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nailamoonsi · 1 month

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2 and a half years worth of Blue Horizon book 1 pitches (mostly Pitlight) [and a bit of light novel and book 2]

The first "pitch" ever, and it mostly dealt with draft 1 of Blue Horizon book 1--back when in my mind I fancied writing a simple novella with the dads, Ranvir and Armando, before tackling an epic novel project after that (but that's now book 2).

I realized a lot in the process of figuring out book 1 through 2020 and 2021, however, and it quickly grew into a monster of a project--yet another epic science fantasy book for the series in my head. In my head I think of it as "the prequel novel." However I've long called it "book 1" online, so it'll stay "book 1." (It is complete but not yet published.)

Some parts of the pitch above barely has anything to do with book 1 as it is now...for Ranvir and Armando and friends. Weirdly, it might work for characters who show up later within book 1.

The moodboard above I'm very fond of as the first moodboard ever, and it involved the Chandrani family's energy re: ocean and water as well as a concept for "a wide open world." However I rarely wound up using it compared to the later regulars. (And apparently never for pitch practice again or any pitch event.)

A big note for all pitches is that any photography is by someone else and gotten from free-to-use stock image sites like Pexel and Unsplash BUT any drawn art is mine.

Above is the first times I tried bringing up the eerie aspect AND the soft aspect of Blue Horizon book 1. This was my experimental stage in all ways--a pitch with a mood and my first attempt at a "typical" moodboard, though obviously I wound up dropping these moodboards immediately. As can be seen with the moodboards I would settle on hereafter, I did need this stage to understand what I really wanted to go for!

As for the pitches--in the former, it basically revolves around the way the reader first walks into the novel, so to speak. In the second, it hints something about Ranvir and Armando, and brings up the Protector of Worlds without naming the role.

THIS WAS THE FIRST DEBUT OF MY MAIN 2 MOODBOARDS!!! And the first Pitlight I ever took part of in 2022. It somehow got to 23 notes without retweets (that 1 is for a quote retweet).

This was a quick Nanowrimo write-up--I can tell why people didn't take to it, but I guess in terms of pitches, I was learning and it didn't really matter, especially in the early days. Currently I'm doing Camp Sapphic instead.

This was the first time I referred to the Protector (of Worlds). It's technically a typical storyline across epic fantasies and many other types of stories--a "chosen one," so to speak, but in reality this is a job that's passed from person-to-person in their world, and was once representative of their place in the galaxy.

So this pitch very much focused on Ranvir and Armando right as I was finishing up Part 1, which is largely THEIR story arc! I'm very affectionate of it.

For a few posts in the early days, I kept reusing the first digital Armando and Ranvir art I ever drew. ; v ;

This was the first time I brought up the Mysterious Children (they keep appearing before Ranvir and Armando at different ages). This wasn't the first time I utilized this moodboard--the first time was January 2022!

But as people can tell at this point, this moodboard actually represents Alejandro Altaha and Antonio Chandrani-Rivera! Specifically, the sun, moon, lavender clouds, and the white clouds with shadowed figures skating across them with a teal sky surrounding--the shadowed figures are Ale and Tono.

I reused the same pitch for the later November Nano:

--this year however I'm doing Camp Sapphic and have let go of Nanowrimo due to its controversies. Edit in the evening is that this was the first time I got an agent like!

Even though this was extremely exciting and kept me going, I'm solo self-publishing Blue Horizon.

Next, back to summer 2022 pitches:

This was something I was hoping people would like, and in the end wound up one of my most popular pitches! :D This focuses on the warmer side of Blue Horizon and brings up a key character we all know by now--Antonio Chandrani-Rivera--for the first time!

(I'm unsure how much agents can gauge from this pitch, but I do like the feeling of it though and thus obviously used it for Pitlight.)

The rest under a cut because honestly I'll admit this is insane long.

This was the first time I brought up the children borne by magic lore! I forgot I did that when I looked back at old posts like 2 weeks ago. I'm actually surprised it got 11 likes, as I wasn't sure how people would see the children borne by magic subplot. Noticeable through the webcomic already!

So these two pitches are nearly identical; I was just worried one of the first pitch wasn't specific enough. However the first pitch got more retweets, likes and views, LOL. (It's an interesting situation--I think sometimes you wind up lucky with pitches.)

It'll become noticeable that I wanted to start referring to Antonio and Alejandro's conflicts, but Layla and Alia are major characters too, and thus I tried to put Layla in as well. However, at one point, people mentioned Layla comes off a bit random at the end of these sort of pitches. :"3c I do get that, but aw...

Overall, I realized what was best to focus on--Ranvir and Armando and their son (a.k.a. a direct connection) Antonio Chandrani.

MY FIRST OFFICIAL AGENT-RELATED PITCH EVENT... QueerPit! Official pitch events have been sporadic on Twitter since around 2022 but I was happy to catch this one.

Since I wound up emailing a lot of agents I decided not to take part in that many official agent-oriented pitch events in the end--my last was only my second one I believe, a.k.a. DVPit (unless I've blanked out another agent-oriented pitch event on Twitter). Those I won't show here directly from DVPit on Discord but from what I dropped for Twitter afterwards.

FOR THIS ONE... It was the first time I ever pitched... THE LIGHT NOVEL (also completed but unpublished). Just wanted to try.

This wasn't a real pitch exactly, and I dropped it on Twitter on September 28, 2023! However, this was the first time I brought up the scope of the epic science fantasy book 1 and its LGBT romances. My last Main pitch for Blue Horizon back a few days ago focuses on that too.

SO THIS IS THE FIRST OF 2 NEW PITCHES THAT I CRAFTED FOR BOOK 1 IN THE DVPIT SERVER ON DISCORD FOR THE OFFICIAL AGENT-ORIENTED PITCH EVENT, DVPIT...

For some reason neither were very popular on Twitter, but I like both of them a lot. My guess is due to the decision to try using a video for this one and a cropped art for the other one. [I did get agent likes...for the pitch I reused from QueerPit 😂 (which thankfully also got agent likes). However, I'm solo self-publishing Blue Horizon, as most of y'all know.]

Above is the first moment I was stressed, but thankfully by early this month I wound up cheery again.

So this was my first serious dud pitch after a very long time (i.e. my first Nano in March 2022). This one isn't the one I dropped on the actual NYEPitch day (also 1 like)--I'm embarrassed to show that one, but I was excited over people having fun about sun mage OCs at that time around the original day of January 1, and didn't think about terminology (I paid attention for my book)--since I use the term "water-bearer" and "ocean-bearer" a lot in my book, I ORIGINALLY used the term "bearer of the sun" for Alejandro [who's part of a binary star system] and "moon-and-sea-bearer" for Antonio in the pitch. (I do not use anything near "bearer of the sun" within Blue Horizon's epic fantasy books as I don't want to use similar terminology used in a popular published book.) I realized my mistake very late and changed it on January 5th, after 4 days! There's also the fact that this wasn't a pitch for book 1--I wanted to relax and try a first and second-to-last pitch for book 2~

However, thankfully that started my artist adventure because I got gloomy over only getting 1 like for the original and decided I wanted to destress.

I think it's also partly due to my showing up late and not participating with others due to it (I was feeling nasty tbh), possible shadowban (my posts at this time started plummeting in views compared to before in the months prior), and not specifying in the post that it isn't a sudden change from book 1 pitching, but a random attempt at a book 2 pitch.

It's because I got really emotional over finishing a story arc between Antonio and Alejandro for book 2, essentially.

THIS WAS THE SECOND DVPIT PITCH I CRAFTED IN THE DVPIT SERVER, AKA FOR THE OFFICIAL AGENT-ORIENTED EVENT... The only change from DVPit server is that I used Antonio's surname there, a.k.a. used Antonio Chandrani.

This IS about book 1; the epic science fantasy is a multi-POV book. I liked this one too, but I'm guessing either Antonio's depression era POV or the cropped-looking art made it not appetizing? This pitch is essentially a flip in perspective to Ranvir and Armando's perspective, and done partly due to my admitting that obviously Antonio Chandrani-Rivera (and Layla Chandrani) are the "traditional" main protagonists (though it's a very ensemble cast-oriented epic science fantasy book [and comic]).

