyes.

"I don't want to leave you." Coco's voice is paper thin. "I-I still have so much to say, we didn't have enough time to talk-"

"Ya se, Coco, ya se." Hector breathes, "I don't want you to go either." It takes everything in his person to not crumble in front of her again. "But you've been with me all day. Your family misses you."

Coco shakes her head. Doesn't admit the fact she misses them too. Hector grips her hands in his and he's afraid it may be the last for another long, long time. "Talk to your mama. Tell her you love her, okay?"

"I love you." Coco stutters out and the composure she's kept up, anger and sadness and excitement, melts away to pure raw emotions that burst out. Her shaky arms wrap around her father and she murmurs into his neck, over and over, "Te amo, papa."

Hector squeezes her tightly. Digs his fingers into the fabric of her dress. His eyes shut so tightly he sees black dots dance behind them, "Te amo tambien, mija. Con todo mi corazon."

A few painful I love you's and scattered kisses across cheekbones and Hector hasn't felt a more painful goodbye since the one decades ago. The train's horn blaring in his head, the dust kicking up in his eyes. He's afraid to let her go all over.

But does. Helps her in the back of Pepita, adjusting her to ease her nervousness with the situation. He kisses the top of her head, the bones of her hand, whispering swears in her wrist.

"We'll see each other again. I promise."

As Pepita's powerful wings lift her off the ground and into the air, Coco clutching onto her back, Hector realizes promises are empty and dull and breakable.

He needs to stop promising and just has to do.

Chapter Text

"Calmese, Mama Imelda, calmese."

Rosita coos gently, hesitantly, and as approachable as she can. Like talking to a wounded animal that winces at the slightest touch. Only, Imelda is over-boiling with anger instead of fright. It's always been so difficult to comfort their family matriarch; the issue was usually the other way around. Imelda's good at stripping others of their feelings, analyzing, and then helping. It was far more troublesome doing the same to her.

So Imelda scoffs at Rosita's attempt, throwing open their front door. The sudden crack of the wood against the wall resonates throughout their spacious home, echoing faintly. The family flinces at the piercing sound. They follow her meekly, the air thick with her rage. They have never seen her emotions this intense; it's only ever been minimal things or aggressive fights between family and strangers that have tipped her over the edge. Nothing was this big.

Victoria grips her Tia's arm in a comforting gesture, crosses tentatively to the other side of the room to do the same to her grandmother. Imelda stiffens, broken away from her frazzled trance. Her eyes soften when meeting Victoria's own, the younger woman's filled with a stern gaze.

"Abuelita, listen to Tia Rosita; you have to stay calm." The youngest soothes, resting her hand over Imelda's own. She's shaking. Her eyes are tired. Victoria guides her to the nearest stool in their dining area and Imelda lets her form slump in the seat. A defeated sigh escapes her lips at her granddaughter's words and her hand wipes over the side of her temple in a frustrated gesture.

"Perdónenme," Imelda bites her tongue, "You're right, you're right, I just..." She trails off, shaking her head.

Oscar and Felipe return to their protective place behind their sister, and this time, their arms across her shoulders bring her relief and security.

"Ay, hermanita, don't worry, she'll be back before you know it."

"She'll be safe-"

"-and taken care of-"

"-and she knows when to return home."

Oscar pats her shoulder lightly, shaking her a bit to release any built-up pressure. "Everything will be fine."

Eyes downcast, Imelda narrows them, glaring into the floor like it's scorned her, "No, it won't be."

Seeing Coco in Hector's arms again was an image she would have never predicted. The last time her little girl had seen her father, she was a mere toddler, barely four. He hadn't even been present a quarter of her entire life, and now he gets to return without a single thought to its consequences? That was stupid. Selfish. Did he not care to think of the effects it would have on Coco? Her family? Imelda? He made a choice to abandon them and now wants to return for reconciliation?

Imelda use to want Hector home just as much as Coco had. She use to miss him. Use to love him.

Stupid.

Imelda hadn't even seen a hint of Hector in months. It was a rare occasion; he was prone to pestering her at least once every few weeks, and it was odd to see him dissappear for nearly half a year. Not that it mattered. She enjoyed the peace. She did. Hector was a clingy thing. Never knowing when to quit and when to stop. He made her anxious and worried and the gray hairs duplicated with every ounce of stress he added on. Imelda couldn't recall a single positive moment she'd had with her estranged husband in the Land of the Dead nor did she want one. Her memories of him were bittersweet. She remembers feelings she wish she could forget. Remembers him before everything...

She didn't want to remember him at all.

She had suffered enough at the hands of Hector's selfishness and unloyalty. She wasn't about to let her daughter fall victim to it in her afterlife.

