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Chapter Text

“What,” Chicharrón said slowly, “did you do.”

Héctor would have liked to reply with a calm, nonchalant “ah,” but instead the sound came out as a pained squeak, and he cringed again, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around his chest because that did not help. Instead he focused on the lantern light and the way it reflected off the mobiles made from metal scraps that hung from Cheech’s ceiling (along with Pizzicato, who had fallen asleep shortly after they’d gotten to Cheech’s house, the poor alebrije exhausted after leading him all the way back from the upper levels). He’d never appreciated until now just how rather pretty the decorations were, especially viewing them from a position of lying on the floor of the bungalow, probably because he’d never taken the time to stare at them intently until he was left with a choice between that, looking at Cheech’s furious face, and looking down at the ugly break in his lower right rib.

Hearing the clunk of Chicharrón’s cane against the floor, Héctor wheezed out a cough, only to yelp in pain again. He was pretty sure he hadn’t felt this much pain since he’d died, and then at least he hadn’t been in pain for too long. “That–that’s a funny story!” he managed to squeak, and even talking hurt.

Oh, this would be a fun night.

Chicharrón raised a brow, waiting for him to continue.

“See, uh, I was t-trying to cross the bridge,” he started. “I was going to–” and then he paused.

“Going to?”

“Um…” Well, he would have been able to say what it was, had the plan not changed the very last minute. He remembered being very set on this plan he’d concocted over the course of three months, only to forget absolutely everything the second he was in sight of the check-in. “I… forgot what I was going to do, heh–OUCH!” Even a nervous laugh caused the pain to flare in his chest, and he curled in on himself.

“And?”

Right, where was he? “And um, I decided to improvise! By uh…” He tapped a finger against his lip, wondering how to explain this next part without sounding like an idiot. “See, there was this, uh, goose alebrije, and I thought–”

Chicharrón rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and stepped away, apparently having heard enough.

“Hey it–it sounded like a good idea at the time!” Héctor said, craning his head to watch where Chicharrón was going. He hoped it wasn’t to drag him outside. Please don’t do that. He wasn’t sure he could get up right now.

“Suppose anything sounds like a good idea to you when you’re a desperate lunatic,” Cheech grumbled, fishing something out from beneath a pile at the far corner of his shack. It was a bottle, and he shoved it into Héctor’s hands. “Drink.”

Héctor didn’t need to be told twice, and he gulped down some of the bitter liquid. Ugh, it tasted awful, but right now he’d be glad for anything to dull the pain. “Ay, this hurts,” he found himself saying, wincing as he handed the bottle back to Cheech.

“Yeah. You cracked your rib in half.”

“Never broke a bone before,” Héctor retorted, wiping his mouth on his arm. “I mean, I cracked a tooth when I was a kid.” Baring his teeth, he tapped his gold-capped one. “But that’s about it.”

“Hm.” Chicharrón took a seat next to him, glancing away.

Silence filled the bungalow, other than the sound of distant music and fireworks. Héctor spared a glance down at his rib cage, only to flinch away again at the ugly sight. “Ugh. How long’s it take for this to heal, anyway?”

“Heal?”

“I mean… I never broke a bone when I was alive, you know? Didn’t really know what it’s like then, so uh, nothing to compare it to. Is it, um, faster for skeletons? …Slower?” Dios, he hoped it wasn’t slower. This was bad enough as it was.

When Chicharrón did not answer, Héctor felt a shiver run down his spine. “Cheech? How long’s it take for skeletons to heal?”

The older skeleton breathed out through his nasal cavity. “‘Bout the same as the living,” he said, “for remembered skeletons.”

“Oh.” Héctor squinted up at the ceiling, wondering how long that would be, before the second phrase registered. “Wait, remembered? So then… what… what about…” He swallowed. “We take… longer?”

“No.”

“Th… the same, then.” Héctor grinned without a trace of joy. “You mean the same then, right?”

Again Chicharrón did not answer, and Héctor’s stomach cavity was suddenly very cold, his bones feeling heavy.

“Take care of what you got, chamaco,” Chicharrón said, finally rising up from his seat on the floor and turning away. “Our old bones don’t give us second chances.”

Chapter Text

Everyone had screamed, he was pretty sure, but in that moment he couldn’t hear them. Time had slowed down, and it felt like an eternity passed as he stared at the back of his former friend, standing at the edge of the platform, gazing down with an expression he couldn’t even fathom.

Héctor’s arm was still outstretched, but he couldn’t move. Even as the others rushed to the edge to stare down, to see what had become of the chamaco–of his great great grandson–he couldn’t lift his body, and not just because of the pain that was now threatening to tear his skeletal body apart. His bones felt heavy, numb.

Everything felt like a nightmare–like the nightmares he’d had of his death, or of being forgotten, or of falling through the bridge and into the depths of oblivion–but this was not like any of those terrible dreams. He’d never seen his family in those dreams, other than Coco and Imelda. He’d never even known he had a…

The image flashed through his mind of Miguel dancing and singing alongside him, mere hours ago. Then another, of Miguel handing him the photo and pointing out his Mamá Imelda and Mamá Coco.

They were going to get him home. He was going to tell his Coco that he loved her. He was going to be a musician.

He was just a child.

“Apologies, old friend.”

The voice just ahead of him snapped him back to reality. Ernesto was walking away from the cliff, casually adjusting his bow tie. Finally Héctor managed to push himself up onto his arms, gasping as he watched his former friend–one he now barely recognized.

“But the show must go on.”

Ernesto kicked Héctor’s hat aside as he stepped back through the curtains, and that was that. He was just going to continue the show, as though he hadn’t just…

A strangled noise managed to escape his throat as he turned back toward the cliffside. Not knowing what else he could possibly do, he tried to drag himself across the floor, to join the others. But it was hard to move, and another terrible, shimmering attack seized his body, sending a shock of pain through his stomach. Gasping, he fell face-down on the ground, waiting until the golden light stopped flickering over his frame.

A shaking arm was suddenly at his shoulders, lifting him up. He turned his head to see one of the others–Victoria, wasn’t it?–who did not look at him, but helped him toward the edge. He stammered a thank-you as she let him go, and braced his hands against the crumbling stone barrier to keep himself upright.

All at once he realized he couldn’t look–what would he even see? What happened to the living who died in the Land of the Dead? His stomach clenched at the thought; he didn’t want to know. He wished he didn’t have to find out.

He wished he’d just abandoned this stupid idea about the photo and sent him home immediatley.

Héctor buried his head into his arms.

“Mijo… I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

Héctor’s mind was still reeling, his entire body flailing against the two who held him. He’d tried scattering, but they’d kept a grip on his arms, and he couldn’t leave those behind. Aside from that, an all-consuming rage and horror filled his bones and his skull, destroying any attempts at coherent thought. All he could think of was the one word he had realized tonight:

Poisoned.

He had been poisoned by his best friend. By his brother. By Ernesto.

Another agonized scream tore through his throat as he jerked one arm against its restraint, nearly catching the man off-guard. “LET ME GO!” he snarled, kicking and thrashing, swinging his head this way and that as he fought again to get himself free. They’d been carrying him for ages–to where, he didn’t know or care, he just needed to get away.

“Shut up,” one guard growled, and punched him in the sternum.

The wind was roughly knocked out of him as his broken ribs were jostled. For a moment he could not struggle, too stunned to do so, and he hung limp in their arms. The dark laughter from the two only fueled his anger.

Head facing downward, he was vaguely surprised to see that they were no longer in the absurdly huge mansion he’d nearly gotten lost in, nor were they on the expansive porches outside of it, but instead somewhere… with stone ground. A natural structure–an unusual sight in the Land of the Dead. Frowning, Héctor lifted his head, trying to take stock of his surroundings: They were nowhere near the mansion now, instead on a completely isolated rock a distance away from the ivory tower. They must have flown at some point–he vaguely recalled feeling wind, but had been too out-of-his-mind to fully process what was going on at the time.

As for what was actually here… very little, other than a few “do not enter” and “no trespassing” signs around the rock’s perimeter, and… a rather massive hole in the ground. What was–?

A crackle nearby caught his attention, and he turned his head to see one of the guards holding up a radio.

“Hang for a moment. We’re right behind you.”

The men seemed surprised, exchanging glances through their sunglasses, but the other muttered an affirmative into the radio and clipped it back onto his belt. “Guess we can spend a bit of quality time with the troublemaker, eh?” he said, and the fire burning within Héctor abruptly turned to ice.

It wasn’t a memory he liked to dwell on, being tossed around between the two guards as they threatened to break his already brittle bones.

But the real reason his recollection of the event had gone dim was because it was nothing, nothing, compared to what happened next.

The cry of an alebrije caused the men to finally stop–one of them had been preparing to hit him in the jaw again while the other held him up by the armpits–and Héctor dazedly looked up to see a large bird depositing two more men in suits and sunglasses onto the desolate rock he was stranded on. For a moment he wondered if they had come to join in on the fun.

And then he heard it.

“Let me go! Please!”