This was for ChaosPit. Pitch as badly as you can, iirc.

SOOOOO AFTER A LOT OF STRESS AFTER AUGUST... I'M GLAD MY LAST PITLIGHT AND PITCH EVENT FOR BLUE HORIZON WENT OFF WITH A BANG...!!! On April 6th:

FOR THIS LAST MAIN PITCH FOR BOOK 1, I really really wanted to show off the "epic science fantasy" scale as well as mention tons of BIPOC and LGBT characters existing in it! (Calling back to that earlier proto-pitch.) I'M REALLY GLAD IT WAS WELL-LIKED.

I liked being able to use those emojis, too! They just feel like they give implications and have a weird or '90's clipart vibe together.

This is still the same Pitlight! I just wanted to try pitching the completed (but unpublished) light novel before I stopped pitching for Blue Horizon. Surprised and glad it was liked more than I expected! :D

Since it was my last time pitching for Blue Horizon after 2 and a half years, I wanted to drop one pitch for Book 2~! The first story arc is pretty serious but I thought it'd be an interesting note for anyone curious about Blue Horizon book 1 and the light novel.

AND FINALLY... I originally wanted a "cyclical" ending to all those months and even years pitching by utilizing my first Pitlight pitch ever (which was never reused in the interim).

It would've looked dreamy like this. However, I f*cked up the pitch due to changing the first sentence BUT MAKING A HUGE ERROR. LAST PITLIGHT WAS FUN. That's all!

#blue horizon tag #writeblr #mywrites #my ocs #writers on tumblr #long post #blue horizon heritage post #blue horizon archiving

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hikarimiyanaga · 3 years

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Loving You (Wanda Maximoff/Reader)

Summary : The worst that could ever happen just happened to you.

You were a beta. Being an omega could’ve been better but no, God decided to fuck you up.

In a world, where Alphas and Omegas are considered the best, being a beta meant that you were just going to be an average person. Always in the middle.

People don’t look the same at you. You had potential. At the top of your classes, taking all of the AP Classes. Now, you doubt that even Colleges would consider you.

Ever since, Asami Sato has proven that even Omegas can change the world, people have been considering them as equal to Alphas… but never Betas. When has a Beta ever change the world?

So you shut up and hide from the world as you try to graduate and maybe get a job in your Family’s Company, R Firm.

But a chance encounter with a gorgeous Omega will change everything up.

Warnings : Omegaverse. Beta!Reader x Omega!Wanda Maximoff.

New series! After a month. College does seem to hate me that much.

You sigh as you trudge the halls of your high school. It was lunch break and almost everyone is in the cafeteria, obviously not you, though. You’ve been reading inside the library when Miss Danvers kicked you out, saying that she needs her lunch break too. You sigh and sit in front of your locker. You open up your book and begin reading.

Reading is one of the only things you could enjoy these days… you still remember the day you got your evaluation test.

You tremble as you stare at your test result. You were a beta. Tears spring up in your eyes but you quickly wipe them away. You could hear some people cry and some sniffle. You guess they were betas too.

“Y/LN?” You stop and turn to Janine Rivera, she was one of the juniors. A popular Omega who is in your AP English Class.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to-?” You stop and gulp. Janine cuts off herself and gets your test result. You don’t fight her because it’s better to just rip the band-aid off. She scoffs and shoves the result back to you. “Megan!” Another girl looks at Janine. “Cross off Y/LN! She’s a Beta!” She shouts and everyone quiets down. You take a deep breath and walk off. The murmurs then start. You feel tears again in your eyes and you wipe them away again.

You walk home because inside your school felt so suffocating. People were going home anyway to tell their families their evaluation result. As you stood in front of your house, you feel your stomach cave in. You’re afraid to face your parents. Your Alpha Mother would surely get angry. Even your Omega ma would look at you with disappointment. Your two Alpha sisters would get disgusted. Just imagining their reactions make you cry.

“Y/N?” Your sister, Alsie, gets out of her car and you cry even more. She quickly kneels besides you. “What’s wrong!?” You refuse to answer so she guides you inside. “Ma!?” Your Omega Mother, Dahlia rushes downstairs and gets to you.

“Y/N!? Are you okay?”

“M-ma.” You stutter and cry even more. Your other sister, Valerie, gets downstairs too and fusses over you. You faint and they panic even more.

When you came to your sense, you’re in the living room with your Alpha Mother, Zale, is hovering over you. She sighs in relief and shouts that you’re okay. She was about to leave and you bite your lip as you grab her arm.

“Mom.” You say weakly and Dahlia gives you a glass of water. You sit up and gulp it down in one go.

“What’s wrong, little one?” Zale asks gently and you try not to cry again. God, their gentle affections and kindness, will it go away once you tell them what you really are? That you’re just a Beta and not like them? Will they throw you out? Disown you? You take a deep breath and you look at them.

“I-I” You tremble and put the glass on the coffee table. “I’m a Beta.” You look down and clench your fists, waiting for their reply.

“Oh, Jesus, it was just her evaluation result.” You look up and see as your all of your family collectively sigh in relief.

“Damn it, Y/N, don’t scare us like that.”

“My little sister is a goddamn drama queen, who freaking guessed?” Zale slaps Valerie softly on her arm.

“Why were you so afraid, anak?”

“I thought you guys would get angry and disown me.” You sniffle and Dahlia quickly hushes you and hugs you.

“Y/N, little one, that doesn’t matter to us.”

“Dude, that’s like the least of our concerns.”

“Oh? What matters most then, Val?” Valerie glares at Alsie and look away. “Your potential mate, that girl call-“ Valerie screeches and attacks Alsie who dodges quickly. You laugh at their antics and everyone looks relieved at you. They hug you and you hug them back. Grateful that they accepted you.

You were just humming to a song that’s been stuck inside your head when someone calls out.

“Excuse me?” You look up and gulp. The girl looked stunning and words seem to be stuck in your mouth. It felt like everything around you was moving slowly.

“Y-yes?” God, human interaction was not a daily occurrence for you, people tended to avoid you like the plague in School and the house is quieter now that both Zale and Alsie are off to college. Both of your moms never push you to talk about anything and simply bonds with you through food and TV.

“Can you tell me where I would find this classroom?” She pushes the schedule onto you and you hum. You knew the school halls like the back of your hand, it was easier to navigate that way. You felt your heart beat faster as you give it back.

“Yeah. You should take a left there and it should be the fourth room on the right.” You point it out and she nods. She smiles at you and you feel your heart skip a beat.

“Thanks, stranger.” You nod.

“Wanda!” Someone calls out and you both turn to the newcomer. “You know where the classroom is?”

Yeah. Come on.” They both turn to leave and you stare after them. Wanda looks back and waves at you. You simply put your hand up in a lame attempt to reciprocate.

“Fuck.” You whisper softly and put your hand to your chest. You will yourself to calm down before resuming to read your book.

You yawn as you step inside the cafeteria. It’s been a week since you gave Wanda directions… a week since and you’ve been avoiding her. Every time she would wave her hand at you, you’ll turn to the other direction. Anytime she tries to call you, you would run the other way. It was hard since she’s practically a dog just begging for your attention… this is why you really prefer cats.

You get a tray and get your usual lunch. You’re not in the library since Miss Danvers apparently quitted and even though students usually man the counter, you’ve decided to eat like a normal person this day.

“Hey!” Wanda calls out and you felt your stomach drop. She was with the Avengers. They were the most popular group in school, even more than Seniors despite being Sophomores like you.

Tony and Vision Stark are smart, and people are saying that they’re going to take the world in a few years. With Stark Industries, they might as well do that.

Natasha Romanoff is the heir to the Romanoff Airlines, and she has been basically to everywhere and knows many languages.

Angel Garcia is one of the only people who seem to take every AP classes like you. She’s a smart Omega that you have no doubt will take the world in a storm. Some says she’s a power Omega to Natasha.

Pepper Potts is already showing signs of a great businesswoman and is already interning at Stark Industries. She’s the soulmate of Tony Stark.

Steve Rogers is another example of a power Omega, with his buff body and being the captain and quarterback of the football team.

