Chapter Text
Dolores isn’t close to Mirabel. As awful as that sounds, as guilty as that makes her feel, she knows it’s true. Their relationship now mostly consists of accidentally bumping into each other in the hallway, exchanging awkward talk, and sometimes dry looks over the dinner table when Camilo says something dumber than usual. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know Mirabel, or notice when she’s acting off like she is now. Like weird-off.
Really, really weird.
Tía Julieta was over the moon about Mirabel’s shift in behavior. Mirabel went from quiet and avoiding any interaction to sitting up straight during la cena, eyes bright, and a lightness to her that Dolores hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
Everybody saw the shift in her. It was hard not to.
Dolores is glad for it — they’re not close anymore; they couldn’t be. But she’s happy that Mirabel has found something to bring her joy.
Even if it couldn’t be them to bring her that happiness.
So, Dolores wasn’t really concerned with her shift. She was happy that Mirabel was happy, and that was enough for her.
At least, she was until she began to notice how strange everything was. Like how Mirabel didn’t come back to Casita after school until it was time for la cena and then retreated to her room as fast as she could and never came back out until the next morning. Until Dolores watched as Mirabel began to get more and more tired like she hasn’t been sleeping despite being holed up in her room for hours on end every day.
Mirabel still had a sort of light to her, but she looked so tired, like she could barely stay awake during el desayuno. Dolores would brush this off as her being overly paranoid as usual — Mirabel was a teenager and teenagers stayed up late all the time — but she noted how even Isabela began to keep watch on her hermana.
So, it wasn’t just Dolores with concerns, which meant that something was happening, something that Dolores or anybody else didn’t know about.
It didn’t help that there were rumors going around on social media about some woman in a homemade suit running around and fighting petty crimes. Some claimed she could fly, others swore she could climb walls. It was all ridiculous sounding, but Dolores dug up as much information as she could for the next few days. She found some grainy pictures, distorted and clearly taken at night of a figure crouched on rooftops or making escapes from alleyways.
Nothing concrete but concerning nonetheless. Something she was hesitant to let go, but was thinking about doing so anyways.
Until, one day, Dolores arrives on scene of a burning apartment building and gets a glimpse of that same figure in real life. Only a split second does Dolores get a look of her — a flash of a teal foot scrambling over a rooftop and disappearing before any of them could catch up with her.
Isabela got a better look at the woman, though. She tells them, voice low and alert, about the bugged eye of her lenses and the spider branded on her chest like a trademark. Dolores itches to dig up anything else she could now that this strange figure is clearly starting to advance up from small criminals to burning buildings.
The woman didn’t seem like a threat, but it was better safe than sorry. Dolores had her family to think about — she had her abuela, her hermanito, and her youngest prima to consider; the three without powers currently — and she wouldn’t slack off in her research in case something happened. Appearances can be deceiving after all.
The cleanup is routine — Isabela and Dolores help with the civilians the best they could, making sure their needs are met and getting them medical care if it’s required all the while Pepa helps the firemen put the fire out, a caged storm of rain swirling around the apartment building.
“What do you think?” Dolores asks, later, when most of the people are gone and the apartment building is steaming like the largest ever campfire known to man. “About her?”
Isabela stares off into the distance, jaw clenched and clearly conflicted. “I don’t know,” she admits after a moment.
Dolores agrees silently with the sentiment. A new player has entered the chess board and her motives are unclear. Webbed robbers and criminals dangling from streetlight poles and babbling citizens pouring praises through small posts on Twitter wasn’t a lot to go off of. Just because someone was doing the right thing doesn’t mean they’re doing it for the right reason. Everyone chases something, whether it’s the adrenaline or the praise or the spotlight or sometimes even the pain, everyone’s the same.
This woman in a spider suit is no different. It’ll all really come down to what she’s truly wanting and what she’ll do to get it.
They couldn’t have a wildcard running amok in the city. If the woman ended up hurting someone who wasn’t a criminal or started believing herself above morality, then they’d end up with a problem.
Dolores hopes it doesn’t come down to that. She doesn’t want to deal with fighting against another superpowered individual she knows nothing about. She doesn’t want to think the causalities of such a thing. The people they fight now causes enough destruction already. She cringes internally at the thought of Luisa pushing herself every time to clean up the wreckage they made behind their masks — always the guilty, self sacrificial one.
“Let’s go home,” Isabela says, breaking her out of thought. Her older cousin sets a hand on her shoulder only briefly before stepping away. “La cena is about to start and I desperately need a shower.”
Dolores grimaces as she finally acknowledges the sweat soaking her brow and into her curls — an unfortunate side affect of being so close to such a big fire earlier.