The pain he was in was very suddenly gone as both his heart and stomach crashed down to the floor, leaving him numb. “Wh-what… no, no…”

Between the two newcomers was the tiny form of a boy–half living, half dead.

The chamaco.

Miguel.

“Y-you have to let me go, please, I-I won’t tell anyone–!” Miguel was shouting, squirming against his restraints.

Unlike the men who had carried Héctor, the men carrying Miguel looked less than pleased with their charge. “Seriously?” one of Héctor’s guard’s asked, and the other two shrugged helplessly.

What was he doing here? Ernesto had been about to send him home! This was his grandson! What was Ernesto doing, making his security take him to a place like this? Unless… no, Miguel had been in the room when he’d… when he’d realized that… and Ernesto… no, he wouldn’t…?!

Sharply recalling what he’d just been through himself, Héctor fought against his restraints with renewed strength. “NO!” he screamed. “Don’t hurt him! He’s just a kid!”

Miguel’s head shot up to face Héctor, his eyes wide with recognition, shock, and wild hope. “H-Héctor?!” he stammered, trying to pull closer, but the guards held him back.

The distance between them may as well have been the length of the marigold bridge.

Seeming to notice the sorry state Héctor was in, Miguel’s brow furrowed as he glared up at Héctor’s captors. “Wh-what are you doing to him?” he cried. “Let him go!”

Something within his rib cage gave a pained jerk. I’m not long for this world, kiddo, worry about yourself right now…!

“No,” Héctor said firmly, glaring back at his own captor. “You–you let him go, don’t you dare touch him, or I’ll–”

“Shut up,” the second guard growled, and struck him across the cheekbone.

A strangled sob came from Miguel, and Héctor shut his eyes. I’ve dealt with worse, worry about yourself, please…

“I–” The guard who had just struck him took a step back. “Look, I can’t do this with that kid watching. Take care of him first.”

“NO!” Before Héctor could think, he disconnected both of his arms, ripping his remaining sleeve off with the effort as he charged for one of the guards restraining Miguel, for all the good it would do. Both his own captors dove at him, tackling him to the ground before he could even reach Miguel.

“Do it, hurry!”

Héctor managed to call his arms back to their sockets, using them to punch and claw at the two who held him down, fighting for what little he was worth and more–for the life of this kid, this wonderful living kid who loved music, who just wanted to go home, whom Ernesto had betrayed just like he had Héctor–but the men overpowered him, and all he could do was watch.

“Let me go, let me go!” Miguel was screaming, struggling against them as they dragged him closer to the pit. “Please! No!”

The men hesitated, as though afraid of what they were about to do. In that moment, the kid turned his head and for what seemed like an eternity, stared into Héctor’s eyes with a look of desperation and terror, speaking in a small, shaking voice: “H-Héctor, ayuda–”

One man turned away and the other straightened himself, and both tossed him into the pit.

Héctor was barely aware of his own screaming as he thrashed against the men, punching and kicking as they heaved him back up into their arms, eventually realizing the word that was repeatedly tearing through his throat: murderers.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, beyond the anger, was the numbing realization that at the bottom of that pit, he was not going to find a living boy, but a broken skeleton, who, like him, was never going to go home.

“Your turn,” one man growled, and a moment later, he was falling, a rocky island in the middle of a cenote rushing up to meet him.

Chapter Text

Héctor paused to lean his head against the cool metal handrail again, trying in vain to relieve the burning ache in his head. Shutting his eyes to block out the overcast sky ahead, he gripped the rail a moment longer, grateful they had actually bothered to install one on these stairs. (It was a rarity to have railings of any sort in the Land of the Dead, when one couldn't really die from a fall, but some buildings did have them, whether out of newly-dead contractors building them out of habit or from the insistence of people sticking to tradition.) After a minute, he heard a sleepy chirp from the tiny bat alebrije hanging off the back of his collar, and pulled himself away, forcing himself up a few more stairs.

He'd stop drinking one of these days, he promised himself. When he found a reason to quit, anyway.

Memories from the night before swam indistinctly in his mind as he continued to mount the stairs. He'd been working in the arts district, as usual, and had taken up some local musicians on an offer for drinking. While music was something he tried to avoid these days, the musicians had seemed friendly enough, and as much as he loved Pizzicato, talking with an alebrije tended to get a bit one-sided at times. Pizzicato hadn't exactly been thrilled with his joining them, he recalled, but the temptation of just... normal human interaction had been too strong to resist.

Might've been nice if the cerveza and tequila hadn't been too hard to resist, though.

Shaking his head (and then regretting it a second later when the world tipped), Héctor finally reached the top of the stairs, practically collapsing through the open window. Pizzicato gave a sleepy squeak in protest before snuggling back into his collar—he wasn't entirely sure why she was like that, other than that it probably had something to do with whatever happened the night prior. Leading him home while he was in a drunken daze, maybe.

"I was half-tempted to pull the stairs back up on you," Ceci muttered around the pins she held in her teeth. She didn't look up from her work, focused entirely on the dress hung on the mannequin before her. "What were you doing, sightseeing?"

"Buenas dias to you too," Héctor grumbled, pulling himself up to his feet and brushing off his hopelessly dirty jacket.

Ceci did give him a look, then, eying him over her shoulder. "Buenas tardes."

"Buenas tar... oh." He scratched the back of his head, blinking blearily. "Sorry. Lost track of time."

"Hopefully you didn't lose track of that delivery I sent you off with," she went on, resuming work on the dress.

"Oh, no no no, that's... that's all taken care of." Rubbing his hand over his eye sockets, he strained to remember yesterday. That memory was a bit clearer, at least—he definitely remembered the weird look the customer gave him when he handed him the package, and the lack of a tip. "I got it to them, no worries."

"Good."

He stood there awkwardly, hand on his wrist, as Ceci continued to work on the dress in relative silence (other than the record player running in the background—Héctor wasn't really paying attention to what it was playing, only grateful that it wasn't another de la Cruz album). Briefly he wondered if she'd forgotten he was there, and he pointed his finger to speak.

"If you're looking for another job," she began—Héctor flinched, the sudden volume sending a spike of pain through his head—"the dancers left a mess out in the gallery after their practice last night. The art crew won't clean it because they say it's not their mess, but they're still whining about the glitter getting into their paints." She paused. "And on the materials," she added, brushing something shimmering from the hem of the dress.

"Ah, g-gracias," Héctor stammered, passing through the designer's workshop and out into the main studio. At once he was greeted with the familiar sight of the hastily set-up barriers separating the work spaces of different artists. Many of them were lined with various paintings and sketches, but as Ceci had said, some of them were dusted in glitter. Frowning, he stepped up to one painting of a xolo dog, swiping his finger across the canvas to remove a few flecks of glitter... and yelped when some of the gray pigment came off with it, smearing on the painting. With a hasty glance aside, he wiped his hand off on the inside of his coat and speedily walked away, looking in the opposite direction of the painting.

"Okay, okay, glitter, glitter..." Head turned downward, he found scatterings of the stuff on the floor, and then looked up again. "Ah... I need a... uh... mop? No, no... broom? Dustpan?" He glanced over his shoulder, hoping Pizzicato might be of some use, but only heard a high-pitched snoring. Cute, but not helpful at the moment. Sighing, he looked to the walls of the studio, hoping one of the janitors may have left their equipment there, but no luck—only rows of outlandish costumes. Ugh... where was the janitor's closet, again?

Héctor poked his head into the entrance to one of the partitions, raising a finger and opening his mouth to ask, only to find several very, very tired artists and a skeleton posing nude for them. Clapping his hand over his eye sockets, he stumbled away. "Okay, okay, bad idea, do not ask the artists," he muttered, uncovering his face just in time to dodge another artist hurrying by with a large canvas. Looking around to make sure he wasn't about to collide with anyone else, he continued his aimless journey through the cluttered gallery. "Ask the... uh..."

The sound of laughter caught his metaphorical ears, and Héctor looked toward the far end of the studio, by the glass windows. They were still out of sight, but he was pretty sure he knew who was hanging out there.

His suspicions were confirmed by the sound of a trombone making a long, drawn-out note, followed by more laughter. "Right... ask... the musicians," he said, nodding to himself as he approached them.

As they came into sight, one of them spotted him and hastily shushed the others. That was... a little weird, but he was honestly too tired to care right now. He would've given them a sharp whistle to catch their attention, but was afraid of the noise only worsening his headache, and besides, they seemed to all be looking at him anyway. "Hola," he said, waving casually with one hand as he rubbed his head in the other.

"Ey, Héctor!" one of the violinists—what was his name, Héctor knew his name... Gustavo, that was it—said with a grin. "You doin' okay there?"

"Ehh... I've been better," Héctor said, making an effort to straighten his stance. It took a bit more effort than usual, but with the condition of his bones, what didn't these days? "Just... a bit too much to drink last night, I think."

"We could tell!" One of the musicians began to snicker, only to be elbowed in the ribs by another.