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is an Alpha who is also the ace of the Basketball team. He’s the Alpha of Steve Rogers.

Thor Odinson is an Alpha who can make girls wet their panties without doing anything but existing. He’s the heir to Mjolnir Constructions.

Sam Wilson is an Alpha who loves flying more than anything else, he’s father is a pilot at Romanoff Airlines.

You gulp and turn away from her. Walking to a smaller table with no one. You turn to look and see Wanda’s disappointed face. You sigh as you eat and take your phone out. You read fanfics as you eat your lunch.

It’s not like the Betas at the school have not invited you to eat with them but you preferred to be alone, talking to no one and be in your own world.

Wanda sighs and turns back to their table.

“Something wrong, младшая сестра?” Pietro asks and Wanda huffs. She gets her tray and was about to go to you when Sam grabs her arm.

“I wouldn’t go to Y/LN. She’s a Beta.” She stops at that and pulls away from him.

“So what? Is that a sin?” Natasha scoffs at Wanda.

“It means she’s a trying hard nobody.” Wanda glares at her and Natasha smiles.

“She’s still in most of the AP classes though.” Angel says and Tony scoffs.

“Only because her mom and sisters threatened to sue if they didn’t let her.”

“Jesus, what a spoiled brat.” Wanda’s eye twitches at that and she drags Pietro away from them.

“THOSE are you new friends?”

“Yeah? They’re the coolest people, Wands, trust me.”

“Coolest? They’re judging someone based on their second gender.”

“It’s the truth, though.” Wanda crosses her arms and Pietro shrugs. “Betas are just average people, Wands, don’t put too much faith in them.” Wanda huffs and looks at you but you were already gone.

You stretch your body before going back into your research. You’re inside the library after school and you’ve already texted your moms about being late.

“Is this seat taken?” You look up and see Wanda with a book of her own. You shake your head. “Do you mind?” You shake your head again and she sits down besides you. You were so focused on doing you research that you haven’t noticed that Wanda has been staring at you. You only notice that she hasn’t opened her book yet. You look to her and meet her eyes.

“Um?” You blush and Wanda looks away as she opens her book. “Is that The Flower Girl Wore Celery?” Wanda nods and you squeal lightly. “They have this? Where’d you find it?”

“In the literature section? There’s a whole lot of Children’s books there.” You sigh.

“Maybe after I finish this dreadful thing.”

“I’m Wanda by the way.” She holds out her hand and you take it while blushing.

“Right. I’m Y/N.” Wanda smiles at you and you gulp.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” You nod and try to focus on the research. You finally finish after an hour and you stretch your body.

“Finally done.” You say and Wanda hums. She’s already finished the Children’s book and was now reading a novel.

“Here.” She gives you the book and you smile at her.

“Thanks.” You begin reading the book.

Your phone rings just as you finish the book, you quickly answer it and it was your Mom.

“Y/N? Are you still finishing your research?”

“No. I’m already done, just going to return all the books that I’ve borrowed.”

“Okay. Your Ma is already cooking dinner.”

“Alright. I’ll finish up and go home.”

“See you later, little one.”

“Yeah. Bye, mom.” You hang up and sigh.

“You okay?” Wanda asks and you hum.

“Just a little sore.” You gather all of your things and put them into your bag.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yep. Ma’s cooking and my mom’s going to get angry if I’m not home by the time she finishes.”

“Let me help you.”

“You sure? Some of these reference books are heavy.”

“Yep.” She picks up the books that you left behind and follows you. You begin returning the books while Wanda hovers behind you. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You drop the last book in your hand and it drops on your foot. You whimper quietly and pick it up. You immediately sit and Wanda looks down you. “You okay?”

“F-fine.” You stutter and stand. You take all the remaining books from her and return them. After you return the last one you notice Wanda and blush. You look down. “Sorry.”

“For what, exactly?” She gets into your vision and you sigh.

“For avoiding you? Getting involved with me won’t do you any good.” You pick up your bag and leave the library with her.

“Why not?” You sigh.

“Because I’m a Beta. And you’re an Omega.”

“So what?” You look at her, not believing her words…

“I’m a Beta, Wanda, you’re an Omega, you should hang out with another Omega or an Alpha, not a Beta like me.” You get something from your bag and present it to her. It was a bookmark, a simple one with just words on them. “My apologies and try to read all the books written on it. They’re all pretty good.” Pietro calls out to Wanda and you both turn to him. “I have to go.” You leave her behind and Wanda sighs. She smiles as she reads the bookmark’s contents.

A/N: I don't know how to cut off chapters now that I have no guide. Help.

Anyhows, thank you for reading and do tell me if you would like to be on the taglist for this series or future works!

I'm going to try to post chapters at least once a week or if life happens then once biweekly.

#Wanda Maximoff x reader #Omegaverse fic #Marvel #Marvel fic #Wanda Maximoff x F!Reader #Wanda Maximoff Fanfic #Scarlet Witch x Reader #Wanda x you #wanda x reader #Scarlet Witch x you

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astoryinred · 2 years

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Waiting for a happy ending from the other side of the world (why "Encanto" and "Coco" make me cry like a baby)

"One day she had a perfect marriage. The next day, she didn't have a marriage".

This was how my father and my uncles described my grandmother's story. In the 1960s, my grandmother was married to the love of her life. They had seven young children together, and planned to raise them in their "dream house" that they had just bought in a suburb. My grandfather was an up and coming lawyer, well loved and respected by his peers. My grandmother was his steady and sensible partner, the grounding influence to the vivacity that was my grandfather.

That changed when my grandfather was killed in a freak plane accident one afternoon. That was the first time that there was no knock at the big red door of their home at exactly 7:35 in the evening. My grandmother and all their friends searched for the plane wreckage, but only came up with bits and pieces. After some time, my grandmother had to accept that she was a young widow with seven children all under the age of ten. She would have to be both mom and dad to my youngest uncle and aunt--who were still toddlers then. She would have to fight to keep her dream home. She would have to go back to work, make ends meet, and somehow hold her head up high through it all.

She succeeded, with all the steel and vigor she didn't even know she had. This persisted into her old age, and by the time my cousins and I came along she was a formidable matriarch in our community. This was why in my mind she was to me what "Mama Imelda" was to the younger Riveras: an authoritative figure that would not, could not be crossed, someone who had built the family success, and raised a respectable family. The major difference of course between my grandmother and Imelda Rivera was that my grandmother did not obliterate my grandfather's memory. She spoke of him from time to time, with a fondness that grew wistful and tender over the years.

My grandmother passed in 2018, some time after the movie "Coco" came out. To get through the grief I looped "Proud Corazon" over and over again, remembering the times our family all had together. I took comfort in the fact that my grandparents were finally reunited in the afterlife. I believed that we would be okay.

But this is real life, and not Disney. In the first two years after my grandmother's passing, the extended family began to slowly drift apart. Grievances and differences that had never been apparent before now rose to the fore. While my older relatives struggled with their demons and ghosts, my generation had the challenge of making lives of our own---yet somehow remaining connected to a past that was turning more and more nebulous. It did not help at all when we finally had to give up the family home, for lack of the means to maintain it. Then the pandemic struck, further loosening the ties that once bound so well.

In the two years of being away from most of my family, I've had time to reexamine things---as one can do from a distance. It has allowed me to say "geez that was messed up" when looking back at things that were said or done to each other. It has sometimes made me a bit resentful or guarded of how my grandmother and her contemporaries parented ---and how these wounds on the generation of my parents were inflicted anew on me, my siblings, and my cousins. My friends and I have always tried to wave it off as "they are products of their time", but it's never been quite enough.

This was why I decided to watch "Encanto" , despite already being told what it was about. I thought I'd be able to get through it without crying, but of course I could not. How could I be okay when I saw my grandmother's story again, but in a different light?

She had grown up during the worst of World War 2. When she married, she envisioned a different life. She had wanted to grow old with my grandfather. But that did not happen, and she had to be strong for herself, for her kids, and the people around her. She knew her children were talented, and insisted that they do their best to serve their community. She literally fought to keep her home. But she did not have time to grieve, and perhaps never got over some of the things that plagued her nights and memories. And this was why she was so hard on her children and some of her grandchildren, and wanted to remain as respectable, dignified, and astute --- the way my grandfather was. She did a lot of good, but also got a lot of things wrong, only because this was the only way she knew how.