La cena is tense — Abuela’s hawk-eyeing the tv as the news plays, showcasing a man who was apparently the father of a boy the woman in the spider suit saved earlier. Dolores soaks up the information, eyes narrowed in thought as the others do the same around her. She steals a glance across the table — Mirabel watches the screen, wide eyed and bright.
Dolores knew Mirabel was one who loved superheroes — quietly, she remembers times when her and the others would argue who they believed was her favorite; Camilo was convinced it was him, though Dolores had her doubts — so it’s not a surprise that her primita seemed to be hero worshiping the woman already.
Dolores spears a green bean with the tiniest bit more force than necessary. Their whole family was competitive by default and that did not exclude her, no matter how many times Dolores tried to pretend she was above such pettiness.
She sighs and glances back at the screen.
Weaver, huh? she muses, turning the name over and over in her head. Not bad.
Dinner finishes up silently and still too much said through tossed looks over the table. Abuela’s face was pinched, eyes hard in a worn look of a leader faced with a dilemma they didn’t know how to approach. Her own mamí looked hesitant at the idea of another superhero running around — a superpowered one at that.
Dolores shares their concerns silently. She wonders if she’ll run into Weaver on patrol tonight and, if not, how long it’ll be until she will. It was inevitable that the Encanto would eventually come face to face with the newest figure running around.
It’s when Dolores is leaving the dining room that she realizes something is…off.
Mirabel walks in front of her, damp curls frizzing slightly at the ends and head ducked down, watching her steps. Dolores’ brows furrow as she catches a smell that reminds her of the scene they’d just helped clean up during their shift.
Dolores leans in closer, breathing in the scent a little more. Underneath the thick smell of vanilla-apple shampoo and something minty is an after tone of a faint stench. Not BO, but like the hot smell of something that’s been burnt, like a freshly dirt-kicked campfire.
“Why do you smell like ash?” Dolores asks.
Mirabel does a full body flinch, whirling around. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses and Dolores clocks the way her free hand shakes for a moment before her primita jams it into her hoodie pockets to hide with the other.
“What?” Mirabel croaks out, hoarse and suddenly guilty.
Dolores stares her down at the tone. “Were you…” Her mind whirls. Ash. Something that’s been burnt. The news at la cena. The apartment building that caught fire. A little boy being trapped there. It’s such a stretch of the imagination but she feels sick. Oh god. Instead of the little boy, she images Mirabel in that place, surrounded flames, coughing and choking on smoke, tears in her eyes, screaming for her family to save her—
“You weren’t near that apartment, were you?” Dolores asks, suddenly dizzy. She feels like the blood has drained completely from her head, leaving her faint. If Mirabel had been by that disaster—
She doesn’t want to think about that.
Mirabel shakes her head, pupils shrinking in her still too wide eyes. Her movements are jerky and not a single sound escapes her — she doesn’t even seem to be breathing.
Now, Dolores has grown up with Mirabel. She’s watched over her, babysat her. She was there for her first steps, listened to her first word. She’s watched Mirabel grow from baby to toddler to teenager. She knows Mirabel, even though they aren’t close anymore — “It’s safer this way” — and, though Mirabel is fifteen years old now, she is also still that same five year old with terrible lying skills when put on the spot.
“Okay,” Dolores breathes out. “Good. That’s good.”
Mirabel hurries away, stiff legged and stumbling until she slams the door to her room closed. Dolores never looks away, even after Mirabel is out of sight. Her heart pounds against her ribs. Her hands are clammy with sweat and her stomach churns with dread.
Mirabel had just lied straight to her face.
__
Dolores does not think of herself as a violent person. Despite the power at her fingertips and her status as a superhero, she’s never been one to indulge in violence — not in the way Isabela sometimes puts too much strength in her punches when she’s overly stressed or even the way Mamí sometimes lets her storm get a little more wild than necessary.
However, at this point, Dolores would like to strangle her family.
Isabela had told her all about how she ran into Weaver while she was with Luisa and Camilo and how the woman was clearly inexperienced in fighting and was taking punches left and right without a care when she didn’t dodge. Camilo has started sneaking off during the time he’s supposed to be patrolling to go train with Weaver — Dolores had stalked him through the cameras during the first meeting just in case she had to comm Luisa to go and stop Weaver if she tried anything — and then Dolores had overheard Tía Julieta and Tío Agustín talking about how Mirabel was apparently skipping classes to go do who-knows-what with who-knows-who.
Which was worrying because Mirabel does not skip classes. She never has before this and Dolores has no idea why she’s started now.
What if someone hurts her while she’s not anywhere with adult supervision the school is supposed to have? Her primita doesn’t have a Gift to fall back on when things gets tough and their family can’t be with her twenty-four-seven.