"Mama Imelda."

Imelda steadily returns to reality, where Julio is snaping in front of her line of sight. She feels so lightheaded. His concerned look is enough to make her weak again. He must be just as worried as she is. Coco is his wife. Never had she thought to consider the feelings of her family as well.

"We can't have you spacing out on us," Julio chuckles softly, taking her other hand. His grip is strong. Reassuring. Rosita, sensing Imelda's now calmer nature, steps in front of her to tuck a stray piece of the older woman's hair back into its place. A soft, laughing breath leaves her and Rosita smiles.

Surrounded by family, the one's she loved, Imelda feels the sharp edges of her pain dull. It's a reminder that her family is always there. They're a constant rock for her to lean on, despite being so stubborn and rude and downright unwilling to accept help, they still look out for her wellbeing. She's lucky enough to have them by her side, as they feel lucky everyday to have her.

"Lo siento." Imelda mumbles, but her smile is genuine. Her family has done nothing but try and remain positive, strong, while she blindly lashes out. "Forgive me, it's just been unbelievable today..."

"Oh we know." Felipe sighs, stroking down his sisters back. "Believe me, we understand." The tension in her bones seems to have melted. "But we aren't your enemigos, Imelda. We are here for you."

Imelda leans back into her brothers' touch, kisses her granddaughter's inner wrist, and holds onto both Rosita and Julio's hand. They're alright. They're here. For her.

"How are you all?" Imelda asks, looking between each member. "Deben de estar tan preocupados."

Victoria squeezes her hand tighter, lips pulling down just the slightest. She'd been waiting for so long to see her mother again. And while their greetings at the department were nice, she had hoped their first day together in the Land of the Dead would be here. At home. Her papa had longed for her too. Same could be said for Rosita and the twins. Coco was a jewel they all waited on. But she was impulsive and headstrong. A mannerism she inherited from Imelda. And because of that, she'd let her first experience here be with that baboso who abandoned her.

There were mixed feelings, really.

"Estamos bien," Victoria managed out. "Just...worried."

Rosita nods in agreement, a hand held to her chest, "La pobrecita, it's her first day here and she's not with us. It's just a little...disappointing."

Imelda's eye twitches at that.

Julio's face droops with uneasy sadness as well, "We miss her, that's all. But Coco is what's important right now, Mama Imelda."

"Exactamente," Felipe adds.

"Everything else is-is an afterthought. Just focus on her being here now." Oscar continues. They both squeeze her shoulders in a hug, making Imelda feel so much smaller in their embrace.

They're right. Throughout this entire turmoil, Imelda has only focused on the negative aspect of today's events, when she should have been happy about her daughter being here period. Yes, Coco's not with them, but she's here. Able to be comforted and hugged. She'll return to her family when the time comes. Imelda had given her curfew.

"Right. She'll...She'll return home," Imelda nods. There's a collective reassurance around her, Victoria interlocking their fingers, Julio patting her restless knee.

Imelda is fine. Coco will come back.

Imelda is not fine.

Coco's still gone.

Her calm nature had dissappeared into worry, anxiety, and anger. Her repetitive pacing had begun to nearly carve a groove into the floor beneath her. The clicking of her heels resonate though the home, air now heavy with tension so thick it makes it hard to even move. Her anger seemed to have returned full force. The corners of her eyesight throb red. She's on edge, she's not relaxed, and it's rare for Imelda to let emotions related to him get to her so continuously. Her hair is unkempt from the many times she's run her trembling fingers through it. She's snapped at everyone, even after their many attempts to talk sense into her. She's yelled when she knows she shouldn't have and given attitude her own mother would strike her for.

Imelda sighs to herself, fingers grazing through her hair once more in frustration. This entire ordeal was a nightmare.

"Stop looking out that window, Rosita," She snaps and the poor woman, lost in her own world as much as Imelda was lost in hers, pulls quickly away from the glass. Smiling and cowering nervously at the head of their home, who had seen far better days. Imelda doesn't mean to raise her voice, really. Her anger gets the best of her. She was usually never this inept at controlling it. She had a firm hold on the leashes of her emotions, as she learned how to direct and burry them, from years of experience. It's not healthy, Imelda knows, and usually leads to bursts of lashing out, which she regrets either soon after or late in the days.

"Abuelita, we just talked about this. You have to stay calm." Victoria attempts to reason. She's used to her grandmothers nearly intolerable anger. And Imelda's use to the way her granddaughter speaks her mind and argues for the last word. But right now, Victoria's unusually afraid to step a toe out of line in fear of her reaction. Imelda's in a difficult position, an area so brittle Victoria's afraid she may crack and crumble under the pressure. She remembers how quickly her emotions switched from collected and relaxed to infuriated and they could switch just as easily now if provoked. And Victoria wasn't about to prod.