Héctor blinked. "Right. I just needed to ask a favor—"

"A favor?" one of the other violinists asked, while a few of her peers chuckled next to her. The noise seemed to be bugging Pizzicato, who stirred behind him, whining.

"Yes?" His bewilderment seemed to prompt a few more laughs that the musicians tried to cover. "Is... something funny about that?" he asked, briefly looking over his shoulder and wondering if his alebrije was doing something behind him to prompt the laughter.

"No, no," Gustavo said, waving his head. "Go on, what favor do you need?"

"I... just need someone to show me where the supply closet is. Ceci—"

The group immediately burst into laughter, the trombonist accompanying it with ridiculous playing. The sound was like a dagger being driven into his skull, and he held his hands over his head. "Ay, stop it!" he cried, staring at them in utter confusion. "What's so funny?!"

Finally Pizzicato seemed to be roused from her slumber, and he felt her little claws digging into his wig as she climbed up to the top of his head, squeaking in displeasure.

"Who do you want to meet in the closet, eh?" one of the musicians jeered.

"¿Qué?" Héctor blurted. He couldn't make any sense of what they were talking about. Whatever it was, Pizzicato seemed upset by it, letting out a growl, but he couldn't make heads or tails of it. "I don't... meet? I'm just trying to—"

"Not one of the girls, that's for sure!" the female violinist added, causing the others to laugh harder.

"I... uh?" That made nothing any clearer, and Héctor was feeling increasingly lost. It would make more sense if the group were just a bunch of cackling hyena alebrijes in disguise. But one thing was becoming clear—whatever they were laughing about, it was at his expense. But what would they...

A sudden panic bolted up his spine, and Héctor whipped around, yanking his alebrije off of his head. "Pizzicato," he whispered desperately, clutching the bat close to his face. "What exactly did I say last night?"

Of course Pizzicato could not answer, only staring up at him apologetically. But his question had apparently not been as quiet as he'd hoped, as Gustavo spoke up behind him: "Oh, nothing too important... chorizo."

The word was punctuated with a few ridiculous notes from the trombonist, and Héctor let go of the alebrije, turning back around to face them again. "C-chorizo?" he repeated. What did that have to do with...?

"Chorizo!" one of the other band members shouted, with a few others echoing it between laughs. Still none of that cleared it up, until another went on: "What a way to go!"

What a way to... oh. Right, that was how he'd... Was that what had happened last night? He'd rambled about how he'd died? That's what was making them laugh like deranged hyenas?

His chest burned in indignation. "W-well I'm sure the way you all died wasn't much better!" he said, gesturing at the group.

"Sure it was!" Gustavo said, getting close enough to elbow Héctor in the side. "Better than choking on a chorizo!"

"What?!" Héctor stepped back, hands up defensively. "That wasn't—! It was bad, I got food poisoning!"

"Sure you did, chorizo!"

He found himself staring at them as they continued to laugh, wondering why the difference even mattered, whether he died by food poisoning or choking on—

Oh.

...Oh.

His cheek bones burned furiously, and he turned away again, covering his face. "That was not what happened," he grumbled into his hands. Not that it would convince them. Pizzicato fluttered around nearby, squeaking angrily at the group, but he tried to wave her off. "Basta—all right, you've had your laugh. Very funny. Now could you just show me where the supply—"

"Ey, didn't you say you were married, too?" Gustavo asked, one brow raised, and the inside of Héctor's rib cage was suddenly burning in anger. "Did she know about—"

The shock of anger traveled quickly from Héctor's heart to his fist.

Next thing he knew, Gustavo was staggering back, supported by the trombonist while the other musicians gave ooooohs of both sympathy and interest. A small part of Héctor regretted the action, but the rest of him didn't care, and his fist remained clenched.

Stupid jokes were one thing, but to even dare to suggest infidelity...

"What's your problem, man?" Gustavo cried, rubbing his jaw where he'd been struck. "Can't you take a—"

Before he could finish, Pizzicato buzzed in front of the group, letting out a terrible, high-pitched shriek that left all of them shrinking back, including Héctor. The noise magnified his headache, nearly blinding him, and he staggered back, blurting out a curse. Immediately the noise stopped, but he was already storming away, eyes narrowed against the ringing in his skull. "Forget it, I'm done," he snarled. "Ceci or whoever can clean the place themselves."

Pizzicato was fluttering after him, squeaking an apology, but Héctor did not slow his pace. He couldn't find the stupid broom, but he knew very well where the exit was—a different one from the fire escape ladder in Ceci's room. Unfortunately, while he left Gustavo and his stupid group behind, the anger and humiliation followed him out of the studio, clinging to his bones. He punched the metal railing of the stairs in an attempt to rid himself of the emotions, but it only resulted in a shock of pain traveling up his arm.

Finally Pizzicato caught up to him, landing on his head and squeaking in concern. "You know," he muttered, narrowing his eyes against the light as he stepped outside, "I'm starting to hate musicians."

His alebrije whined, but said nothing more.

She didn't need to remind him.

Chapter Text

Alebrije instincts could be a strange thing.

Pepita rarely questioned them, as she rarely questioned her instincts as a mortal cat several lifetimes ago. They hadn't led her wrong before, so why would they do so now?

So when she felt the urge—no, not just an urge, a pull—to go for a flight early in the morning, she simply spread her wings and took off, with no warning to her Imelda. She enjoyed her time flying around the Land of the Dead, chasing other friendly alebrijes and stopping by the docks for a drink (and a bite of some treats from some curious onlookers).

Morning came and went, and soon it was midday. Surely she should be returning to Imelda by now, and yet she felt her thoughts pulled away from the idea. No, her instincts told her, spend some more time on your own.

That seemed odd, but she wouldn't argue, and flew to a distant tower to sunbathe on a roof until she dozed off. Upon awakening, she found it was nearly sunset. Already she could feel anxiety prickling at her fur—her Imelda was surely missing her by now. And yet her instincts still held her back: no, they said, do not return yet.

So she took flight again, this time to the Land of the Living. In her mortal form, she prowled the graveyard of Santa Cecilia, nuzzling Imelda's tombstone before hunting a few juicy mice for herself. She did espy one particularly scraggly-looking mouse that had not noticed her. It was one she'd chased a few times here in the living world, but had never bothered to catch it, and so it was the same now, as she merely observed the creature. Yet all the while she was there, she did wonder what was going on, and why she should keep away from her Imelda for so long.

The moon and stars shone brightly in the midnight sky by the time her phantom wings itched, and something within her told her to return. In a few paces she silently crossed the veil, and took flight back to the Land of the Dead, but not to her home tower.

Her instincts told her to land on a different tower, near one of the shopping districts where her Imelda went to buy food and supplies. Something told her to lay low, so she willed herself to not glow in the darkness, and slunk silently through the wide but deserted streets.

"Pepita! Where are you?!"

Pepita's ears perked.

It was not the first time her Imelda had called—she could tell by the tone of her voice that her phantom throat was rough, worn with use and with worry. She was calling from somewhere in the deserted market, and Pepita's first thought was to come to her, to end her worries, to comfort her and return home.

Not yet, the voice within her said, and in spite of her desires she stayed back, resuming her lurking, slipping through the empty streets and alleyways.

...Or not so empty.

There was a slender form lurking in one of the alleyways. Pepita sniffed the air, and bristled; she recognized the dusty, muddy scent of her Imelda's mate. Her immediate thought was to drive him away—he did nothing now but bring her Imelda sorrow, and if Imelda saw him there, she could hurt him again. Their time for reunion had not yet come, so it was best to keep them separate.

Leave him be.

She wanted to fight with the thought—instinct be forgotten, it seemed wrong. For her to stray from her Imelda to the point of her worrying, and then to let her mate come so close to her? What foolishness.

Leave him be.

Breathing out a silent sigh through her nostrils, she lay herself upon the cobblestones, her eyes glowing into the alleyway where the man stood unaware. For lack of anything better to do, she simply observed him.

His back was pressed against a wall in an attempt to keep himself invisible in the shadows, while his head was turned toward the voice that called out. From the strength of his scent, he seemed to have been in the alley for some time—fallen asleep there, perhaps, and awoken by the sound of his mate's cries. Initially she wondered if he could not leave without exposing himself to Imelda, which was why he stayed hidden, but no, he could surely leave from the other side, where she lay. No... he had chosen to stay there.

The light would be too dim for human eyes to see, but Pepita's vision was stronger. In the shadows she could make out the man's face and the nuances of his posture, wrought with a mix of emotions: his brows furrowed in sorrow and fear; one hand partially outstretched in longing; his lips parted, wishing to answer his mate's cry; his eyes shining with sadness and regret.

He wanted to go to her, but could not, separated by more than the short physical distance between the alley and the market street, held back by something stronger than mere instinct.

Sorrow hung from her wings as she observed him. As much as she wanted to go back to her Imelda, the longing he felt was stronger than she could ever know.

Now she understood why she was to hold back; she could allow the man a glimpse of his mate, watching and listening from a safe distance. It was all he would be able to have for the time being, until they could eventually be together again.