To make things worse for this week, a man in a massive Rhino suit showed up and nearly killed not only Camilo, but also Weaver and Isabela. In fact, Dolores had been certain that Weaver was dead when she shoved Isabela out of the way and went flying down the road and into a far away building. She had felt the sound waves that cracked through Weaver’s torso when metal and flesh met from the kick.
It wasn’t the first time she’s felt the sound, felt it thrum deep under her skin — after all, you couldn’t save everyone, even when you have superpowers — but it didn’t fail to make her sick every time.
The Rhino battle was bad. Dolores, for the first time in a long time, had felt wholly unprepared for the fight in the beginning, disoriented at nearly losing her hermanito and then sick at thinking Weaver had been dead until she came catapulting back like a torpedo and launched Rhino across the street like it was nothing.
A headache had set in when they made it back to Casita later after the Rhino situation was handled in a joined effort that took everyone to apprehend him. Even Isabela was breathing weirder than usual, blood dried in small dots along her chin.
Dolores was so tired she barely managed to take a shower without passing out even after downing two tylenols. She tugs on her comfiest sweatshirt she finds her closet — it’s blue, three sizes too big, and definitely Luisa’s — and shuffles out of her room, dragging her feet.
And then she almost bumps into Mirabel.
“Lo siento, primita,” she says automatically. She then takes in Mirabel’s appearance. She’s towel drying her hair, curls damp and hanging around her face. She’s missing her glasses — absently, Dolores wonders how she can even see — and her breathing sounds weird like Isabela’s was before tía had healed her. She looks…exhausted. Or, more exhausted than usual. “Are you okay?”
Mirabel doesn’t react to her question. “Are you?”
Dolores blinks, caught off guard. Was she acting too weird? Did she really look that rough? “I…sí, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Mirabel asks, brows furrowed. “You look rough. No offense.”
Okay. So, she definitely does look that rough. “I’m alright,” Dolores answers after a moment.
She’s grateful by their abuela’s interruption to get a move on to la cena. Mirabel tilts her head and sweeps her hand out in front of her and Dolores walks ahead, hearing Mirabel fall in behind her like a soldier would a leader. It’s another tense affair and Dolores suffers through it between the exhausted state of everyone, pressure under the skull at her temples and an ache behind her eyes. She barely manages to scoop up a few spoonfulls of tía’s cooking before she can’t manage to swallow down another bite.
“I took the new job at Third Street.”
Dolores’ head snaps up, eyes locking onto Luisa, already feeling a frown on her face at the worn look on her primita’s face and the weak slump of her shoulders from days of tired work.
Metal clatters against porcelain.
Dolores diverts her stare to her youngest prima instantly. Mirabel freezes, eyes widening at the attention, a flush rising up on her face, her arm curling around her torso almost protectively. Dolores’ eyes drop at the action, watching her cradle her ribs like they’re fragile.
“Sorry,” Mirabel blurts out, words choppy. “Cramp.”
Dolores glances away slowly before she stops on someone else. She watches Isabela watch Mirabel and feels like she’s missing something important — like a piece of a puzzle that completes a picture she’s never seen before.
__
Weaver is…odd. Dolores isn’t sure what she was expecting from a woman who’s been tossing around her body weight like it’s a wrecking ball and had the power to back it up. She was awkward and wary and took a compliment like someone who’s never been given one before. She seems to think that having enhanced healing was an excuse to put herself in harm’s way, that being strong meant being invincible. She had no regard for her life and admitted that pain was a small price to pay in her eyes when it came to saving people.
There was a single mindedness to Weaver that set Dolores’ nerves alight with anxiety. She’s heard stories of her abuelo to know where that kind of mentality gets you — that story always ends with a civilian saved and a hero dead.
The vigilante was clearly stubborn and ran around with the idea that her life was below others’ and it made Dolores’ heart clench. Because Weaver was also kind and sort of funny and easily distracted and reminded her of Camilo or Mirabel in a way that it hurts.
Dolores just hopes Weaver learns to value her life before it’s too late. This city has already taken one life of a superhero. She’d hate it if it takes another.
__
La cena this night becomes a battlefield. Abuela is furious. Dolores watches in shock as Alma bears down on Mirabel as her primita keeps her head down, face turned to her plate and yet not a single finger ever reaches up to help her eat.
Mirabel had started a fight at school.
Mirabel had started a fight.
