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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 months

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Well, the Coco fic tied on the poll! Since that one's fully finished, I'm gonna go ahead and post it first. (I've also started working on wrapping up that Psychonauts fic that tied!)

So uhhh... I wrote this Coco fic years ago and completely forgot about it until more recently. But for reference, it takes place between Neither Can You and A Blessing of a Curse, and has references to a few other of my fics thrown around here. If you're not familiar with my fics, though, I guess just know that Héctor and Imelda are working through some trauma due to some of Ernesto's shenanigans, to put it lightly.

So uhhh... enjoy?

---~~~---

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."

#hector rivera #imelda rivera #coco rivera #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #my writing #fanfic #hooray that's one fic posted #out of ... many that I still need to post

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dragoneyes618 · 9 months

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Ernesto de la Cruz, as evident by his immediate and complete acceptance of Miguel as his great-great-grandson, had quite a few girlfriends when he was alive.

It did not start only once he gained fame and fortune on the body of his best friend, though. Even back in Santa Cecilia, he was quite the ladies' man.

As was only to be expected, one young woman - the only child of doting parents who had had her late in life - approached him soon after their affair had ended with the news that she was carrying his child, and that they had to marry to spare her honor.

Of course, Ernesto refused. He had big plans, and couldn't be tied down by a wife and child. (He could never understand why it didn't seem to bother Héctor.) Maybe he was nice about it and gave her some money. Maybe he just laughed at her. The end result was the same: the young woman - Victoria, her name was - left alone and with child.

So, what did she do? She dared not admit what she had done even to her parents, who, as their only child born when they had nearly given up hope, would have forgiven her anything. Instead, she told them she was going to visit a distant relative in Mexico City, and instead went to the orphanage the next town over.

It's not like this had never been done before. She would live there for the next few months, helping out with the children, the cleaning, the cooking, the sewing - all the work that came along with a few sisters raising three dozen children as well as they could - and, once she gave birth, she would leave her child there, and go home like nothing had happened.

In due time, she gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl.

She named the boy Julio, because she'd always liked that name.

She named the girl Rosa, after her mother. Her mother was still alive, but she knew her children would never be able to meet her parents, that they would never even know her, and she wanted them to at least have this.

On their birth certificates, she wrote down their full names, giving them her own surname, and she wrote her name, as well as the name of their father. The name meant nothing to anyone outside Santa Cecilia then, but she wrote it anyway, because it was true. Just in case Ernesto changed his mind. (He wouldn't.)

Then she went back home and went on with her life, gently spurning all offers of courtship, unable to leave behind the images of the wailing babies she'd left in that orphanages.

About five years later, she grew ill - with influenza, pneumonia, it doesn't matter. She grew ill, and worsened, and died, and left her grieving parents to bury their daughter.

Before she died, she confessed to her parents and the priest administering the last rites that she had borne twin children out of wedlock, and had left them in an orphanage in a town close by.

She died, and her parents buried her, and grieved.

Then they traveled to the orphanage and told them that their grandchildren were here, and they had come to claim them.

Things were very lax back then. They didn't need proof, didn't need any documents. All they had to say was who they were, their daughter's name, and the names she had told them she had given her children, and the people running the orphanage said "That sounds right, nice to meet you, here they are."

Little Julio and Rosa were shy and uncertain at first, but their newfound grandparents were kind to them, and raised them just as if they had been their own children. They gave them both individualized attention, which had been hard to come by in the orphanage. They told them stories and taught them new things and comforted them when they had nightmares and told them about their mother.

To differentiate young Rosa from her namesake, they called her Rosita, and the name stuck, even after the first Rosa was long in the Land of the Dead.

As they grew older, Rosita helped her grandmother around the house, while Julio helped his grandfather - his name was Alberto - in the small upholstery shop he had that supported their little family.

Then one day, Julio met a young woman named Coco in the plaza, and his life changed.

Julio's grandparents were overjoyed to see him in love, to see him settle down and be happy. Elderly, they died only a short while after the wedding, and Coco helped Julio through his grief. None of the Riveras wanted Rosita to be alone, so she was invited to move in with them and join the workshop, and she happily accepted.

Neither of them ever knew the identity of their father. They had no reason to. They never had cause to look at their birth certificates. They'd never known him, and he hadn't wanted to know them. They had their grandparents, and that was all they'd ever needed. They felt like they were missing nothing.

The years passed, and Rosita and then Julio died. More years passed, and Miguel got cursed.