"Imelda, we should go home now." A different voice—one of her Imelda's two littermates.

"If we can't find Pepita now, she'll probably come home on her own—"

Imelda cut him off, her voice heavy and rough: "Once they are gone, they never come home."

The man in the alley shook, as though struck, and slunk down against the wall, his longing giving way to utter misery.

Pepita watched him a moment longer, then moved on her way; her instincts had lifted, and it was time to return.

Allowing the glow to return to her fur and feathers, she stepped into the moonlit market street, her chest rumbling in a greeting purr. Immediately her Imelda spun around, along with the tall frames of her twin littermates, and came running to her.

"Pepita!" she cried, trying to cover her relief and sorrow with anger. "Where have you been?! We've been looking everywhere for you—"

Pepita let her rant, purring all the while until her Imelda finally threw her arms around her. She gently nudged her, but looked across the street and toward the alley, where a thin figure watched from the shadows. Her eyes met his, and he backed away, disappearing into the darkness.

She had been allowed to reunite with her Imelda... but for how long would her mate be held back?

Not even her instincts could tell her.

Chapter Text

Miguel disappeared in an explosion of marigold petals.

A deep breath of air released from Imelda's rib cage as she lowered her head and her hands. Behind her, the sun ascended above the horizon. "It's done," she breathed, still feeling a heaviness in her chest in spite of the weight that had lifted off of her shoulders. "He's home."

On the ground beneath her, Héctor let out a shuddering breath. Looking up, she found he could no longer keep his eyes open; he hadn't even been able to see Miguel leave. "G-gracias... a... d-di..." he slurred, his hand going limp in Imelda's grip.

Alarmed, Imelda leaned closer. "Héctor--?!"

Before she could say anything else, another brilliant spasm shook Héctor, his frame flashing the same color as the marigold petals scattered around them. His body seized up, but his face barely reacted, not even wincing from the pain of it (if it was pain, or just weakness, or something worse--she didn't know. She wasn't sure she wanted to know). The only way she knew he could still feel it was that his breathing stuttered again.

"Héctor, por favor..." With one hand she lifted his head, and with the other she squeezed his hand. "Stay with us."

This isn't up to him, the logical part of her said. This isn't up to anyone on this side of the bridge. There is one person who holds his memory... and it is fading.

I won't let Mamá Coco forget you, Miguel had insisted, half a second before he left. But both he and Imelda knew the state her daughter was in--she could barely remember her own family most days, and now...

"I-I d-don't... kn..." His brow furrowed slightly, and his eyes opened a fraction, but his vision was unfocused. And then another golden shimmer erupted through his body, more violent than before.

Imelda's chest tightened, and she squeezed his hand harder.

It wasn't fair.

Not a single part of this was fair--Héctor's departure, the extension of the tour, the fact that he'd left them alone... the fact that he'd been murdered by their own friend, the fact that he could never visit them, the fact that she'd turned him away time after time...

That now that she had finally listened to him, he would be taken away from her, nothing but golden dust in her arms.

The shimmering attack continued--far longer than any of the others had--and Imelda drew him closer to her, lifting his head to press it into her chest, and leaning her head onto his, whispering desperately: "Don't leave me again."

She held him in the relative silence of the balcony, the murmur from the crowd beyond the curtain seeming as far away as the Land of the Living itself. Though her family stood near, all she could feel was him, his cold, trembling bones in her arms, his uneven breathing against her chest.

The silence was broken by footsteps, and a spike of tension broke through the heavy veil of sorrow.

"Señora," a firm unfamiliar voice said, and Imelda's hands gripped Héctor closer to her. "I need to ask you--"

Pepita answered for her, roaring into the man's face. Still she looked up anyway, glaring at the officer who had dared to approach during what might be her final moments with...

Though her gaze initially saw the terrified man in a blue uniform, it was suddenly pulled to the others--Óscar and Felipe, Julio, Rosita, and Victoria, who all stared at her in amazement. Except... no, not at her.

At Héctor.

He'd stopped flashing, and his breathing had evened out.

"Héctor?" she whispered, pulling him back so she could see his face. But his eyes were shut, and she wasn't even sure he was conscious. "Can you hear me?"

He did not answer, but no more shimmering spasms came. Was that... supposed to happen? Would he disappear soon? Or had Miguel...?

"He's..."

"...stopped glowing!" the twins remarked.

"W-will he be all right?" Rosita took a hesitant step closer, wringing her hands.

"I... I'm not sure," Imelda admitted, feeling his forehead. "He's still cold."

The officer, who'd been hanging back, took a hesitant step forward. "S-Señora, if everything is all right now--"

Pepita snorted in his face, and Dante suddenly jumped at him, biting his baton and yanking it out of his grip. With a muffled bark, he fluttered away, still carrying the baton with him, and the officer followed after with a shout.

It was just as well--they would deal with this and whatever had happened to de la Cruz later, after... Imelda looked down at Héctor again, brushing the hair from his face. He did not stir.

"We'll take care of it, Mamá Imelda," Julio said, pulling his hat back onto his head. "You take care of him."

Nodding, Imelda lifted Héctor up into her arms and stepped up to Pepita, whistling.

The alebrije immediately lay herself on the ground, spreading a wing out invitingly.

Careful not to drop Héctor, Imelda settled herself on her alebrije's shoulders. "Pepita," she said, "take us home."

With that, the alebrije spread her wings and took off, as the morning sunrise cast deep shadows on the stage behind them.

"Imelda?"

She stirred; there was an ache in her back and in her legs and feet, one that certainly hadn't been there yesterday. She didn't immediately know where she was--her first thought was in bed, evidenced by the soft surface under her head, but that wasn't right--she was sitting down. Had she fallen asleep at work? But... no, she wasn't sitting, she was kneeling, and why would her desk be soft?

Lifting her head, she found herself staring at a bed--she'd been kneeling on the floor next to it. But why? And who was...

She saw Héctor's face, and it all came back.

That strange night, when she couldn't cross over, and when she'd met her living great-great-grandson, and he'd seen her, and how she'd chased him throughout the Land of the Dead, and she'd seen him again, and learned that he... that'd he'd been...

"Lo siento. We weren't sure if we should wake you up--"

"--since we'd been out all night--"

"--but that didn't seem like a very comfortable position to sleep in--"

"--and besides, it looks like Héctor made it through the night."

"Or morning."

Imelda eased herself up off the floor to get a better look at him. Yes, she must have brought him here to the guest bedroom, and fallen asleep keeping watch over him. If that was the case... then if he'd had another shimmering attack, it would have woken her up. It hadn't.

But... he was still unconscious. Frowning, she placed a hand on his forehead, while her twin brothers cautiously stepped closer.

"Do you think he'll be all right?" Felipe asked.

"I don't know," Imelda admitted, still keeping her palm on his forehead. "He's still so cool..."

At once, Héctor's body gave a shudder, and she yanked her hand away, surprised. His mouth was twitching, and one eyelid managed to open the tiniest bit. "H-heh..." Héctor wheezed. "G-glad you... s-still think so..."

Imelda stared for a long while as his words gradually sank in. "A near-final-death experience," she said slowly, "and the first thing you say is a joke?"

She wasn't sure if she wanted to embrace him, or smack him.

"Well, we'll leave you two to sort this out!" Óscar said quickly, and hurried out of the room, dragging his twin behind him.

Imelda almost wished they'd stayed, if only to distract Héctor for long enough for her to sort out her own emotions. As it was, she looked down at him, and the storm of emotions intensified. Now that he was for sure remembered, and not on the verge of fading into dust, she had... other things to think about.

Though his eyes were worn with exhaustion, in them she could still see the eyes of a man she'd once loved, who had left her and their daughter to fend for themselves. A man who she had once longed for, day after day, before that longing turned to loathing. A man who had disappeared from her life after a few short years of marriage, and never came back again. (Because he was murdered, a voice told her, but that didn't change the fact that they'd been alone for so long.)

A man who had suddenly supported her, after nearly a century of absence, when she found herself alone, and the eyes of the world turned upon her.

...But one night was not enough to make up for a century.

The wobbly smile left Héctor's face, another expression taking its place: one of fear, bordering on terror, mixed with hope.

"Imelda... y-you..." He swallowed. "You... b-brought me home."

A jolt ran down her spine, and something in her heart loosened... just a little.

"Yes," she admitted, taking his hand and squeezing it. "I have."

Chapter Text

The one Héctor was most familiar with here, to start, was Pepita.

The reason for that wasn't exactly one he was proud of. The times he'd tried to approach Imelda, she often wasn't far behind, and she was very, very… big… and pointy. Before, he'd never really gotten the chance to get a good look at her, since whenever his focus was turned to her, it was usually his cue to leave. And all he could see were those sharp, sharp fangs, claws, and talons.

But now that he could get a better look at her without her driving him off, he found she was… rather pretty, as far as cats go, and her fur was a lot softer than he would have guessed. Often she would purr near him, but with how loud she was, it was almost close to a growl, so he wasn't sure if he could trust that—not yet.