Dolores didn’t believe it at first when their abuela swept into the dining room in a fury, eyes instantly locking onto her youngest nieta and giving the worst verbal lashing Dolores has heard in a long, long time. She didn’t believe it until Mirabel’s fingers flex nervously on the table, a bruise sunk deep in her knuckles and turning them purple already before her hands shift to hide in her lap. Her face is so red Dolores worries she might pass out, her jaw clenched and her shoulders trembling ever so slightly. She doesn’t meet anyone’s stares — not Luisa’s when she tries to catch it, not Camilo’s, not hers, and definitely not their abuela’s.
Sympathy tears through Dolores’ chest, wondering what’s going through Mirabel’s head right now as their abuela verbally dresses her down.
“—no way for a Madrigal to act! You are hurting this family.”
Mirabel recoils at the words, shoulders hunched up to her ears to make herself smaller in the face of their abuela’s anger.
Dolores digs her thumb into the meat of her palm, biting the inside of her cheek. It was hard to watch.
“I expect a formal apology written by you tomorrow for your school, for causing them so much grief,” Abuela orders. “And another for that poor boy you hit today.”
Mirabel gives a silent nod. Dolores’ brows furrow.
Mirabel was not a violent person. It wasn’t in her nature. Sure, she bickered with Isabela over quiet little spats during meals and used to play wrestle with Camilo and Luisa when she was younger, skinning her knees and running around like all little kids do. But Mirabel has never hit someone, never responded with violence of any sorts before.
Something just didn’t seem right with the situation.
La cena is the most tense it’s ever been after that.
Mirabel doesn’t eat. Dolores doesn’t, either.
When they leave, her primita speed walks down the hallway and enters her room before anyone could even attempt to talk to her. Dolores shares a glance with Camilo before he hesitates and then walks off towards the secret base hidden in Casita.
“Isabela,” Abuela calls out.
Dolores jumps a little at the noise while Isabela stops beside her, eyes locked on her hermana’s door. Torn like the rest of them, whether to knock and try to reach out or let the situation pass over.
“Isabela!”
Isabela lets out a little sigh, but Dolores ignores her as she walks away. She can’t tear her gaze away from that door that hides her little cousin away. Is she crying now? Is she hurting? Dolores tosses that question away.
Of course Mirabel was hurting. Anyone would be after that. Dolores would know. They’ve all been scolded by Abuela before — not to that extent — and it never gets easier to witness.
Something inside her — a gut instinct, that familiar urge to protect that came with being a superhero — tells her to go check in on Mirabel before her shift. Just in case. She thinks of a little girl with a bright smile and even brighter eyes hugging her leg and asking if they could read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Something tells her to go see her.
Dolores listens.
She walks forward and comes to a stop in front of Mirabel’s door.
Dolores hesitates and then knocks. There’s a thudding noise and then shuffling before the door creaks open. Her primita stands halfway in the doorway, blocking the view of her bedroom. Her eyes are red and watery, her curls a mess like she’s been running her hands through them — a habit she picked up from Tío Agustín.
She looks miserable and exactly how Dolores imagined she’d be. Nobody could get scolded like that from Abuela without feeling like the whole world is crashing down on your shoulders. Dolores would know, she’s been there before after a terrible night on patrol when she used to be younger and reckless. She had broken her arm in two places and had to be saved by Isabela and dragged back to Casita for tía to heal her. Abuela had been furious.
“What’re you doing here?” Mirabel asks, voice hoarse. Dolores catches herself before her expression could show how startled she was at the bluntness to it. It was borderline rude and Mirabel was many things, but rude really wasn’t one of them.
“I wanted to check up on you,” Dolores answers after a small moment.
“Why?” Mirabel demands, lower. She looks angry. Her eyes have none of that familiar light in them. Like her joy has been sapped out. She looks worn and rugged; she looks like Abuela on a particularly hard night when she clutches her shaw too hard.
“To make sure you’re okay,” Dolores says. She reaches out and lays her hand over her primita’s that’s holding the side of the door too tight. “And, clearly, you’re not.”
Mirabel’s eyes flicker away from Dolores’ face and to their hands. Suddenly, she scoffs and jerks her hand away, stepping back, her door swinging open a bit more. “I’m not a child, Dolores,” she says stiffly. “You don’t have to come check up on me.”
Dolores holds her tongue so she doesn’t point out that Mirabel is a child. Fifteen isn’t that old, but Dolores remembers when she was fifteen and thought she was all grown up, too.
“You’re right,” Dolores says instead. “I don’t have to do anything. I wanted to.”
Mirabel glances at her, suspicious and doubtful. “Right.”
“Can I come in?”
Mirabel hesitates, shoulders tensing. She looks over her shoulder at something in her room before looking back at Dolores. Dolores watches her little cousin, noting her anxiety, the little bit of guilt slowly bleeding into her expression. It’s a familiar look that’s developed recently; this one feels different, though. Dolores just can’t put her finger on why.