In the year following, Miguel suddenly developed an extensive interest in family history and would spend hours going through old papers. Héctor's letters proved that he had written the songs, but having more than just the letters, the importance of them unknown until now, would help. Maybe a journal, maybe more letters, something.

Miguel wanted to find out as much as he could about Héctor, too, to ensure that the true Héctor Rivera would never be forgotten.

Also, he was worried that maybe the family had somehow forgotten someone else, and wanted to make sure they knew of everybody.

The Riveras lived in the same house that Imelda and Héctor had scrambled to put together money for all those years ago, adding on rooms as the family grew. If not for that, many of the crucial papers - Héctor's letters first and foremost - may have been scattered in different households across Santa Cecilia, or even destroyed entirely, their importance unknown. Having only one house to search makes it much easier. Not easy, but easier.

Miguel finds Héctor and Imelda's marriage certificate, and Coco's baptism certificate, and her and Julio's wedding certificate (the one documenting the union of Elena López Rivera and Franco Rivera Rojas is in a drawer in their bedroom, and so is Luisa and Enrique's, and Carmen and Berto have theirs pinned to the wall), and birth and death and baptism and communion certificates for all the older, deceased generation of Riveras, the ones who have no need of any of them anymore.

And he finds a birth certificate for Papá Julio, and another for Tía Rosita, naming them as twins, born illegitimately to Victoria López Hernández and Ernesto de la Cruz.

To say Miguel has an identity crisis is an understatement.

He was devastated when he thought he was the descendant of a murderer, and overjoyed to find he was Héctor's descendant instead. All of his love and admiration for de la Cruz has curdled into hatred, the love passed on to his great-great-grandfather, the musical genius and, more importantly, the loving father.

Now he finds out that not only is he the great-great-grandson of Ernesto de la Cruz after all, but he's descended from both of them - one great-great-grandfather killed his other one.

He begins to worry that he's going to be like Ernesto. What if he, one day, lies and steals for music? He's already lied to his family and stolen a guitar for music. What if one day he kills for music? How can he be sure that his musical talent is inherited from Héctor and not Ernesto? Because he doesn't want anything of Ernesto's, not anymore.

Elena takes personal offense to finding out that she's the granddaughter of the good-for-nothing musician who probably (nothing has been proven, it's too long ago for that, but it's all very suspicious) murdered her other good-for-nothing grandfather (said in completely different tones of voice; Elena is the only one allowed to insult Héctor, you see).

The Riveras were abruptly plunged into national scrutiny after Héctor's letters were published; the media has a field day with the news that most of them are descended from Ernesto.

Miguel writes a long letter - multiple long letters - about his feelings about all this, and leave it on the ofrenda at the next Day of the Dead, along with the offending birth certificates. Actually, with all the papers belonging to the dead Riveras, in case they want them. But Julio's and Rosita's birth certificates are at the top.

So the dead Riveras get home after the holiday is over, and they go through all the things Miguel left them, and Héctor reads the letters Miguel wrote to him.

Now Julio (and Rosita, to a lesser extent, but she's not the one who married the child of the man her father murdered) has a bit of an identity crisis.

His father caused his wife (and her mother) so much pain. How is he supposed to live (well, not live, but you know what I mean) with that? His father killed her father.

He and Coco have a lot of long talks about this.

Coco doesn't blame him or his sister, of course; neither does the rest of the family. The only change comes in the way Julio thinks the rest of the family is now thinking about him. He was always more on the timid side; it takes literal years before he stops calling Héctor Señor Rivera. Now he's sure that Imelda and Héctor hold his father's crimes against him. It takes a surprisingly gentle talk from his in-laws to get him to surpass that.

"So, ah..." Héctor hesitates afterwards, not having felt this awkward since his first few weeks with the family. "You remember, the trial and everything, I testified, I'm the "principal victim" and all that...I could probably arrange for you to visit him, if you wanted...."

Julio and Rosita look at each other, and shake their heads in unison. "No," they say at once.

"No," Julio says again. "I don't. We don't." He squeezes his sister's hand of bones in one hand, his wife's in the other.

Oscar stirs. "Hey, so....Ernesto's blessing would've worked with Miguel after all."

Felipe, of all people, hushes him. "Not now, hermano."

Victoria takes up Héctor's offer to arrange a visit with de la Cruz, though.

"What?" she asks, daring anyone to question her. "He's my grandfather too."

Any suspicion of sentimentality is immediately discarded when Victoria walks into the visiting room, boot already at the ready, hits him once, and walks right back out again.

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