Now though, her claws and fangs and talons were never turned towards him—not that she had ever truly hurt him with them in the past, though she had seemingly threatened to. Instead, they were turned upon the many people who tried to approach the Riveras after Dia de Muertos—invasive fans of Héctor's music, reporters looking for the latest scoop, and even angry de la Cruz fans. Whenever they came near the hacienda, Pepita would make certain they would be heading away from there very, very soon.

Not to say that they never got close. Pepita could only do so much to keep people away from the Riveras in public spaces, so Héctor rarely went out into town alone. Typically he went with Imelda, but one or two of the others would then come with him.

(Perhaps not wanting him alone with her.)

Imelda was always quick to drive away people with her boot if they got too invasive, but Victoria had a quicker—and sharper—tongue. The few times he'd been out with his wife (?) and—he later found out—his granddaughter, Victoria would snap out insults and threats faster than Imelda could get her shoe off. She was able to spot trouble before it got too close, and a few words kept it at bay.

Héctor appreciated her words. Until she turned them on him.

Of all of the Riveras, Victoria was the least trusting of him. Whenever he tried to approach her for a simple conversation, just wanting to get to know his granddaughter, to hear her stories about his own daughter, she would always find something to say that pierced right between his ribs and straight through the guilt that plagued his heart. He could not even begin to get her to lower her defenses, for her defense was a strong offense—far, far too strong for him. At least for now, anyway.

He'd never been a pushover—no man that would catch Imelda's eye could be—but he felt like one right now, as he bent over backward to try to appease his new family and make sure they would let him keep his place in it. Often he backed down from Victoria's attacks, but even more so from Imelda's. He'd heard her voice (and often more than that) raised at him far too many times in the past to not flinch whenever it happened now, even if it wasn't raised at him.

His behavior didn't go unnoticed.

It took him some time to spot Julio watching him from afar. He was a timid man, and not often confrontational, but that did not mean he didn't involve himself in the family's business. After he first noticed his son-in-law during a failed talk with Victoria, he began to spot him more often hanging back, watching whenever Héctor interacted with other family members.

At one point when Imelda raised her voice (though her anger had not actually been directed at him), Héctor ducked back, his left hand immediately going to his right wrist. He glanced aside, and out of the corner of his eye spotted Julio watching from the other side of the room. The man's sharp eyes darted from Imelda, to Héctor, to the hand upon his wrist, to his arm, and to the duct tape and leather holding said arm together. He looked from the duct tape to Imelda a few times, and his brows raised.

When Julio realized Héctor had seen him, he scurried off, and Héctor, horrified, followed. It hadn't been her fault, Héctor was quick to explain. It was when they'd first seen each other in the Land of the Dead, and both of their emotions were high, on completely opposite sides of the spectrum, resulting in… a misunderstanding. But he did not blame Imelda for it.

Julio only looked at him, his gaze piercing, but unreadable. I see, was all he could say, and he left.

Fortunately there were other Riveras he could at least have a conversation with. Óscar and Felipe, like the others, were wary of him, but unlike the others, had known him in the past. They had been younger when he'd seen them in the Land of the Living, conducting absurd experiments, and that… hadn't really changed. If anything, their experiments had grown even more wild, since they no longer risked dying from them.

They often approached him, looking for help with their experiments (or, more often, someone to be a guinea pig for them). Héctor would usually comply, not necessarily out of a great desire to be involved in science and engineering, but more of a desire to keep his family appeased. He at least had a little experience in the things they involved themselves with, having done a bit of mad science himself in an attempt to cross the bridge. He told them about his own schemes occasionally—not what he'd used them for, of course, since they didn't need to know that part. But he did try to involve himself in some way, hoping his experience would be useful.

To his surprise, they often picked apart his schemes—not unkindly, but rather pointing out the different ways they could have been done, or methods that would have been more effective. It surely would have been good to know stuff like that back then, he thought, but then if he'd had their help at the time, he wouldn't have needed to bother with his absurd attempts in the first place. Attempts for something that… he had rather hoped they wouldn't pick up on.

Unfortunately for him, their sharp wit picked up on what he'd been trying to do fairly quickly. It resulted in some raised brows, and worse than that, questions—questions about his failed schemes, what-all he'd done, how well they went, what the results had been. All it did, however, was bring back the stress of remembering all those failures, all those humiliating things he'd tried to do to cross the bridge. One day he'd be able to look back and laugh, but now the wounds still felt too fresh. Quickly he would turn the topic away from his past and back to the twins' own experiments, and they would move on, which he was grateful for. While the others occasionally asked their questions, the twins asked them the most. They were too smart at times, and he did not like being probed.

He did like Rosita though.

Unlike the others, she did not ask questions, or judge him from afar, or sling harsh words at him. Of all the Riveras, she seemed the most at ease with him, and even enjoyed his company when he wasn't actively trying to help.

Some days she would invite him to sit at the table, or in the sitting room, and she would make him tea or hot chocolate, or have him come into the kitchen to talk (about literally anything other than the things stressing him) as she worked. It was a welcome reprieve from the usual stresses of his new life. In fact, she usually came to him on his rougher days, when he needed it the most. Though he wasn't sure how she knew; he tried to keep his own pain private.

He paid attention to when she would invite him to rest, but could not determine what she was noticing. One day, as they sat in the dining room early one morning with coffee, he asked her.

She was embarrassed, but finally admitted that she could hear him pacing in his room. She also noticed when his bones creaked the worst, when he had a tightness to his voice. It was small things the others never bothered to hear, but she kept a sharp ear out for him. She knew what to look for.

He hadn't been the only one who had once felt like an outsider in the family, after all.

The tightness returned to his voice for a moment then, but not due to stress.

He was still learning about them—about Pepita and Victoria and Julio and the twins and Rosita. He was still leaning where they fit in the family, and… ultimately where he fit in the midst of this. At times—at most of the times—it felt very, very overwhelming, with the sharp claws and words and eyes and wit and ears. At times it felt like all of these points were turned on him… and quite often, they were.

Héctor was not sure when or even if he would ever fit in with this new family… but he was sharp-willed, and he would not be giving up any time soon.

Chapter Text

"I can't believe this!"

Héctor, who had merely been dozing on the couch, immediately jumped, his phantom heart pounding as his mind raced to think of what he'd done wrong.

"They told me they would help, and they leave for a bike ride?!"

Once her words sank in, he relaxed, holding a hand over his chest. Right. You're not the only one she gets angry at, he reminded himself as he rose up from his seat. He could feel a slight weariness to his bones, but it wasn't as bad as it had been; his energy levels were finally on the rise again after his near-second-death experience.

Even though he was sure it wasn't him Imelda was mad at, he still approached the dining room with caution, noting that Imelda was still staring out the window at the overcast sky and fuming. "Imelda—?"

She spun around, and he jumped back, grabbing the edge of the table for support and wincing. "Eeeh... lo siento, I was just wondering if you... needed help with something?"

Rolling her eyes, she glanced back out the window. "Ay, it's just mis hermanos. I told them I needed help with the shopping and they conveniently forgot."

"Well, they did just finish building their bike," Héctor added quickly. "Maybe they got so excited it slipped their mind?"

"As it often happens with them," Imelda muttered, still looking out the window where Pepita lay grooming herself in the yard. "I'll have to ask Victoria then—"

Héctor perked up. "Oh, she went to the library this morning."

Imelda paused. "...Julio, then—"

"Out on a delivery."

She stared back at him, one brow raised.

"I've, um." Héctor fidgeted. "I've just been paying attention."

It was true—he still felt awkward around his newfound family, and many of them felt the same way around him. He wasn't entirely comfortable around them yet, but he was starting to get to know them from just sitting back and listening.

He cleared his throat. "Rosita is—"

"Manning the shop, today, I know," Imelda finished, shaking her head. "I suppose I'll have to do it on my own then. Pepita's helped me carry the groceries before—"

"I can help!" Héctor exclaimed before he could stop himself. When Imelda immediately tensed at the idea, he did too, but he shook himself. "It's not like I've got anything else to do—"

"You need to rest, Héctor," Imelda insisted. "It's only been a few weeks since—"

"I-I'm doing a lot better!" True, but not entirely truthful, since he wasn't quite back to normal just yet, but she didn't know that. Not to mention, after sitting around the house for nearly two weeks, he was itching to go somewhere. He took a step closer, making a wide gesture with his hand. "C'mon, you'll need help carrying everything, right?"

Slowly Imelda looked him up and down, and immediately he knew what she was looking at—he still wore the same tattered outfit he'd been wearing for... a while, now. He'd lost track of how many years he'd had this one, and he hadn't even gotten around to even washing it—no one wanted to bother him while he was resting.

But finally her shoulders drooped. "Fine," she said, and immediately straightened again. "But only if we pick out a better outfit for you to wear."

Héctor's brows raised. "S-sí, Imelda!" he exclaimed, hurrying over to the front door to open it for her. Rolling her eyes, she snatched a shopping list from the table and walked outside. As he followed behind, she gave a sharp whistle.