Finally, Mirabel steps aside, opening her door completely. Dolores walks into her room, glancing around quickly. There’s doodles taped to her wall that were drawn by Antonio, her desk was cluttered with homework and some black thread. Her bin is overflowing with crumpled up balls of paper. There’s a book about spiders leaning dangerously on the ledge, along with one about aerodynamics that has Dolores’ brows raising in surprise.
Her closet doors are opened, though it looks a bit emptier than it should be. There’s a couple of half empty water bottles on Mirabel’s nightstand beside her phone and a bottle of tylenol.
“Sorry about the mess,” Mirabel mumbles meekly, kicking her backpack under her bed as she wanders over. She then plops down on her mattress, watching Dolores, fingers twisting into the fabric of her hoodie nervously.
Dolores frowns a little. She knows they’re not close anymore — silently, she mourns the memories of a little girl curled into her side as they read in Dolores’ room, balled up on her beanbag and sharing a thing of Pringles — but she didn’t think Mirabel would be this anxious with it just being the two of them.
In fact, Mirabel was hardly someone Dolores would call socially anxious. Not like Tío Bruno or sometimes Luisa when she’s overly stressed — which was, unfortunately, a lot of the time — or even Dolores herself on bad days when her powers give her a headache that doesn’t want to go away even after pain killers.
“It’s fine,” Dolores answers, waving it off. “This isn’t even that bad. You should see Camilo’s room.”
Mirabel’s nose scrunches and she shakes her head. “No gracias,” she says quickly. “I can smell his room when his door opens. That’s enough for me.”
Dolores snorts. Last time, the smell had been from a pizza Camilo had stashed under his bed and then forgot was there. Her mamí had been on a rampage and forced him to deep clean his entire room after that. Camilo had a bad habit of forgetting things, especially food, in his room and it made that space like a hazard zone for anybody that’s not Camilo.
As the moment goes on, the amusement fades and Mirabel begins to look awkward, looking everywhere but Dolores, continuing to fidget with her hoodie.
Dolores takes in a deep breath and walks over, slowly lowering herself beside Mirabel. Her primita tenses up at the proximity but doesn’t move away. Her head is ducked, shoulders hunched like she’s trying to make herself small, much like how Tío Bruno does sometimes.
“What Abuela said—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mirabel interrupts tersely. Dolores watches her grip her hands together, knuckles white. “It was nothing. I’m over it.”
Dolores swallows back a sigh. “There’s no ‘getting over it’ after that. Trust me. I know.”
Mirabel scoffs, sharp and bitter. Dolores fights back the urge to jump at the sound. “Do you?”
Dolores wants to tell her how they’ve all been scolded by their abuela at least once in their lives. Being a superhero means you’re going to make mistakes and, sometimes, those mistakes are stupid and could’ve been avoided and they get scolded when they get back home. But she can’t say that to Mirabel, not about that, but she has to say something.
“We’ve all been scolded before,” Dolores treads lightly.
Not good enough, it would seem, though. “No, you haven’t,” Mirabel snaps. “I’ve never seen her talk to anybody like that.”
No. Maybe not exactly like that. Abuela was stressed and angry about the whole mess with Rhino and then Mirabel had apparently assaulted someone at school and came home with a bruised fist to prove it. She was going to snap at some point, it was just unlucky that it was Mirabel that got the short end of the stick.
That doesn’t make it right, of course. Dolores knows that. Yes, Mirabel deserved to be scolded and definitely grounded for starting a fight, but she didn’t deserve it like that — not at la cena, in front of everyone, nor that harshly. Mirabel was, overall, a good kid. This was just a hiccup and she needed to be talked to how that was wrong, but what Abuela did…
That was— that was wrong. That was going overboard.
“You’re right,” Dolores says and Mirabel’s eyes dart up towards her, wide and shocked. “Abuela shouldn’t have talked to you like that. What you did was wrong, but so was she.”
Abuela was the adult. Mirabel was a fifteen year old kid. Of course, she was going to make mistakes and they needed to be addressed and corrected. But that wasn’t just correcting — that was their abuela pushing her stress and anger on someone who didn’t deserve it.
“I’ll talk to her,” Dolores says, surprising both Mirabel and herself. But she didn’t take it back. Someone needed to talk to Abuela — whether that was Dolores herself, or she went to the other adults to get them to handle it, she wasn’t sure. One way or another, it needed to be fixed.
“…Don’t bother,” Mirabel says, quieter. Like the fight has drained out of her. “You heard her.”
Dolores’ brows furrow, confused at the turn. “Heard her what?”
“You know what,” Mirabel mutters, turning her head the opposite direction so Dolores couldn’t see her face. “She just declared I wasn’t family.”
