Work Text:
Cal stormed into his room at the statehouse, the door slamming behind him, and sat down on the edge of his bed with a huff. He ripped off his beanie and threw it onto the floor, running his slightly shaky hands through his hair he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths as he lay back on the bed. Today's Table meeting had been a disaster, he'd been on edge the entire meeting, his wildfires had been getting worse and there had been an earthquake the night before, though thankfully small with minimal damage it had rattled him, he'd gone into the meeting with barely 4 hours of sleep and his flannel button-up rubbing painfully against the burns on his arms, and Texas had decided to pick a fight towards the end. 'You took his bait, though,' his brain unhelpfully added. It was true, California had given in to Texas's infuriating jabs and the screaming match that had followed had been intense—it didn't mean he appreciated the reminder though.
After a moment of stewing in his anger he sat up slowly, wincing as his long sleeves caught on his burns yet again. He'd been too angry to notice before but now it hurt, he slowly unbuttoned and removed his flannel, doing his best not to irritate the burns more. He might have left it off for the meeting except for the tattoos on his arms, he didn't need one more thing for the others to make fun of. He trailed his fingers over the ink, careful to avoid the burns dotting his arms, and breathing slowly to calm himself. California poppies wrapped around his right shoulder and spilled down his arm, stopping just around mid-bicep, it had been added to over time, some were colored with soft orange and yellow ink and different artist's styles blended together, it was one of his favorites. On the back of his other shoulder was a small California Condor mid-flight, he'd gotten it when the first Condors had been reintroduced into the wild in 1991, he smiled, it was slow but the population was recovering. His smile faded as his hand trailed down to his last tattoo, a small red outline of a star on the inside of his left wrist, he rubbed his thumb slowly over it. It was his oldest tattoo, he'd gotten it in 1850, after he'd become a US state. Texas had a matching one—or at least he used to, he'd probably had it removed a while ago. He remembered the smile Texas had flashed him that day as he teased Cal that he'd only been independent for 29 days and didn't deserve the star, Cal had scowled at him, but that night in the dim firelight Texas had held his hand gently and whispered "Mi Estrella."
Cal squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his hand away from the star and squeezing it into a fist, pain and anger bubbling up again, he needed something else to calm him down. He got up and rummaged through his desk drawer, searching for the travel sewing kit he kept at the Statehouse, pulling it out and setting it on his desk before making his way to his closet. He kept most of his clothes at his apartment in Los Angeles, so he didn't have many options at the statehouse, but he picked out a comfortable pair of light-blue, boot-cut jeans that he'd gotten recently, he draped them over the side of the desk before opening his sewing kit and considering the contents. He didn't have any embroidery thread with him, but sewing thread would work well enough for a small project, he sketched a small design—a little bear—onto the corner of one of the jeans' back pockets. He grabbed the black and brown spools, a sewing needle, and the jeans and settled into the beanbag in the corner of his room, curling up and putting his earbuds into his ears, soft music playing as he started on his project. The repetitive motion of the stitches was soothing, like it had always been, but it let his mind wander.
He remembered the day his Mamá had first taught him to sew. He must have been about 10, and he'd been out helping Papá with the horses earlier that morning. He'd been climbing a fence and missed a rail, slipping off and landing on the dusty ground with a jolt, he'd scraped his hands and knees and ripped his pants. He'd stayed there for a moment, trying to regain the breath that'd been knocked out of him, tears prickling at his eyes. Papá had tied his horse to the fence and made his way over to crouch in front of him, holding his shoulders gently.
"¿Te has hecho daño, Osito?"
"S-sí," he'd whispered, voice wobbly with tears, as he showed his scraped hands to Papá, "me duele mucho." Papá had hugged him gently and said, his soft Spanish words wrapping comfortingly around Cal, "I'm sorry, little bear. Come, let's go inside, Mamá will help you." He'd helped Cal gently to his feet and walked with him to their little house.
Mamá had looked up from her sewing as he and Papá had entered the house, she'd abandoned it and made her way over over to where Cal and Papá were standing when she noticed the tear-tracks on Cal's face.
"Mi Osito, ¿que paso?" She asked, cupping Cal's little face in her hands and gently wiping away the tears that had begun to fall again.
"I fell, and I scraped my hands and knees." Cal said sadly, showing her his scraped palms. Mamá had looked closely at his scrapes before guiding him to sit on her chair and telling him to wait. She'd dipped a small washcloth into a pail of water and used it to gently wipe the dust off of Cal's scrapes, kissing the top of his head gently when his scrapes were clean. "All done, my brave little bear, now I have to fix your clothes." She made him change his pants, taking his ripped pair from him and grabbing a matching thread color and needle she sat back in her chair to begin sewing. Cal had climbed into her lap and curled up to watch, asking questions as she worked. When she'd finished with the first leg she had set her work in her lap and shifted to look down at Cal and warmly asked if he'd like to try. He'd looked at her excitedly and nodded, smiling as he was handed the needle and thread. She'd coached him through each step, and though the finished project was much wonkier than Mamá's neat stitching he'd smiled up at her proudly when he'd fastened off the last stitch and she'd praised his work.
He'd often help her with sewing after his chores after that, and he'd quickly become skilled, his stitches becoming almost as neat as hers.
Cal fastened off the last stitch of the little bear with shaky hands and looked down at his finished work, running his fingertips across the raised stitches. He leaned his head back against the wall and clutched the embroidery to his chest, closing his eyes and letting the tears prickling at the edges slide down his face.
"Te echo de menos, Mamá, y a ti, papá. Lo siento."