Pepita yawned, turning her head toward Imelda and blinking slowly... only to seem to do a double-take, her ears perking and pupils widening as she fixed her gaze on Héctor. Immediately he stepped back, shuddering at the enormous cat—too many times she'd stood between him and Imelda.

But Imelda didn't seem to notice. "Pepita, you will take us to the market."

Once or twice Pepita looked between her and Héctor before obediently holding out her wings so they could climb aboard. Héctor hung back. "Uh..."

"Vámonos, Héctor," Imelda called, already climbing onto the alebrije's shoulders.

"Right! Um..." With a few uneasy glances at Pepita's face, he grasped the dense fur on her side and climbed up onto her back, situating himself a bit behind the wings, but not on the tail this time. To his surprise, the beast made a terrible rumbling noise, and he hunched himself down lower, grabbing the fur on her back more tightly. (Or was he doing it too tight? Was he making her mad?)

Before he was able to ask, however, Pepita's muscles coiled beneath them before she sprang into the air, taking off at a frightening speed toward the market district. Héctor couldn't help giving a cry of horror, holding his hat tightly against his head with one hand while his other gripped the fur beneath him. At least he couldn't look down below the alebrije, he thought, and at least there was no danger of sudden spasms threatening to throw him off.

A soft sound caught his attention over the roar of the wind, and he risked looking up. All at once his fear was forgotten when he realized... it was Imelda.

Laughing.

It wasn't until his mouth felt uncomfortably dry that he realized his jaw had (not literally) dropped.

The past couple weeks hadn't exactly been relaxed ones, with the media being in a flurry over the events of Dia de Muertos and the family scrambling to suddenly accommodate for a new (and for a short while, bedridden) member.

He... hadn't heard her laugh all that often. Not in a long time.

There was no time to think on it any more, however, as the towers of the market district rose up around them and Pepita dove down for a landing.

Héctor's dismount from the alebrije was no more graceful than it had been the first time, but he offered his assistance to Imelda nonetheless. She pointedly ignored him, slipping down on the other side, and he sighed in defeat. His steps felt heavier as he walked around Pepita... until the cat nudged him from behind, causing him to yelp. "I'm moving, gata, ay...!" he muttered, scrambling after Imelda.

While it was nice getting to walk the streets again, his gaze was entirely on Imelda. For a moment he had to marvel at the fact that he was actually walking with her again, and that he wasn't being driven away.

Imelda stole a glance back at him, and his heart leapt until she quickly looked away. Right, he shouldn't get his hopes up. Part of him wanted to believe that she might be a little shy, or perhaps trying to hide her own feelings, but he didn't want to get his hopes dashed again, as they had been so many times in the past.

"There's a tienda de ropa a few blocks from here," she said quickly as they carefully descended the steep path. "We can find a new outfit for you there."

Héctor nodded, looking down at his clothing... then frowned. The scarf had been a gift, and Cheech had loaned him the jacket... and he'd never be able to return it, he realized with a sudden jolt to his heart. Shaking himself, he swallowed the pain back down—he wasn't going to have a breakdown on the first time he got to be alone with his... with Imelda.

"On—on second thought," he said, and Imelda stopped, turning to face him. "I don't know that... that I would like to replace this, exactly."

"Why not?"

"I... I got these items from mi familia—uh!" He realized his mistake when Imelda's brows shot up in surprise, and quickly waved his hands. "Not like that! The people in Shantytown, you know? We're... we were like a big family." One hand fiddled with his scarf as he glanced away. "We were... you know, the ones who had no homes to visit, no way to cross." Again he found himself fidgeting, his right foot repeatedly pressing into his bad leg to ease some of the pain in it.

Imelda didn't answer him, her gaze turned down toward his feet instead, and her brow furrowed. "...You shouldn't have come if your leg hurts," she said, and resumed walking down the path.

"¿Qué?" He quickly straightened, as much as he was able at the moment, and followed. "Nah, it's fine! Don't worry, I've been walking like this for a long time." Only now did he realize how bad that sounded, but he tried to shrug it off with a laugh. "Heh, you should've seen how bad I was before I got the bandages."

"You shouldn't be walking on it."

"Pah, it's not so bad." Now the road was evening out, much to his relief. "I'm fine, really!"

She stopped again to look at him incredulously. "Really."

"Really! I mean, if I didn't feel fine, could I do..." He floundered for a moment, wondering what he could do to prove to her (or, well, pretend to her) that he was doing a lot better than he looked, before realizing that his foot was tapping. Glancing around, he noticed a nearby paper flower salesman who, somewhere in his stall, had a radio… playing a familiar song.

"Could I do this?" he asked, putting his arms behind his back as he allowed his feet to move to the rhythm of the song, in spite of the way his bad leg and his still-recovering energy levels protested.

"Héctor, what on earth are you..." Imelda faltered, looking down at his feet again before one of her own boots began to tap rhythmically against the ground.

His face broke into a grin. "See? You remember!"

But Imelda frowned, forcibly stilling her feet and crossing her arms, though Héctor could tell from the faint way her body swayed that she was itching to move. "No," she said, looking in the opposite direction of the radio. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Something within Héctor ached, and his own dancing slowed to a stop. "You... don't?"

But... of course. She'd been trying to forget for years now, hadn't she? To forget dancing, to forget music, to forget...

He swallowed back the tightness in his throat and forced a smile. "Well... I can remind you, then," he went on, and picked up the dance again.

"Héctor..." She gave him a tired look. "We didn't come here to dance, we came here to get work done."

"It can wait," he said, allowing himself to dance a little closer. "Try to think back to when we were younger."

"That was a long time ago."

"But you remember the plaza," he went on, circling around her. "I know you didn't move from Santa Cecilia."

"No," she admitted. "The family still lives in my old house... but we avoided the plaza and its music."

Her old house. It felt like an anchor was weighing in his rib cage, but he pressed on, circling her again. "But you didn't used to avoid the plaza. We went there together." Or... the three of them did, but that was one part he wouldn't mind if she forgot.

Imelda was quiet for a moment, staring down at the bone-shaped cobblestones below her... and her foot began to tap against them. "...Yes," she finally said. "You would play for tips most days, but sometimes... we would just go to dance."

Sunbeams poked through the clouds, and Héctor's smile grew a bit more genuine. "And do you remember how you used to dance?"

For a second, a look of fear crossed her face—not quite as terrified as she'd been when she found herself on the stage a few weeks ago, but certainly there. She'd needed a nudge then, which Miguel had been the one to provide... and since he wasn't here, Héctor could fill in that role himself.

"Close your eyes, Imelda, and listen."

A look of "this is foolish" crossed her face, but only briefly, and she shut her eyes. Héctor did the same, tuning out the other sounds of the streets as he focused on the music playing from the radio—focused on it until it wasn't the radio playing it, but a live band, playing their hearts out in Mariachi Plaza. The sun was bright and it was hot as could be and he could feel his back soaked with sweat, but he didn't care, because she was at his side, dancing right alongside him. He could still see her gaze fixed lovingly upon him, her braided hair tossed over her shoulder. It was slightly disheveled, some hair strands falling in loose curls around her ears and cheek. Her hands were lifting up her dress, showing her boots—not as expertly-crafted as the ones she wore later in life, but still lovely nonetheless.

And he spun with her, in time to the music, the both of them turning their heads just so they could spend half a second longer staring at each other.

Their steps in time, their breath in time, and surely even their heartbeats matching in tempo.

And a rather large something hurtling rapidly toward them—

Wait—

The dark-but-colorful streets of the Land of the Dead crashed into view, along with whatever was barreling in Héctor’s direction. A flurry of panic came over him, and before he could even yelp, he found himself leaping out of the way and into safety.

The something, it turned out, was a runaway bicycle, which had several-too-many skeletons piled on top of it. Shortly after, it crashed spectacularly into one of the nearby flower carts, destroying the bike and scattering the bones of some of the skeletons, but leaving them otherwise relatively unharmed.

Héctor breathed out a sigh; it was a good thing he'd jumped out of the way.

...Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Where had he jumped... to...?

Wiggling one foot, he realized he was definitely not on the ground. And, from what he could feel, he was probably being held... held by...

Slowly he turned his head to find that Imelda was giving him an equally surprised look.

"R—IGHT!" he squeaked, his feet scrambling for the ground as Imelda set him upright. "That was... close."

Fortunately Imelda didn't seem keen to comment on the fact that he'd literally leapt into her arms. Instead she cleared her throat, looking in the direction of the crashed bike. "Did those cyclists look... familiar to you?"

Héctor rubbed a knuckle against his goatee, following her gaze. "Now that you mention it..."

There, right by the cart they'd crashed into, were two identical skulls, one of which was suddenly hit by a fallen bike wheel.

Clicking her non-existent tongue, Imelda marched up to the two, Héctor limping behind. The twin skulls looked up in alarm as Imelda towered over them. "Did you two forget something, by chance?"