Dolores reels back like she’s been hit. “What?”
“She said ‘this family’, not— not ‘our family’,” Mirabel explains. “Like I’m on the outside. Like I’m not part of the family. He was right, damnit, he was right! I’m not—”
“Mirabel,” Dolores begins, eyes wide.
“I’m not part of the family,” Mirabel chokes out and then she’s crying. She hunches down, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes as tears run down her face. Her words come out garbled and stumbling over themselves between heaving sobs, “I’m not like you guys, I’m not a part of you. I’m not a Madrigal. I’m just somebody you got stuck with. I don’t belong here, Lola, I don’t—”
The sound of her nickname kicks Dolores into high gear through her shock and she reaches over, grabbing her primita and drawing her into a tight hug. Mirabel struggles for a moment before going limp, face buried in Dolores’ shoulder. Her sobbing is loud and heart breaking, echoing the room.
“That’s not true,” Dolores whispers shakily. The words turn over and over in her head. He was right. I’m not a Madrigal. “That’s not true at all.” Mirabel shakes her head in denial. Dolores holds on tighter, scared she’d slip away from her otherwise. “You are a part of us, a part of this family. You’re our family, Mira. No matter what.” Even though you don’t have a Gift, Dolores thinks. They might not be a team, but they are a family. Even though their family is secretive and makes mistakes and has terrible communication skills, they’re family and nothing will ever change that. “You’re a Madrigal.”
“No, ‘m not.”
“You are,” Dolores says firmly. “Of course you are. How could you think that?”
“I can’t do anything right,” Mirabel rasps out and Dolores moves a hand to the back of Mirabel’s head, cradling it to her like she did when she was a baby. “I’m too stupid to get good grades, I always mess up — I’m the stain to our familia’s name. Don’t,” Mirabel says sharply when Dolores takes in a deep breath to deny her. “You know it’s true. I’m not like you guys.”
“You don’t have to be like us,” Dolores says. Secrets keep them apart, but being apart meant Mirabel was safe from their other life. She worries silently for Mirabel because of her status without a Gift, but she’d be even more worried if she did have one and was fighting beside them. She almost lost Camilo the other day if it hadn’t been for Weaver, after all.
“Yes, I do, Dolores,” Mirabel says, defeated. “That’s the whole point. I have to but I can’t be.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” Mirabel whispers. “Abuela and Isa hate me and the rest of you tolerate me. I don’t even know why you’re here right now.” She lets out a sniffling laugh that’s half sob. “You’re all better off without me.”
Dolores feels a chill race through her veins at the words. Her fingers curl tighter against Mirabel’s head, her other arm locking up in place where it’s wrapped around the top of her shoulders and braced against the back of her neck.
“Nobody hates you and we damn well don’t just ‘tolerate’ you, Mirabel Valentina Rojas Madrigal,” Dolores hisses, fear and shock and anger rushing through her. Mirabel makes a disbelieving scoff against her shoulder and Dolores pushes her away enough to cup her face. “Look at me.”
Mirabel’s eyes flicker away and Dolores’ grip turns firmer.
“Mirabelita, look at me,” Dolores says, softer. Mirabel finally looks at her. “You are so, so precious to us, more than you could ever know. We would break if you weren’t here with us. We aren’t La Familia Madrigal without you.”
Tears well up in Mirabel’s eyes and she jerks out of Dolores grip to press her hands against them, wiping away her tears furiously. Still, she leans forward and Dolores catches her, wrapping her up in a tight hug like they’d been earlier. She cries quietly into her shoulder and grabs onto the fabric of Dolores’ sweatshirt like a child would its mother. Dolores runs her fingers through her primita’s curls, untangling them gently in a soothing motion her papá does for her when her headaches get so bad she can’t see clearly.
They don’t speak for a long time.
Mirabel’s breathing slowly evens out into something more steady. Her grip slackens slightly. Dolores looks down as Mirabel drifts off, exhausted and emotionally drained. Even Dolores feels the same, but she doesn’t close her eyes. Her nerves are fried and she still feels too alert, a restlessness buzzing under her skin.
You’re all better off without me.
She tightens her grip on Mirabel. Those words set terror rushing through her all over again just thinking of them. A world without Mirabel? A world where their family isn’t complete? One where her primita is gone and Dolores will never see her again?
What a horrifying world that would be.
The door creaks open and Dolores’ eyes snap over to it, tensing up and her grip tightening on Mirabel protectively. Her nerves prickle under her skin, her Gift stirring to life and waiting for the moment to strike at the danger.
However, it’s just Isabela.