If this were a Disney movie, coming to terms with my grandmother's story would be enough to fix everything --- to bring everyone together and to keep a home. But this is real life. This is the more complex drama of several dozen people scattered across the world, with no more "Casita" to return to. I don't know if there is a happy ending in sight for this saga. But maybe the point of these movies is to believe that such healing can happen, magic or not. Maybe more than catharsis, there's something of a road map to be had in finding what was lost or rebuilding anew: imperfect but strong, flawed but beautiful

#coco #encanto #personal #tw: generational trauma

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reelperspective · 3 years

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I’m generally not the type to mourn celebrity deaths. It’s usually beyond me to truly mourn the passing of someone who is so completely removed from my life. I tend to reserve grief for personal losses. I would say that is still true - I don’t know if you could call what I’m feeling grief, but it’s definitely something akin to it.

When I heard that Naya Rivera had passed away in a drowning accident, I thought “my god that sucks. That glee cast is cursed or something.” Then I moved on with my life, as one does. I felt it in the moment because Santana was my favorite character (well her and Brittany), but I didn’t dwell on it. I hadn’t seen the show in years, so I felt removed from it.

Months later, I go down a YouTube recommended video rabbit hole and end up watching the Glee version of Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide. I’d always loved that cover of the song. From the moment I first heard it, I thought it was beautifully arranged and flawlessly executed, but I digress. The point is, after watching it, I started watching other Glee videos (again, recommended videos). At a certain point I thought, “fuck it, I haven’t seen this show in years. Maybe it’s time for a re-watch.” So, I started to binge watch it. It is just as hilarious and awesome as the first time. And again, just as the first time, Santana proved to be my favorite character.

I think that Santana was the most emotionally complex character on that show. I think she had a great arc as a character that started off not being very sympathetic at all, to becoming a character that people could really relate to and root for. She had a fascinating duality to her as the bully who sometimes had a heart. Her love for Brittany added a significant layer to her character - displaying a side of her that had previously been unseen. A side reserved only for Brittany- the exception to her rule. Which is remarkable because, being that she was an idiot, Brittany should have been an easy target for Santana’s ridicule. Later, Santana reveals in a rant against Rory the Irishman, that she believes Brittany to be beautiful, innocent, and “everything good in this miserable, stinking world.” This revelation spoke to the heart of the character because it showed that despite her blatantly “Evil” characteristics, what Santana truly values most is goodness and purity of spirit. Brittany was the only person Santana never insulted. You could say that this is because she loved Brittany. That’s a factor, for sure, but I think the main reason is that even she couldn’t tear down someone so innocent. This, and other instances of vulnerability, developed Santana into a more three dimensional character - someone real, rather than just the caricature of a mean girl.

Yes, it’s true that the writers can be credited for this nuance in her character, but I believe it can be argued that Naya highlighted these nuances flawlessly. She did a beautiful job of portraying Santana’s *reluctant* displays of humanity. Not to mention how fucking talented she was when it came to the singing and the dancing. Vocally she’s top three along with Amber Riley and Lea Michele - and she’s a better dancer than either of them.

I noticed all of these things during this recent re-watch of mine. I’d always enjoyed Santana’s viscious barbs and her scathing wit, but this time I gained a deeper appreciation of the character as well.

Why am I talking about the character when this post started off being about grief? Well, watching the show again really drove home what a goddamn tragedy it is for the world to lose someone so talented and hilarious. This feeling drove me to look into Naya as a person. I listened to her audio book, and I read what people have said about her, and the general consensus is that she was an all-around amazing individual. She was Kind but sassy, tough yet compassionate, funny and intelligent. I then watched some of her interviews, and her personality was positively magnetic. She always lead with a blunt honesty that she delivered with this matter-of-fact attitude and wry wit. She owned up to things that most people in her position would hide. Despite the bluntness, she never seemed tacky or crass. Then to add to these revelations is the observation that she so clearly loved her little son with a tremendous passion. I’m sure all celebrities love their children more than life itself, but most don’t speak out about it specifically or so frequently. Naya, on many occasions, spoke of her passion for motherhood, and how much it meant to her to be Josey’s mom. With all of the things she has accomplished, she credited her son as her greatest success. Topics that get repeated across many conversations tend to be subjects that the speaker is fairly obsessed with. It is clear that her son was her whole world. He was not only her responsibility and her greatest love, but also her greatest source of joy. I’m not surprised that she somehow found a way to save him even though she couldn’t save herself.

Which leads to the final straw on the camel’s back - the manner in which she died. As was mentioned previously, she saved her son - which kicks you right in the feels. He had to witness some of her final moments - kick #2. Then there’s the tragedy of the circumstances of the death itself. Drowning is a horrific way to die. She must have been so terrified in her final moments. To add to this is the fact that had any of a number of events transpired differently, she’d still be with us today. Had she not gone to the lake that day. Had she gone with at least one other adult. Had she not jumped out of the boat. Had she worn a life vest. Had the boat had an anchor and a ladder attached to It’s side.

Then I’m confused about how this all went down. Apparently, she was sucked under the water by a current - I guess the equivalent of an undertow - but I thought undertows only happened in the ocean! Considering that this is a lake - a man made one at that- and not a river or an ocean, where the fuck did this incredibly strong underwater current come from? A lake is pretty much stagnant water, is it not? I looked at a map of it, and from what I can tell, there are no rivers feeding into this lake. So, I’m confused and this death is not only tragic, but senseless.

It’s just so fucking sad - every which way you look at it. I feel it in my very soul, and as I said before, I never feel celebrity deaths like this. I can’t stop thinking about her poor child having to grow up without his mommy. I lost someone as a child, and it left an enormous hole in my heart. I remember feeling so profoundly and absolutely destroyed. There are no words to describe the depths of my despair, and I can’t help but think that Josey is feeling that now. Though I was older than he is - I don’t know how much his young mind can make sense of or process the reality of his mother’s death. I know for sure that he is feeling it - he will miss her forever. Ryan Dorsey, his father, released a statement in which he said that he had to explain to his son that his mother was in heaven, and Josey asked him how he could go there too so that he could be with her. That just breaks my heart - I know exactly how he feels. I can’t stop thinking about Naya’s mother and how she collapsed on the dock at Lake Piru and threw her hands out in a display of pure, all-consuming grief. As I’ve said, I’ve felt grief like that before. I’ve collapsed to my knees under the weight of it. So, I feel for her family and her friends. I saw an interview in which the actress who played Santana’s abuela says that Heather Morris was so distraught, she wanted to jump into the lake to search for Naya herself.

I also feel a keen sense of loss for all of the wonderful things she will never do, all of the hilarious things she had yet to say, and all of the characters she might have been destined to bring to life with a singular authenticity. Lastly, and least importantly, I feel this keenly because she and I are the same age. The reality of such a thing just slaps one in the face.

That being said, I keep having these moments of cognitive dissonance as I’m watching the show. I feel her loss so much, yet it seems like she’s not dead. She can’t be! Look at her. Look at how full of life she is. She’s so young. That can’t be the reality - but alas, it is. I keep remembering that it is, and the cycle of emotion starts up all over again.

I know that part of the reason for my deep feelings about this tragedy has to do with my own experience with loss. I’ve lost so many people in my lifetime - some of which, I’ve loved more than life itself. At least one of which, I had wanted to follow into the grave because I could not fathom my life without her in it - it just hurt too much.

So I lay this all out here on tumblr. It is very likely that no one will ever read it, and that’s okay. I just needed to express it anyway as it has been building up inside of me.