"Do not tell me to calm down right now." Imelda mutters strictly, still seemingly occupied in whatever thoughts that swim around her brain. And she knows she's being irrational. It's not fair to let her family suffer for the actions of a man who's hardly worth her anger. Nonetheless, Victoria expects the retort. Sharing a curious look with her tia. The day was getting darker. The sun lower. The sky was far past red. She specifically said at sundown, told Coco her father should bring her back by then. Or before then. It was eating away at her. Even calling Hector her papa again made a sour taste form in Imelda's mouth. It hurt her head to think that man was worth of such title. She heard her family shuffle around her, their silent judges and near inaubidle reassurances.

"She'll be here soon, Mama Imelda. Pepita's reliable." Julio tries, alluding to the fact Imelda's spirit guide had already been long sent out. It's a vain effort, he knows, but it's something. He's just as worried as her, but her worry had begun to tread more into the dangerous planes of fear and frustration. She's afraid. And Julio only wants his wife back to make up for time spent lost.

"She should have been here sooner." Imelda mumbles, "I should have never let her go out," Her words are sharp, spitting. She massages her fingers at her temple. The phantom pains of a headache already developing. Hector could have taken her daughter. Seen that Imelda would never let him visit again, and fled from the town to the next one over in fear. She felt triumph for still being the main cause of distress bubbling in his stomach, yet nasueaous from the mere thought of him taking her daughter. She knows Hector's with her somewhere in this crazed land, talking, comforting each other for the first time in decades, filling Coco's head with crazy fantasies that make Imelda queasy.

She just wants her daughter back, she wants Coco back-

"She's back!" Rosita chirps brightly from the windowsill, where she continued to disobey and peek out of despite Imelda's strict orders not to. The room fills with the dimmed colors of her alebrije. Her mix of bright greens and yellows reverting her anxiety to relief. She watched her family drop whatever they had, to scramble towards the door, and Imelda made a mental note to scold Victoria for letting expensive embroidery hit the floor and the twins for nearly knocking down the sewing machine they've been occupied in fixing.

But for now, she follows them to Coco.

Pepita's vast wings set her gently on the pavement below, and their newly deceased member clinging to the alebrije's back like dew on petals. With help from Oscar, Coco manages to stumble off Pepita with a nervous laugh. The beast purrs roughly and licks a careful stripe up Coco's cheekbones, almost sending her tumbling to the ground had Felipe not straightened her on her feet. She felt the collision of her two girls, the arms of her daughter and her sister-in-law enveloping her in tight, bruising hugs. Kisses to her head, her cheek, her temple, and a firm, excited one to her lips from Julio. She giggles against the affection, tugging her arms away to wrap them around her husband's neck and pull him closer.

Victoria grimaces. Her parents have never shied away from public affection and even in their afterlife, they still manage to be as disgustingly sentimental as before. "You leave for a few hours and we've all managed to lose our heads, mama."

Felipe nodded with a hum, "Lose our heads we have. Estábamos preocupados, chamaca. Out on the streets on your first day!" He waves his hand without direction in example, satisfied with Coco's lightly miffed expression.

"Not even a second thought!" Oscar scoffs, mischief making it's way to his words.

"Now we know where we stand, verdad?"

"Absolutamente."

Rosita huffs in offense at their relentless teasing and smacks her knuckles to Felipe's shoulder in scolding, "Dejala, it was for a good cause! She had-she was-" Her sentence cuts off. There's a pause. Rosita's comment brings up the single topic they've been avoiding, in fear of setting off a bomb. They're aware of what today's events could entail. They know what Coco's father had done, how she chose to be with him today over them. How happy they were to see each other despite it all.

The impact it had on Imelda.

Julio swallows his fear and asks, tentatively, before anyone else can "How was it?"

A smile snakes it's way to Coco's face. Her eyes hurt from the threat of tears all day. She feels she has no more to shed, nor to feel again. But even then, the sting brings anything but sadness. "Oh, it was wonderful! I've learned so much, I must tell all of you."

There's a fog of relief. The deflation of ribs held tight in constricted breath. Coco frowns, however, taking in the sight of her family. Their stressed appearances, their fluttering eyelids, seemingly ready to give into the arms of sleep, "Ay, but it's late, you all look so tired now-"

"We've waited long enough, mama." Victoria urges and Coco's missed how easily it was for her young daughter to speak her thoughts. "I think we can manage a few more minutes."