Isabela doesn’t look at her — no, her eyes are locked onto Mirabel’s sleeping form slumped against her. Her expression is unreadable, something Dolores dislikes every time it happens. Sometimes, it was hard to know what Isabela was thinking or feeling and it was downright impossible when she wore that blank mask.
After a moment, Isabela’s eyes drift up and meet Dolores’ gaze.
“What did you hear?” Dolores asks.
Isabela is quiet before she replies, “Almost all of it.”
They’re both silent and Dolores circles Mirabel’s words around in her head again. They were concerning and terrifying all at once and she wanted to know who ‘he’ was that Mirabel spoke about — rage threatens to choke her from the force of it at anyone telling Mirabel she wasn’t family — but one thing stood out to her in that moment:
“Abuela needs to fix this,” Dolores says, feeling something inside her shake at the words, but knowing it was true all the same. Their abuela had went too far and there was a misunderstanding that needed to be addressed: Mirabel thought that Abuela had just openly outcasted her from her own family. Dolores knows Abuela Alma is too hard on them at times, walked in the grief of her past too much to be healthy, worried about them immensely, and grew angry when they put themselves at risk, but she also knew she’d never forsaken her own family like Mirabel thought she just had at la cena.
Abuela would never, ever declare Mirabel as someone not part of their family.
Their familia was their abuela’s most important thing to her and Mirabel was a part of that family.
Isabela takes in a deep breath. “I’ll go talk to her,” she says. Her voice has a hard edge of steel to it, her eyes flinty like she’s about to be facing down a villain instead of their own abuela. Then she glances down at Mirabel, something in her features softening a little. She hesitates and then reaches out slowly, brushing a stray curl from her hermanita’s face. “She looks tired.”
“She is,” Dolores answers without a doubt.
Isabela’s jaw tightens before she crouches down, pressing a kiss to her little sister’s brow. Just as quickly, she straightens up, any softness evaporating. “Look after her?” she asks, eyes landing on Dolores intensely.
Dolores nods. “Always.”
Isabela nods back, turns on her heels, and strides out the door. It closes behind her with a soft click and, suddenly, it’s just Dolores and Mirabel.
Dolores lets out a slow sigh. She should be starting her shift as SoundWave, but she can skip tonight. She knows her back is going to be sore from it leaning against the wall, but Mirabel is asleep and looks like she hasn’t been for a while by the dark bags under her closed eyes.
Patrol, sore back, a night without sleep? Well. It was worth it.
Watching over her primita meant more to her than the consequences she’ll face in the morning.
Anything was worth making sure her family was protected.
__
Dolores doesn’t know how long it’s been when the door to Mirabel’s bedroom creaks open again, just that it’s been hours since her prima major left. Her eyes dart over towards it, half expecting it to be Isabela coming back after her shift. Instead, it’s Luisa, who peeks her head through the doorway with a sheepish smile, eyes locking onto Dolores, then Mirabel.
“Hey,” she whispers, walking over. Dolores eyes her prima. She seems okay — no limp and no bruising she could see. Luisa was prone to hide injuries in a misguided sense of believing that, to be the strong one, she couldn’t show weakness. She was also a worrier down to her core and hated having to wake up tía to get herself healed after a bad patrol night. Dolores and the others had unofficially agreed to steer her towards Julieta whenever they catch her trying to shrug off her injuries.
“Hey,” Dolores says back softly.
Luisa stops at the edge of the bed and reaches out, placing a gentle hand over Mirabel’s hair, smoothing it out. There’s a strangely pensive look on her face, a cross between worried and curious. “I heard Isabela talking to Abuela about Mira,” she comments after a moment.
Dolores frowns. “How did it seem like it was going?” Isabela could handle herself, but Abuela could be someone who was hard to talk to, especially when you’re speaking up about something you think she’s doing wrong.
Luisa shrugs. “I…didn’t stay long,” she answers, half ashamed.
“I don’t blame you,” Dolores says, hoping to soothe the pinch between her brows.
Luisa lets out a quiet sigh and eases herself into the space she can just barely manage to squeeze in between Mirabel and the ledge of the bed. Mirabel doesn’t even stir at the new presence, completely knocked out. Dolores internally grimaces at the wet patch of drool she can feel making her sweatshirt damp.
“Isa was concerned,” Luisa explains, eyes only briefly flickering from Mirabel to look at Dolores before they find her hermana again. “What happened?”
“Mirabel thought Abuela meant we weren’t family when she scolded her during la cena,” Dolores answers. “And she believed it.”
“What?!” Luisa yelps out. Mirabel makes a sleepy sound and they both freeze. Mirabel goes still again. “What?” Luisa whispers, wide eyed and panicky.