#naya rivera #naya rivera son #naya rivera death #gleek #glee #heather morris

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lesliecost · 4 years

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Thursday, July 9, 2020

On today’s news! The temperatures, globally, could exceed 1.5 degrees Celsius (2.7 Fahrenheit) over the next five years as predicted by the World Meteorological Organization (WMO). If we are already complaining about the heat now, well brace yourself, because winter is not coming, the gates of an oven will open on the world and there is a probability that even refrigerators will spitfire. Do the world a favor and support Leo and Gretta. Follow whatever they do and say. Oh, and listen to ‘Earth’ by Lil’Dicky so you can donate with a single view of the video. ‘Glee’ actress, Naya Rivera, is missing in lake California and a search is underway. What is up with people disappearing lately? Meanwhile, the Supreme Court decided (7-2) that Mr. Dickerson Trumpet's financial documents must be handed over to NY prosecutors, even I am curious. Oh, and unfortunately in Brazil, Jair Ballsacknaro is feeling ‘well’ after testing positive. He is drinking hydroxychloroquine, so let us keep high hopes. So far, the man is still appearing without a mask. There are two things happening in Korea. North, a satellite is showing images of a research facility that is apparently being used to build nuclear warheads. South, the mayor of Seoul has been reported missing amid sexual harassment allegations. If it was not enough with the black plague, children in China were locked up for as long as 10 days at internet addiction camp. Y’all need to chill. Ever had knee issues? Researchers at Duke University, North Carolina, announce the first cartilage-mimicking gel that is strong enough for knees! I will be on my way. Going back to the environment and the world been set on fire, the largest city in Australia, Sydney is now powered by one hundred percent! (100%) thanks to a historic deal. Cartoonist of ‘The Far Side’, Gary Larson is back by publishing a new comic in 25 years and finally: ‘WINE FAIRIES’. Yes, you got that right. You are not seeing double. To cheer up the communities, a group of do-gooders known as ‘wine fairies’ have been leaving booze and treats on people’s doorsteps. They collect wine lovers addresses in their community; ask which varieties of wine they would prefer to receive. They go around dressed in wings, tutus, and magic wands, they leave the good stuff on your front door, ring the bell and run “for cover”. Yes, this is hilarious, this is genius and is probably what we need right now. The social distance at its finest and booze. What can go wrong?! Today is Thursday, July 9, 2020. Day unknown of quarantine.

#news #humor #international #usa #WMO #environment #wine #booze #brazil #korea #sydney #australia #naya rivera #temperatures #leonardo dicaprio #greta thunberg #earth #lil dicky #green energy

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richincolor · 3 years

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New Releases For The Rest of 2020

The year ends with a number of books we've all been anticipating which makes for lots of great reading for us during the winter holidays. What books are you looking forward to?

A Sky Beyond the Storm (An Ember in the Ashes #4) by Sabaa Tahir Razorbill

Picking up just a few months after A Reaper at the Gates left off…

The long-imprisoned jinn are on the attack, wreaking bloody havoc in villages and cities alike. But for the Nightbringer, vengeance on his human foes is just the beginning.

At his side, Commandant Keris Veturia declares herself Empress, and calls for the heads of any and all who defy her rule. At the top of the list? The Blood Shrike and her remaining family.

Laia of Serra, now allied with the Blood Shrike, struggles to recover from the loss of the two people most important to her. Determined to stop the approaching apocalypse, she throws herself into the destruction of the Nightbringer. In the process, she awakens an ancient power that could lead her to victory–or to an unimaginable doom.

And deep in the Waiting Place, the Soul Catcher seeks only to forget the life–and love–he left behind. Yet doing so means ignoring the trail of murder left by the Nightbringer and his jinn. To uphold his oath and protect the human world from the supernatural, the Soul Catcher must look beyond the borders of his own land. He must take on a mission that could save–or destroy–all that he knows. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Heiress Apparently (Daughters of the Dynasty #1) by Diana Ma Amulet

Gemma Huang is a recent transplant to Los Angeles from Illinois, having abandoned plans for college to pursue a career in acting, much to the dismay of her parents. Now she’s living with three roommates in a two-bedroom hovel, auditioning for bit roles that hardly cover rent. Gemma’s big break comes when she’s asked to play a lead role in an update of M. Butterfly filming for the summer in Beijing. When she arrives, she’s stopped by paparazzi at the airport. She quickly realizes she may as well be the twin of one of the most notorious young socialites in Beijing. Thus kicks off a summer of revelations, in which Gemma uncovers a legacy her parents have spent their lives protecting her from—one her mother would conceal from her daughter at any cost. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

The Black Friend: On Being a Better White Person by Frederick Joseph Candlewick Press

“We don’t see color.” “I didn’t know Black people liked Star Wars!” “What hood are you from?” For Frederick Joseph, life in a mostly white high school as a smart and increasingly popular transfer student was full of wince-worthy moments that he often simply let go. As he grew older, however, he saw these as missed opportunities not only to stand up for himself, but to spread awareness to the white friends and acquaintances who didn’t see the negative impact they were having and who would change if they knew how.

Speaking directly to the reader, The Black Friend calls up race-related anecdotes from the author’s past, weaving in his thoughts on why they were hurtful and how he might handle things differently now. Each chapter includes the voice of at least one artist or activist, including Tarell Alvin McCraney, screenwriter of Moonlight; April Reign, creator of #OscarsSoWhite; Angie Thomas, author of The Hate U Give; and eleven others. Touching on everything from cultural appropriation to power dynamics, “reverse racism” to white privilege, microaggressions to the tragic results of overt racism, this book serves as conversation starter, tool kit, and invaluable window into the life of a former “token Black kid” who now presents himself as the friend many of us need. Back matter includes an encyclopedia of racism, providing details on relevant historical events, terminology, and more.

Juliet Takes a Breath by Gabby Rivera, Celia Moscote (Illustrations) BOOM! Box

A NEW GRAPHIC NOVEL ADAPTATION OF THE BESTSELLING BOOK! Juliet Milagros Palante is leaving the Bronx and headed to Portland, Oregon. She just came out to her family and isn’t sure if her mom will ever speak to her again. But don’t worry, Juliet has something kinda resembling a plan that’ll help her figure out what it means to be Puerto Rican, lesbian and out. See, she’s going to intern with Harlowe Brisbane – her favorite feminist author, someone’s who’s the last work on feminism, self-love and lots of of ther things that will help Juliet find her ever elusive epiphany. There’s just one problem – Harlowe’s white, not from the Bronx and doesn’t have the answers. Okay, maybe that’s more than one problem but Juliet never said it was a perfect plan… Critically-acclaimed writer Gabby Rivera adapts her bestselling novel alongside artist Celia Moscote in an unforgettable queer coming-of-age story exploring race, idenrity and what it means to be true to your amazing self. even when the rest of the world doesn’t understand.

A Curse of Roses by Diana Pinguicha Entangled Teen

With just one touch, bread turns into roses. With just one bite, cheese turns into lilies.

There’s a famine plaguing the land, and Princess Yzabel is wasting food simply by trying to eat. Before she can even swallow, her magic—her curse—has turned her meal into a bouquet. She’s on the verge of starving, which only reminds her that the people of Portugal have been enduring the same pain.

If only it were possible to reverse her magic. Then she could turn flowers…into food.

Fatyan, a beautiful Enchanted Moura, is the only one who can help. But she is trapped by magical binds. She can teach Yzabel how to control her curse—if Yzabel sets her free with a kiss.

As the King of Portugal’s betrothed, Yzabel would be committing treason, but what good is a king if his country has starved to death?

With just one kiss, Fatyan is set free. And with just one kiss, Yzabel is yearning for more.

She’d sought out Fatyan to help her save the people. Now, loving her could mean Yzabel’s destruction.

Based on Portuguese legend, this #OwnVoices historical fantasy is an epic tale of mystery, magic, and making the impossible choice between love and duty…

New Releases on Dec. 8th

A Universe of Wishes: A We Need Diverse Books Anthology edited by Dhonielle Clayton Random House Children’s Books

In the fourth collaboration with We Need Diverse Books, fifteen award-winning and celebrated diverse authors deliver stories about a princess without need of a prince, a monster long misunderstood, memories that vanish with a spell, and voices that refuse to stay silent in the face of injustice. This powerful and inclusive collection contains a universe of wishes for a braver and more beautiful world.

Authors include: Samira Ahmed, Libba Bray, Dhonielle Clayton, Zoraida Córdova, Tessa Gratton, Kwame Mbalia, Anna-Marie McLemore, Tochi Onyebuchi, Mark Oshiro, Natalie C. Parker, Rebecca Roanhorse, Victoria Schwab, Tara Sim, Nic Stone, and a to-be-announced debut author/short-story contest winner.