"Uhhh... sí," one replied.

"The brakes."

Héctor snorted in laughter, but covered his mouth when he realized Imelda seemed significantly less amused. Still, as he watched her march around the street, gathering up the scattered bones and systematically reassembling her brothers while ranting at them all the while... Héctor's mind drifted back to moments earlier, when there had been no bike crash, no market district, no radio.

There had only been dancing, and music.

It was gone now, and he was forced back into the reality of his broken skeletal form and the near century that had separated him from his wife.

But... that was okay.

Because in time, his bones would heal, and in time... they would gradually bring the music back that had brought them together, so many years ago.

Chapter Text

Héctor dusted off his vest with his good hand, looking at himself in the mirror anxiously. "Do I... look okay?"

"Sí, papá, you look fine," Coco answered, grinning at him.

"Yeah, but... do I really look okay?" He turned to the side to view himself from that angle before looking down at his daughter.

"Papá, that's the outfit you wear the most."

"But does it look okay?"

"You're going for a walk."

"I know, but—"

Coco only laughed, shaking her head, and Héctor couldn't help smiling at her—it was hard to be upset when she wasn't.

"Well... if you say so, mija." His voice caught, and he cleared his throat—it wasn't any emotion, but just the fact that his cervical vertebrae were still recovering from the damage done to them. It hurt less now, and he could talk more, but they got terribly itchy at times. "Ay..."

"Save your talking for mamá." Gently she urged him away from his bedroom mirror and to the door. "Go have fun."

"You... could join us, if you wanted," Héctor said, looking back at her.

She smiled. "No, this is just for you and her. Go on, papá."

Smiling back at her, Héctor finally turned back to the hallway before him and headed down the stairs. Though his leg still bothered him, it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been, so he hoped he would be good for a walk. As he neared the bottom of the stairs, he saw Imelda waiting by the door and talking with her brothers. She looked up as he approached, and his heart leaped.

"I take it you're ready, then?" Imelda asked, and Héctor nodded eagerly, wincing when the action irritated his throat. But she only smiled, opening the door. "Let's go."

The late afternoon sun cast a warm orange glow over the streets of the Land of the Dead, and Pepita lay on her back in the yard, trying to soak in the last of the rays that touched their property. Hearing the approach of her familia, she rolled over and raised her head, alert.

Héctor tensed; every time he'd gone out somewhere since... everything happened, either Pepita or Dante (or both) had accompanied him, ready to assist him whenever possible. Often they ran into the press, and the alebrijes' assistance was needed, but the last few times there had been no incident. Even so, the thought of needing the accompaniment of an alebrije made him slightly less eager about tonight. "Is she...?"

Sighing, Imelda strode up to Pepita and scratched behind her horn reassuringly. "No, no, Pepita, you stay here. We'll be fine on our own."

The big cat's gaze flicked over to Héctor, lingering on him, before she turned back to Imelda with a questioning meow.

"It will be fine," Imelda went on, scratching the side of her alebrije's jaw.

"Are... are you sure?" Héctor asked, limping up to her. "Maybe we should wait a bit longer—"

"Héctor, we can't keep living like this." Imelda's voice was harsh, and he winced back, but she softened immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We can't keep being afraid. The press is leaving us alone now, and all of his men are behind bars. Nothing will hurt us."

Frowning, Héctor stared down at his prosthetic hand, flexing it. After a moment he looked up, a teasing smile tugging at his mouth. "Not even rogue alebrijes?"

Pepita snorted, nearly sending Héctor's hat flying, and Imelda rolled her eyes. "That would happen, wouldn't it?" she said, then chuckled. "Yes, Héctor, if some rogue alebrije charges us again, we can take care of it, or I can call Pepita." She rubbed the cat's nose before stepping back, her demeanor becoming more serious again. "But... I want us to relax tonight, and not worry about anything like that."

Héctor gazed into her eyes, finding some of the worry in his bones easing. "I... think I can manage that."

"Good." With that, she marched toward the gates of their property, and Héctor followed.

It felt a little strange to be stepping outside the hacienda without an actual destination in mind—usually he would step out to help with shopping (really just to get out of the house), to go to the park, or to visit his Shantytown family. It didn't take long, however, for Héctor to merely roll with it, enjoying the fresh air and the warmth of the afternoon sun on his back.

And, of course, the fact that he was actually spending some time alone with his wife.

He found himself turning to her, his heart lifting as he considered the fact that she had asked him to do this. She wanted to be with him. Yes, they'd been building up their relationship again over the past few months, but after so many years of loneliness, it was still a marvel to him.

"It's nice to just get out of the house for a while, isn't it?" Imelda asked, catching him off guard.

"Oh—! Yes." Héctor nodded quickly, adjusting his scarf. "It's warm tonight. And not raining."

Imelda laughed quietly; it had indeed been raining a lot that week, which hadn't made deliveries and grocery runs all that pleasant. "Yes, it seems we've finally gotten a break from that." She grew quiet for a moment. "And... everything else."

"Gracias a Dios," Héctor breathed with a relieved grin. "Let's not even talk about it."

She didn't look back at him, but slowly nodded.

Goodness, it would be nice to think about something else for a while. They never turned on any news stations on the radio or television, since there was always a risk of stuff about that coming up. Even then, some of their familia had been talking when they'd thought he was out of earshot. Words like therapy and mental health had been tossed around a few times, but Héctor would still very much like to avoid seeing doctors as much as possible, whether they be doctors for bones, teeth, or mind. Not to mention, seeing that kind of doctor would require going over everything again—telling it to someone else, reliving it... no, gracias.

Imelda was right—he couldn't keep living in fear and letting everything that happened during that time control the rest of his life. Things had to get back to normal eventually... and this was a great start.

"Miguel is quite the artist," Imelda remarked, drawing him out of his thoughts again.

Héctor brightened—though Miguel hadn't been able to send them any letters yet, since Dante was still recovering, they'd gone back over previous letters he'd sent, admiring the drawings on some of them. In one, he'd drawn Héctor and Imelda from memory, and managed to capture their likenesses quite well. "You think he's started writing that book yet?"

"I don't think so. He said it was for Socorro, and she certainly isn't old enough to understand it yet."

Shrugging, Héctor looked up at the sky, which was beginning to turn from orange to reddish-purple. Though still bright enough to see, the nearby streetlamps flickered on. "No, but creating something for someone takes time." His gaze turned to her with a sly grin. "I certainly didn't wait until we were, eh, what do they call it now... official before I started writing songs for you."

Imelda blinked in surprise. "That's right..." And then she turned to him with a wry smile of her own. "I still remember when you first tried to serenade me."

Immediately Héctor balked, stopping in his tracks and wincing. "Eeeehhhhh. Okay, I never say this, but please don't remember that."

To his utter mortification, she went on, taking a step closer: "You were shaking in your shoes—"

"Imelda—"

"Your face was as white as a sheet—"

"Por favor—"

"And I seem to recall..."

"Ay, no!"

"...your voice cracked."

"Uuuuuuughhhh..." Héctor buckled, covering his face with his hat and mumbling into it: "Honestly, I would have been happy if you'd forgotten that one."

But Imelda tugged the hat back, giving him a fond smile. "It was charming."

Embarrassed as he was, he couldn't be upset at that look, and raised himself back to his full height. "Charming as a deaf burro," he said, adjusting his hat.

She stepped back, raising a brow bone. "Are you saying I have bad taste?"

"¿Qué? No!" Héctor flinched back. "N-no, mi amor, I was just..."

Imelda had looked like she may have been half-joking at first, but her brow furrowed and her eyes lowered, her shoulders sinking as though there was suddenly a weight laid upon them. "...It wasn't you who'd used that phrase originally."

"What are you..."

Héctor froze.

Before him, he saw the vision of a then-taller boy staring down at him in disappointment and disbelief.

What was that?! You sounded like a deaf burro out there.

He'd believed him at the time—near everything he said—and still couldn't recall that moment without wincing.

Though he wasn't looking anymore, the voice went on, in words he'd never actually heard it say: You're not good enough for her, hermanito. You're not good enough for any of them. Why would you even try to go back to her? It's not like your music can win her back now.

He gasped as a jolt of phantom pain shot through his missing hand, and grasped his wrist.

She's just toying with you. After all, you abandoned her before... You're pretty good at that, by the way. Why would she want you again?

"C-cállate," he stammered through grit teeth. "I-I never did that, I never—"

"Héctor?"

With a start, Héctor stumbled backwards, nearly falling, and found himself still on the sidewalk with Imelda staring at him in bewilderment and concern. "Are you all right?"

He mentally kicked himself; what was he doing, letting himself get hung up on this again? They were supposed to be enjoying themselves, and here he was getting upset about a person who wasn't even around anymore. Shaking himself bodily, he straightened again and tugged at his suspenders. "Sí, I'm fine. Just got a bit lost in my thoughts, heh."