“She was going on and saying she wasn’t a Madrigal,” Dolores says quickly, the words coming out in a rush at finally talking to someone about it. “She mentioned someone, too. Some guy. I think, whoever he is, said she wasn’t a member of our familia.”
Luisa’s expression darkens immediately. She glances over towards the window like she’s imagining leaping out of it and hunting down the one who fed such lies to Mirabel until she willingly believed them. She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t have time to say anything as the door is pushed open again, a head of curly hair sauntering in.
Camilo doesn’t even blink at the scene as he tiredly rubs at the corner of his eye, already dressed for bed in an oversized t-shirt and yellow pajama pants with iguanas stitched in them that Mirabel made for his birthday. He lurks forward and makes himself home by climbing up onto the bed and settling on Dolores’ other side, a sharp elbow accidentally catching her side.
Dolores squeaks and slaps the back of his head with a scowl. Camilo glares back before he drops his head against her hip, tossing an arm over Mirabel’s back and closing his eyes, clearly content to make this an unwanted group sleepover.
Dolores looks over at Luisa and they share a look. Luisa shrugs helplessly and Dolores sighs quietly, grudgingly accepting that she’s the pillow now.
Her mind wanders back to this evening. It was clear that Mirabel needed them, that keeping their distance might be keeping her safe in a physical sense, but they’ve been doing more harm than good. Abuela Alma thought it was the best course of action to let their secret build a wall between them and Mirabel, but that clearly wasn’t the case.
Dolores wraps a curl of Mirabel’s hair around her finger absently, mouth pinching.
Mirabel was so alienated from them that she fully believed they weren’t family. How much did Mirabel keep from them if she felt like she couldn’t come to them for help? How much pain has she been in, going day after day and thinking that she didn’t belong with them? What if she left? What if, one day Dolores woke up, and Mirabel wasn’t there suddenly?
No, Dolores thinks, dismissing it quickly. No, Mirabel wouldn’t do that.
Even if, impossibly, Mirabel tried to leave, where would she go? She was fifteen years old. Practically a child trying to run away in that scenario. Besides, Dolores had access to every camera in the city if she needed them. There was nowhere Mirabel could hide here that Dolores wouldn’t eventually find.
But what if Mirabel tried to leave and someone found her that wasn’t their family and tried to hurt her? What if a thief pulled a gun on her primita and fired it anyways? What if Mirabel runs into a scene of the latest villain wrecking havoc on the city and accidentally got hurt — or worse — while caught in the middle of it?
You’re all better off without me.
Dolores presses her palm against the back of Mirabel’s head.
No. They wouldn’t be better off without Mirabel. Not now and not ever. Mirabel doesn’t believe that, though. Dolores will have to remind her every day for now until those lies wash away from Mirabel’s brain and she realizes how loved she is, secrets and distance or not.
It was clear, though. They’re going to have to do better from now on. They’re going to have to be better. And, if that came down to the number one rule of the Encanto, then Dolores will break it without hesitation if Mirabel knowing meant that her primita stays with them.
For now, Dolores will have to keep an eye on Mirabel. Make sure she doesn’t try to leave or…or anything else those words could mean. She’ll properly talk to everyone else, make sure they know what’s going on, and make a plan so that someone has eyes on Mirabel for until they’re certain that Mirabel won’t try something.
The sound of quiet footsteps makes Dolores look up, finding Isabela walking into the room. She stops in the doorway, taking in the scene: Dolores with Camilo and Mirabel piled up on her and Luisa dozing off beside her, exhaustion having finally won it’s fight. Isabela’s face contorts into something along annoyed exasperation, but she closes the door behind her all the same, wandering over and dropping herself into Mirabel’s chair at her desk.
Isabela looks…tired. More tired than usual. Mentally drained, really.
“How did it go?” Dolores asks quietly.
Isabela lets out a long sigh, running a hand down her face before looking at her. “We’ve…come to an agreement,” she says after a moment. “Don’t worry about it for now,” she adds when Dolores opens her mouth. “Everything will be alright tomorrow. You should get some sleep.”
Dolores hesitates instantly, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of Mirabel’s hoodie between her shoulder blades. Her primita mumbles something under her breath, asleep, snuffling quietly. Isabela catches the movement, always alert. Her gaze softens ever so slightly. “I’ll keep watch,” she says in understanding — perceptive as always.
Dolores frowns. “You haven’t slept.”
“Neither have you,” Isabela counters swiftly. Her arms cross, leaning back in Mirabel’s chair, looking like a queen staring down at her subjects. “Go to sleep, Dolores.”
Dolores rubs at her eyes and tries to keep fighting the way they try to close. But it was a losing battle and, soon, she drifts off before she could even realize she had.