New Releases on Dec. 15th

Oculta (A Forgery of Magic #2) by Maya Motayne Balzer + Bray

After joining forces to save Castallan from an ancient magical evil, Alfie and Finn haven’t seen each other in months. Alfie is finally stepping up to his role as heir and preparing for an International Peace Summit, while Finn is travelling and revelling in her newfound freedom from Ignacio.

That is, until she’s unexpectedly installed as the new leader of one of Castallan’s powerful crime families. Now one of the four Thief Lords of Castallan, she’s forced to preside over the illegal underground Oculta competition, which coincides with the summit and boasts a legendary prize.

Just when Finn finds herself back in San Cristobal, Alfie’s plans are also derailed. Los Toros, the mysterious syndicate responsible for his brother’s murder, has resurfaced—and their newest target is the summit. And when these events all unexpectedly converge, Finn and Alfie are once again forced to work together to follow the assassins’ trail and preserve Castallan’s hopes for peace with Englass.

But will they be able to stop these sinister foes before a new war threatens their kingdom?

This Is How We Fly by Anna Meriano Philomel Books

17-year-old vegan feminist Ellen Lopez-Rourke has one muggy Houston summer left before college. She plans to spend every last moment with her two best friends before they go off to the opposite ends of Texas for school. But when Ellen is grounded for the entire summer by her (sometimes) evil stepmother, all her plans are thrown out the window.

Determined to do something with her time, Ellen (with the help of BFF Melissa) convinces her parents to let her join the local muggle Quidditch team. An all-gender, full-contact game, Quidditch isn’t quite what Ellen expects. There’s no flying, no magic, just a bunch of scrappy players holding PVC pipe between their legs and throwing dodgeballs. Suddenly Ellen is thrown into the very different world of sports: her life is all practices, training, and running with a group of Harry Potter fans.

Even as Melissa pulls away to pursue new relationships and their other BFF Xiumiao seems more interested in moving on from high school (and from Ellen), Ellen is steadily finding a place among her teammates. Maybe Quidditch is where she belongs.

But with her home life and friend troubles quickly spinning out of control–Ellen must fight for the future that she wants, now she’s playing for keeps. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

#newreleases #weneeddiversebooks #ownvoices

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petrichorful · 3 years

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A little snippet of something I’m working on for @pengychan’s Down To Dust AU, which I adore. Warning: I’ve basically never written fan fiction before, so the characterization is probably not the best but I tried. It’s set... whenever you think it’s set. I didn’t have a date in mind.

...

All things considered, it hadn’t been a bad year. No great-great-great grandchildren had been cursed, which made it an automatic good year in Héctor’s book. Yes, the bar was low, but this bar in particular was very, very important, thank you very much.

“Héctor, get over here and control your kid, he’s a menace. He’s making me look bad- hey!” Ernesto swatted at Cheque’s hands, apparently offended by whatever he’d been signing.

Speaking of low bars…

“In his defense,” Héctor said, rolling his eyes, “It doesn’t take much to make you look bad.”

“Hey.”

“He takes lessons from Rosita, you’re never going to make better Sopaipillas than him.”

“He’s a child, he’s basically a toddler! I’m being upstaged by a toddler!” Ernesto whirled around from where he’d been facing the kitchen counter - equal parts to face Héctor and to escape a kick from Cheque, who was sitting on the counter kneading dough.

They were currently in a rented kitchen, where they met - give or take a few of Cheque’s friends - at least once a month. Ernesto didn’t want to go anywhere near the rest of the Rivera family, and Héctor wasn’t quite okay with having him there, either. But Cheque, who’d been determined to show off his newfound baking prowess to Ernesto, had managed to convince the two of them to compromise.

Cheque convinced them to compromise on a lot of things and Héctor still wasn’t sure if he enjoyed these excursions or not, given a certain someone’s presence. He got the feeling Ernesto felt the same.

“You’re basically a child, as well. It’s probably why you two get along so well.” Héctor grinned, and then fled the immediate area with a yelp when both Cheque and Ernesto tried to kick him.

“Children, both of you. How am I supposed to bake in these conditions?”

Cheque blinked. You haven’t even done anything, he signed.

Héctor laughed nervously and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, “Heh… I haven’t, have I? Uh, it’s just that you seemed like you had it covered, and besides last time I tried to bake with you, you spilled flour on me.”

Cheque gave him an innocent look. It was an accident, I promise not to do it this time.

Héctor squinted at him, but eventually gave up the pretense and cracked a smile.

“Aw, you know I can’t stay mad at you, Cheque.” He said. Cheque dropped his innocent act and signed a cheeky I know as Héctor started back towards the kitchen.

The second he stepped across the threshold Ernesto pulled a handful of flour from the bag sitting nearby and pelted him with it.

“Ernesto de la Cruz!”

Cheque giggled silently, bringing his hand up to give Ernesto his requested high five. Héctor huffed, trying to shake the flour off of his vest.

“Ernesto, you are encouraging him! What are you, five?”

“Yes.”

“You, I can stay mad at.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t.”

...

So uh yeah, that’s what I have so far. Haven’t edited it yet so if it’s terrible that’s why, haha. I hope you enjoy!

#coco #pixar coco #down to dust #pengychan #héctor rivera #ernesto de la cruz #oc #I forgot his full name and I’m too lazy to look it up I’ll edit this later #leave me alone #if the Spanish is wrong #I don’t know I dont speak fluent Spanish #please tell me if the Spanish is bad #please for the love of god

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pengychan · 4 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 20

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: Being a sticker for the rules is all well and good until someone uses said rules against you. Also, thanks to @lunaescribe for her help brainstorming for this chapter - she came up with a lot of what Sofía says in it! Art by @swanpit and @lunaescribe!

***

“Well. It seems you are well and truly fucked.”

“That is not helpful.”

“I mean, I may be wrong. In case I’m not, I want you to know it was nice knowing you. Biblically and otherwi--”

“I beg you to spare me more nonsense,” Imelda groaned, still rubbing her temples. She had started almost as soon as Ernesto had opened his mouth to explain the situation, and had yet to stop. Either she was being dramatic, or there was a colossal headache on the way. “Last thing we need right now is for word to get out that we sheltered a deserter.”

Beside her, Héctor swallowed. “Well, if we say we didn’t know--”

“And you think Federales would care?” Imelda asked, her voice barely cracking a moment, giving a briefest glimpse to how scared she truly was at the prospect. Ernesto crossed his arm, the thing gnawing at the pit of his stomach - terror, and something that felt a lot like guilt - becoming almost painful.

The men lined up in plazas for the firing squad to execute. The hangings of those we did not shoot. The wailing children, the screaming women. Some were shot too, soldaderas, aiders like Imelda and Sofía. And even the holy cloth will not be enough to save them if they find out.

“They won’t care,” he said, looking away. “I would know.”

A few moments of silence, and Ernesto barely dared to breathe; he wasn’t so naive not to know that spontaneously surrendering him before the gringo had a chance to speak would be their best chance at avoiding all that. If they gave any indication of planning to do that, then he’d have no choice but to make a run for it. If only he still had his horse--

“Well. It seems we must make sure the gringo never speaks, then.”

Imelda’s voice was firm, cold. Ernesto blinked, looking back at her. “What?”

“... Is it not what you have been trying to do? If he unmasks you, he will be calling down the wolves on every one of us. Whether he means to or not.”

“I…”

“Wait, wait!” Héctor spoke up, lifting his arms. His eyes were wide, his face ashen pale. “Let’s not-- there is no need to hurt him. He did tell Ernesto to leave, no? So say that we hide him, and we let the gringo think he did leave--”

Ernesto scoffed. “He’ll still denounce me, at this point. He only conceded me a head start before he does. It won’t help you when the Federales come asking questions.”

“Ah.” Héctor faltered a moment, then he shook his head. “No, it’s not right. We don’t need to harm him--”

Sofía raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think we’d be so lucky to have him just drop dead of a spontaneous heart attack within the next twenty-four hours.”

“No, look. He... doesn’t need to die. We only have to win him over.”