Imelda didn't look entirely convinced, and it took a great deal of willpower not to wither under her gaze, as he'd done before Dia de Muertos. "I-I am fine," he insisted, holding out his hands. "Really! I was just—"

"Héctor," she said, holding up a hand herself, and he lowered his, feeling a tension pulling beneath his ribs as he waited for her to speak. "I... need to talk to you about something."

Her tone was serious, and clearly unhappy, and the tension spread from Héctor's chest to the rest of his body.

There it was—she hadn't invited him out for a walk just for the sake of being with him. She needed to talk with him.

Did you think she would actually enjoy your company, hermano? Did you think she actually wanted to keep you around? She's just being polite, and she's going to turn you away.

Héctor looked up into Imelda's eyes, and could see it—hesitation, anxiety... whatever she was going to tell him couldn't be anything good. His left hand gripped his right wrist, and his non-existent stomach felt as though it were sinking through the stones beneath his feet.

She opened her mouth to say something... and then her eyes went wide, and within seconds she threw herself forward, grabbing Héctor by his bad wrist and yanking him away. He let out a yelp, but only had a brief moment to wonder what she was doing when he heard the crack of something heavy striking pavement. Looking back, he could see a decent-sized rock that had hit the pavement a short distance past where he'd been standing.

It took a few more seconds before he realized that had Imelda not pulled him away, the rock would have struck him in the skull.

Imelda seemed to realize it the same time as he did, and her boot was off and held up threateningly. "Where are you?!" she demanded, her face contorted in rage, while Héctor struggled to recover from the shock of what had just happened.

"Should have left him where he was standing, vieja."

The voice was rough, unfamiliar, and slightly muffled. The evening was growing darker, now, but lurking behind one of the streetlamps, just behind where he'd been standing, was a figure wearing a large jacket and a face mask that obscured his markings.

The shocked numbness that had filled Héctor spiked into a full-blown terror as he took a step back. No, no, it couldn't be, they'd gotten all of his men, hadn't they? Though when he looked at the stranger, he didn't seem to fit the appearance of the rest of Ernesto's bodyguards—they were all broad-shouldered and tall, and this man had a slighter frame. Could he be another person Ernesto had a connection with?

Only a second later, however, he could no longer see the man, for Imelda had positioned herself directly between them. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"I was a fan of the music," the man shot back.

Héctor's mind reeled. "What?"

"Not your music, you fraud. El Señor de la Cruz's."

Dios, it was another one of them. He'd had encounters with them in the past, and they were often angry, but they'd never...

"My husband is no fraud." Imelda's voice was low, and Héctor could feel the anger radiating off of her. "That man betrayed us, he stole Héctor's songs and—"

"Yeah, 'cuz what was he gonna do with them? Sing 'em at quinceañeras? De la Cruz gave the songs to the world—he made the world a better place with that music, and you—!" For a moment it seemed like he was too angry to speak.

"Are you serious?!" Imelda cried, but Héctor's heart sank as he recalled how the night he'd left, he had packed up his songs, intending to take them home, planning only to sing in Santa Cecilia...

Alarmingly, the man took a step forward. "Are you? You ruined him, and when that wasn't enough, you got him arrested?!"

Shaking his guilt off for the moment, Héctor stepped out from behind Imelda to glare at his attacker. "He kidnapped my granddaughter!"

"Oh, sure he did! Sure that wasn't some lie you cabrónes made up to smear his name further—"

"What do you think happened to Héctor's hand?!"

"Pretty desperate move for attention," the attacker snarled before he began walking purposefully toward them, his voice growing dangerously low. "And I can give you all the attention you like."

"Get back."

"I won't." He was closer now, drawing a weapon from his side—a bat. "I'm sick of this."

Frantically Héctor took a moment to survey the area around them—it was very still, and no one else was around. He hadn't been paying attention to where they were going earlier, but he realized with alarm that Imelda must have deliberately led him to a place that wasn't busy, where they wouldn't be bothered, so she could talk with him alone... This timing couldn't have been worse—

Without warning the man charged, and Héctor reached for Imelda's hand so he could grab it and run.

His hand came short, for Imelda ran forward, meeting the man with a strike of her boot. Though it missed, the man stumbled backward, surprised. "Out of my way, vieja!"

"No," she said. "If you want him, you have to get through me first."

"Fine. You're as culpable as he is!" With that, he charged at Imelda, swinging the bat, only for her to jump back and strike with her boot again, this time hitting his hand, and he drew back with a yell.

"I-Imelda, what are you doing?!" Héctor whispered hurriedly. "We should get out of here!"

Without looking away, she hissed back to him: "I'm not letting any of this affect us any more."

Her words didn't make much sense, and he didn't have time to sort through it now. The man had already recovered from the strike, and swung his bat at her again, the weapon coming within an inch of her nasal cavity, and even Imelda seemed alarmed.

She couldn't do this on her own.

While the man was distracted by Imelda, Héctor backed away, and edged himself around her as quietly as he could, fighting to keep his creaking, trembling bones still. Fortunately he had a lot of practice sneaking around, and managed to get to the side and slightly behind their attacker. Imelda seemed to notice what he was doing too, and made several quick swings to keep the man focused on her.

Drawing in a breath to prepare himself, Héctor lunged forward, tackling the man to the ground. Not much of a fighter, he struggled to keep the man pinned, holding down one of his arms with his good hand—there wasn't enough strength in his prosthetic to do much there. The whole situation brought back memories of a very different night, and for a moment he swore he could see stark white bone. The man fought and snarled beneath him, but only for a moment, for Imelda finally struck him directly in the skull with her boot, knocking him senseless.

Héctor didn't immediately relax, even when Imelda retrieved the weapon before it could be used again. He was still shaking a great deal, and kept holding the body down, not sure what else to do with himself even as Imelda gave a shrill whistle, and Pepita roared in the distance.

They gave the report outside the station—Imelda had insisted—and Héctor remembered little of it. He couldn't seem to differentiate between when they were there and when they left, because the next thing he knew Imelda was gently nudging his shoulder, and he blinked to find that Pepita had brought them to the rooftop of their own house.

"Héctor, it's done," Imelda said gently. "You're okay."

He forced a laugh, trying to smile in spite of the tightness in his chest and the fact that he hadn't stopped shaking. "What makes you think I'm not?"

She didn't answer, but her worried, exhausted expression made it clear the shoddy attempt at a joke hadn't landed. Wordlessly she slipped off of Pepita and helped him down, and they stood in the soft glow of the enormous cat's luminescent fur. Imelda stared down at it, running one hand over the yellow markings while her other hand rested on Héctor's shoulder.

"You're right," she said at last.

"About...?"

"You're not okay." Her hand squeezed his shoulder as she finally looked into his eyes.

Héctor's non-existent stomach was slowly twisting itself into knots. "I... I-Imelda—"

"We are not okay," she said firmly, her gaze falling again. "Neither of us."

"¿Qué?" he gasped, stooping down to meet her gaze. "I-Imelda, no, y-you were amazing! I don't know what I would have done—"

"No, Héctor." She took a step back, letting go of him. "I... I couldn't have handled that on my own. Without you, that man could have..."

They stood in the stillness, the only other sound being the soft breathing of the cat beside them. Pepita let out a quiet purr, and Imelda finally went on:

"I couldn't have done anything without my family. After you were gone, I tried to work alone, but..." She shook her head, and Héctor's heart ached. Hesitantly he wrapped his good arm around her shoulder, and her hand raised up to rest upon his. "My family—my brothers and Coco—helped me then." And she looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "And I need you now."

That caught him off guard, and he nearly stumbled back. "You... do?" he stammered. "But I—I thought that... you seemed upset before—"

"No." She turned around, holding his good hand in both of hers. "Héctor, what I wanted to talk to you about..."

Though Héctor steeled himself, he could feel himself wilting anyway. "¿Sí?"

"I know you don't want to hear this, but... we... need help. Both of us. And... we need it together." Imelda's hands gently squeezed his until he looked into her eyes. "I'm going to sign us up for therapy."

Héctor winced. "Imelda... you don't... I-I don't think we—"

"You went blank for nearly an hour after what happened tonight, and I don't think it was just from the attack."

Slowly, haltingly he let out the air from where his lungs once were. She was right—he knew she was, but...

"You.... you know... the things he said," Héctor stammered. "They... they were..."

"You can't honestly believe anything he said!" Imelda cried, horrified.

"They weren't... wrong," he finally admitted. "If... if he hadn't taken my music, I would have just... sang at local things in Santa Cecilia. My music wouldn't have reached—"

"Of course not!" She took him by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes. "But you would have been alive, Héctor!"

He hung his head, ashamed. "I-I know. But... some things... worked out for the better, didn't they?"

"This is what I'm talking about. Listen to yourself... you can't keep thinking like this." Gently she lifted his chin so he was looking at her again. "We need to talk to someone, Héctor. I'll be with you."

"Y... you're right. Lo siento, mi amor." Finally he straightened himself, even though he still felt like slumping. "I'll—we'll do it."

Imelda drew her arms around him, and he did the same. "Yes, mi amor. We'll get through this... however long it takes."