Coco beams, "Of course, but I expect you all to go sleep as soon as possible. Por dios, you all look like you're about to faint! And Vica, mija, your skirt is still dirty." Coco tuts in disapproval, pinching the yellowed fabric between her fingers, darkened with everything grimy from the floors of the Department. Embarrassed, Victoria pulls her clothing away with an exasperated, shrill, mama!

"Why are you talking?" Oscar scoffs, looking over his nieces appearance, looking no better than the dirty skirt she berated Victoria for, "Look at your vestido! Where have you been?"

Julio grips his wife's hand in comfort, the tired bones of his own feeling so foreign yet so natural in Coco's own. "You're not leaving our sight ever again, entendido?" He says desperately, though obviously playful. Maybe. Perhaps it holds a bit of truth. He just doesn't want his wife to stray far from them anymore.

"You've survived a hundred years without me. This was hardly a few hours, cariño." Coco laughs, the words barely making it out as her husband takes his time pecking the swirls on her cheeks.

Bathed in the love of her family, Coco is soon swathed in the cold auara that was her mother. Imelda's stance is steel straight as she walks up to Coco, hands on her hips, hair a near mess, features pinched in a deep scowl. The family quiets down once her prescence is known. Julio clenches the bones of his wife's wrist before stepping behind her. Coco, however, matches her mother's sturdy spine and upturned chin, though her eyes are softer and her lips set in a neutral line. She never liked too look so unapproachable and off-put.

A moment of silence surpasses them, broken when Pepita decides to growl and yawn, dragging and stretching herself out near Imelda. A softer look crawls its way over Imelda's stern face, not really a smile, before she pets the hairs of her alebrije lovingly. Her forehead rests on Pepita's own, mumbling a silent thank you to her spirit guide. She turns to Coco with that same soft glance.

"I'm glad you're home, mija." She breathes out, crouching and pulling her daughter into her arms. Coco lets out a reassured sigh. Her shoulders sagging, arms wrapping tightly around her mother. The tight, loving sense of security enveloped her entire form and Coco felt so much energy drain from her person the moment she returned to her mothers embrace. Feeling like she'd been dragged through the mud and left on the devil's doorstep and the only cure for her misery lay in her mother's hold. It was exhausting.

"Andale," Felipe calls out, interrupting their tender moment, shaking both his sister's and niece's shoulder gently, "Let's go inside so you can tell us everything!"

Finally relaxed, to a degree, the family heads in, Coco and Imelda trailing behind them reluctantly. Her mother's grip on her shoulders don't seize, and Coco gazes up at her as they step foot into the shop. She looks drained. Imelda thinks Coco does as well.

"It's late, isn't it?" Imelda announces. With Pepita wisking away to wonder the streets, the surrounding area had grown dark. The sun was down, the day coming to an end. Victoria and Rosita switch on the lights to clear the living room. Making room for their little seminar. Coco's eyes dance over the large space and her heart flutters at the sight of the various familiarities. Victoria's books haphazardly tossed on the edge of a throw pillow, Julio's well-worn slippers at the foot of a recliner, Rosita's favorite sewing kit they'd offered her the year after she had passed, the twins various trinkets and tools about the floors. It was a mess, but a mess Coco welcomed with teary eyes and a full heart.

"Si. Es muy tarde. Perhaps it's best if we all sleep," Coco offers, but her family had already found their preferred seats and comfortable positions. Julio pulled her to their largest sofa, sat beside her with their hands clasped. They all looked at her with longing anticipation, only to weaken when Imelda scoffs at her comment.

"Mira Coco, every Rivera that has walked through that door for their first time always sits and tells their stories; you are no exception," Imelda tuts. She smoothes over her hair as Rosita makes desperate eye contact with Victoria, who shrugs in dismay; Coco's crooked smile appears once more.

"I just didn't think...you would want to hear-"

"I don't." Imelda shakes her head. She focuses on keeping her emotions at bay. This is her family. She is safe here. No one is going to hurt them nor take them away. She is alright. There's no need for her to be so abrasive and cold-hearted with the people she loves. Now that her anger seems to have burnt out like a flame, it's replaced with an unforgiving numbness and fatigue. She doesn't want to feel such hatred today. Not today.

Coco seems taken back, though not surprised. Felipe bites his lip in worry and Oscar merely leans forward a bit, elbows on his knees, staring intently at his sister. They'd always been her first source of comfort, "Hermana-"

Imelda shakes her hand in a sign of no, waving it about as an indication to step away from the subject. She clears her throat, "Tell us about the living world, Coco," Imelda rests back against the chair, hands rested over her lap, "Por favor, how is our family?"

And really, that's all Coco needs to smile once more, diving into the subject of her living loved ones.