Ernesto opened his mouth. Héctor gave him an exasperated look. “Not that way.”

Ernesto closed his mouth.

“What I mean, is-- he is a man of God. If we tell him what the Federales do to deserters… surely he’d know what is the charitable thing to do, saving someone’s life. That's the point of the Church - giving shelter to the helpless and... and he's helpless and needs shelter, right?”

“A helpless broad-shouldered ox?” Imelda muttered.

“Broad shoulders won’t save me from hanging,” Ernesto snapped, pacing back and forth, dread growing in his chest. “This isn’t about my shoulders, anyway. This is-- this is--”

“This could work.”

“Huh?”

Three pairs of eyes turned suddenly towards Sofía, who in turn gave them all the sweetest smile to ever grace a nun’s face. Well, as long as one ignored the glint in the eye that was more reminiscing of a fox approaching a wounded mouse. “Look at it this way - what is it the gringo loves more than anything?”

Ernesto opened his mouth.

“Aside from that.”

Ernesto closed his mouth.

“... God?” Héctor suggested tentatively.

“Hah, as if. Imelda?”

“Being obeyed?” she said drily, and Sofía’s smile widened.

“Close, but no. He loves being right. Being in the right. Or rather, believing he is. The holier than thou teacher, doing everything by the Book.”

Ernesto quickly glanced around, and was somewhat relieved to see the expressions on Imelda and Héctor’s faces were about as blank as his mind felt. In the end, he cleared his throat. “Can you speak in plain Spanish?”

The smile on Sofía’s face turned into a grin. “What I am saying is that one of us, whoever can act the best, needs to go to our dear leader Father John, and ask for him to confess them. And anything we say in confession…”

“He cannot say to others,” Imelda spoke, her expression brightening. “The seal of confession.”

“Exactly! Now, in the confession, we express our distress over something we learned by listening in to a prayer - where we heard Padre Ernesto say to God he was an escaped soldier terrified to die - and oh no, Padre John, what do we do?” Sofía sighed, bringing a hand over his heart. “It's a crime, but what would Jesus Christ do, Father John? Surely he’d offer shelter?”

Ernesto blinked. “But he… already knows.”

This time, Héctor seemed to have caught on and grinned, showing off his brand new golden tooth. “But he cannot admit that, because it would make him look bad,” he said. “Either he admits to knowing of the crime for days before confession and keeping quiet, or he admits to being guilty of breaking the sacramental seal. Neither would make him look good. Neither would make him feel like he’s in the right. Plus, Jesus would frown upon sending a man to his death.”

Ah. Ernesto hadn’t thought about it that way at all. “And-- you think that would work?”

“It just might,” Imelda said. “Might be worth a try before other solutions are considered.”

More permanent solutions, her tone made it clear enough. Ernesto swallowed and nodded.

“All right. Then, who…?”

“Héctor could do it,” Sofía said. “Though a woman’s tears might work better. Make him feel like the protective Padre. In that case, I could do it.”

That gained her a slightly dubious look from Imelda. “You can cry on command?”

Sofía burst sobbing, so suddenly it caused Ernesto to nearly jump. It was a little terrifying how quickly it happened, really: she was full-on wailing, face streaked with tears. Imelda raised both eyebrows, clearly impressed, while Héctor stood so quickly he caused the chair to fall back with a bang.

“Hey are you all right-- please don’t, I’m sure Imelda didn’t mean to--”

Sofía’s crying stopped, as quickly as it had begun, and she gave a stunned Héctor a very, very wide grin.

“Yes,” she said, voice sweet as honey. “I think it should be me.”

***

John’s walk back to the parish was slow, and full of dark thoughts.

Part of him worried that he had been seen, because he was almost certain he’d heard at least a voice, but it was hard to muster the willpower to focus too much on it. What did it matter if someone saw him weep, saw him with the lit cigarette in his hand? His greatest weaknesses and vices were already laid bare before the Almighty.

I will not remain for long. I cannot bear it. Once I have informed the Archdiocese of that man’s deception, I will ask to be reassigned.

Of course he knew there was a chance he may find himself defrocked, if he grew spiteful enough, desperate enough to drag him down with him, to tell. If he did, John would not attempt to lie. He would admit his sin, accept the punishment-- but God, oh God, he had worked so hard to the cloth he wore. Too hard to allow that sinner to… to ruin everything.

I deserted and ran, he had said. If the Federal army finds me, I’ll hang.

God willing, that will happen before he can talk.

It was a horrible thought, far beneath a servant of God - but it had still come unbidden to his mind, and shamed filled him the next moment. Look how low he’d sunk, how much he had sullied him. He truly was ruined.

He would never be a true man of God.

John’s eyes stung once more, but he refused to shed more tears that day. He stopped in the middle of the orchard he was going through to approach the church unseen, leaned against a tree, and drew in a few deep breaths. Nature walks used to bring him such peace, and now he was desperately grasping for scraps of it. He tried to focus on the rustling leaves, the wind, the birds, a dog whining…

… A child sobbing?

John recoiled, opening his eyes and turning to glance around. He couldn’t see anyone, but sobbing it was, and clearly a child’s. Was someone hurt? He frowned, and followed the noise. “Who’s there?”

A small gasp, a hiccuping sound, and there was the source of it - Miguel, sitting beneath a large tree and hugging the hairless stray dog who’d follow him anywhere, apparently unaware of the copious amounts of drool dripping on his shoulder as the beast let him hold onto it. What… had happened?

“Miguel?” John stepped closer, only to pause when he realized Miguel was looking at him the way a child only looks at you when expecting a scolding, some sort of punishment.

“It’s nothing,” Miguel said quickly, standing up and wiping his face with his sleeve. He was clearly in a rush to get away from him. It stung, truly, to see the boy mistrust him so. Only days ago, he’d liked him. He’d smiled at him. It had taken so little for that to change again.

I’m meant to be their shepherd, but they once again look at me like I’m the wolf.

But they didn’t understand, he was trying to do things right by God - he was guarding their souls, he was trying to save his own, he… he…

“Miguel,” he called out, reaching out tentatively to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I am here to help. Whatever is bothering you, you can tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“You may tell me as a confession, and it will be under sacramental seal. You can trust--”

“No,” Miguel snapped suddenly, jerking away from him. He looked up, scowling, but he failed to come across as angry. He only seemed so very sad. “I can’t. Any of you.”

Normally, John wouldn’t have let such behavior stand - he would have at least demanded to know the reason for such an outburst, lectured him on how to properly address his elders and most of all a man of God. The implication he may not take the sacramental seal seriously was nothing short of an insult, but he was so drained, with so much on his mind and such as weight on his soul. In the end, he simply nodded and folded his hands.

“All right. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

A long, suspicious look - both from the boy and his dog. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. It simply feels as though we may both use some company,” John replied, and sat beneath the tree. Miguel stared at him, his expression softening a little, causing John to wonder if perhaps he’d failed to conceal signs of his earlier breakdown as well as he’d hoped.

Bit late to worry about it.

He averted his gaze, saying nothing, and heard Miguel sitting down by his side. The dog wandered around, nosing at leaves, probably looking for something edible. After a brief silence, it was Miguel to speak. “... Is something wrong? You’ve been-- weird.”

John swallowed, trying to ignore how his heart seemed to be beating in his throat. No, he had to stay calm. Surely, there was no way a mere child may know of his sin. “Have I?”

“Sí. I mean, you act--” a pause, probably looking for a polite way to put it. “Different.”

“Well--” John began, about to explain how he only had the salvation of their souls at heart, but Miguel spoke before he could.

“Kinda scary.”

Ah.

I’m meant to be their shepherd. They should not be afraid to seek me out.

“I… suppose I have not been in the best of moods.”

“Did something happen?”

“My faith is being tested. It is not for you to concern yourself about,” John replied, his voice soft. “You are a child.”

A scoff. “I’m not dumb.”

“Ah, that is not what I mean. You are one of the innocent. Yours is the Kingdom of God.”

“Ah.” Miguel paused, clearly unsure how to respond to that. In the end, he shrugged. “Well, I’m not going to be a kid for long. I’ll get older, they’ll kick me from the orphanage, and that’ll be it.”

Oh, John thought, so that was what was bothering him. The memory of the night he’d stumbled out of his home into the night, his clothing torn and blood seeping through the fabric, terror in his chest and despair in his mind, tried to make a comeback. He forced it away.

No such thing will happen to him. He is a good child. He is home here.

“But no one will be forcing you out of Santa Cecilia, no?” John asked, smiling. “Your friends will still be all here.”

A snort. “Some friends,” he muttered, hugging his knees. “I don’t need them. Someone told me he was gonna take me out of here, but he won’t either. Fine. I don’t need anyone.”

“Whatever gave you such thoughts?”

Miguel shrugged, looking away. John supposed it was a clear enough cue that he still had no intention to talk about it. He decided to remain quiet, and wait. It didn’t take too long for Miguel to speak again; he was, after all, a child in need of comfort.

“He didn’t even come after me when I ran off.”

“This... person you’re angry at?”

“Yes. He would have come after me, before. But now he doesn’t care anymore.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t excessively difficult for John to figure out who Miguel may be referring to. He and Brother Hector were usually joined at the hip. “Well, perhaps he has concerns--”

“Oh, I know what concerns he has,” the boy muttered, his voice dripping sarcasm. John raised both eyebrows. He certainly did not approve of Brother Hector harboring… affection towards a woman while a novice, and he’d rather he made up his mind soon instead of keeping up that mockery, but none of it was something to burden a young mind with.

So he drew in a deep breath, and tried to be as accommodating as he could. “If it is who I am thinking, he is… a young man himself. And possibly struggling with faith, and-- these are difficult times. I’m certain he cares about you deeply.”

Miguel seemed to hesitate a moment, then he glanced up at him. “... How would you know?”

Father John Johnson gave a small, pained smile. “I was the oldest of four siblings, and I loved my sisters and brother dearly. I had duties, as the oldest - I won’t bore you with the details - but from time to time, both Sarah and Michael complained I wasn’t paying any attention to them. Perhaps they were right to say so, and I do regret it to this day.” I’ll never see them again. Ruth won’t even remember me. “I cared about them, as much as I always had. But I was trying to be the best example I could be, and did not realize they felt left out.”

“Oh,” Miguel said. He seemed to mull on his words for a few moments before he sighed. “It’s not the same thing. He-- I told him something, and he promised me not to tell, but he told and now… someone else is mad at me. Why would he do that?”

John didn’t know what he precisely was referring to - probably something like having stolen an apple from the market stand, or eaten the last candy, what other secrets could a child have? - and he hummed. “You know, my sister Sarah once showed me she could jump from her window on the tree branch right before it, and climb down to the ground.”

A faint chuckle. “That sounds cool.”

“She made me promise not to tell our Father.” John smiled faintly. “I told him that evening.”

“Ugh.” Miguel rolled his eyes. “Why were you such a spoilsport?”

“I worried she may hurt herself. I had her best interest at heart, even if she didn’t see it that way. Not that day, but-- no. No, she really never forgave me for that.” He smiled, the memory bittersweet in his chest. “But I can promise you, my intentions were good. Sometimes we may be misguided, but… don’t you think that, perhaps, it was the same for Br-- your friend?”

“Well…” Miguel paused a moment, and seemed to be musing on that. He bit his lower lip, feet shuffling a little in the dirt, and finally sighed. “Yes. Maybe. I mean, I was also not supposed to say something, but I told because I thought it was-- the best thing to do.”

“There you go. I am sure he feels the same.”

He nodded and finally looked up at him, tears gone from his eyes. “... Why aren’t you always like this? You know, not a cab-- I mean, nice?”

Ah. “I… understand I may come across as harsh, but I only wish to keep your souls from harm.”

“Yes, but if you just scare everyone…” Miguel made a vague gesture with his hand. “You said people can mean well but be misguided. So, uh… maybe… you know?”

No. Not now. I was misguided before, when I was too soft. Now I’m doing the right thing. I am.

“... I will give the matter some thought,” John found himself saying instead. Miguel smiled, and he smiled back - knowing full well that, once he revealed the truth about the man they believed their beloved parish priest, the boy may never smile at him again.

***

Looking back later on Sofía would think that maybe, just maybe, she had exaggerated a little bit.

Perhaps it would have been best to approach him looking anxious, letting her voice crack a little as she began speaking, and then letting the waterworks start as she got to the meat of it. However, as much as she liked to mock Ernesto over his dramatic flair, sometimes she simply couldn’t resist… and the gringo’s face as he opened the door to the room he had elected as his office to see a nun bawling her eyes out was well worth it. Priceless.

If not for the fact it was a literal matter of life or death, Sofía probably wouldn’t have stopped laughing until Día de los Muertos. Instead, she turned the snicker threatening to leave her in yet another sob and grasped Padre Juan’s cassock, faintly wondering if she could get away with blowing her nose in it. Maybe she would, he seemed stunned enough not to question it.

No, not the moment for that. Focus.

“For the love of-- Sister, what in the-- what has happened-- are you hurt…?” the gringo stammered, and immediately moved aside to let her in, a hand on her upper back - a gesture he certainly wouldn’t have even contemplated under normal circumstances. “Here, here. Please, sit. Dry your tears - what is it, Sister?”

Ah, Sofía thought, men. Mexican, gringo, maricón or not, there really were few who wouldn’t immediately feel obliged to do their utmost to comfort a sobbing woman. She’d had some doubts over the gringo, considering how harsh he had been to Fernanda when she had come to his confessional months ago, but it was working now. Maybe being a bride of Christ helped her there, or maybe the hard work Ernesto had put into mellowing him hadn’t gone entirely wasted.

That, and he was finally getting the chance to act like the saviour he thought he was; of course he wouldn’t let it pass by. It wasn’t often people willingly turned to him for confession.

“Gracias, Padre,” she choked out, sitting down and taking the handkerchief he was handing her. She dabbed her eyes as delicately as she could, holding back from noisily blowing her nose and letting her shoulders shake. The gringo hurried to pour her a glass of water from a pitcher.

“Here, drink. Tell me what’s troubling you,” he said, sitting before her.

He looked pale - well, paler - himself, with dark shadows under his eyes. If he hadn’t been such a cabrón, Sofía might have felt bad for him. She drank half the glass in one gulp before she spoke. “I… I need confession, Padre. What I tell you cannot leave this room.”

The gringo’s forehead scrunched up some, and Sofía could very easily imagine the sins he was mentally accusing her of. He was probably right on several accounts, really, but he needed not know that. In the end, he breathed out and nodded, sitting before her, hands folded.

“Of course. Anything you tell me will be under the seal of confession. God hears you, sister.”

Well, it was time. Sofía drew in a shaky breath and straightened her back just a little, mindful to keep her gaze low, fixed on the handkerchief in her hand. It looked expensive but old, with his initials exquisitely embroidered in a corner; she wondered, in the back of her mind, if it was a memento of his life from before being found out, before being disowned.

“Forgive me, Padre, for I have sinned,” she began, her voice trembling. “I have… I have listened in to something I never ought to have and… and I don’t know what to do.” Another sob. “I don’t want anyone to be harmed on my account.”

“No one will come to any harm,” Padre Juan said, his voice soft. “Tell me what has happened.”

“It… it’s about Padre Ernesto,” Sofía said, and she didn’t need to look up to know the gringo had stiffened: the glimpse at his folded hand suddenly clenching was enough of a clue.

She had expected that. What she did not expect were his next words, quiet, cold as ice.

“... Has he harmed you, Sister?”

“What!” Sofía looked up, stunned at the notion he really believed Ernesto could do something so utterly stupid. Juan blinked, taken aback by her sudden exclamation, and she was quick to lower her gaze again, shaking her head. “No, good Lord, no, he-- he never!”

“Ah.” The gringo cleared his throat, rather embarrassed for jumping to the wrong conclusion for seemingly no reason. “Well, that is-- good. It’s good. Then what has happened?” he asked, sounding… just a touch hesitant. It wasn’t hard to guess he now expected her to confess she had fallen in love with the parish priest or something equally saccharine. It took all of Sofía’s willpower not to roll her eyes. Instead, she swallowed.

“I was in the chapel, it was my turn to clean the pews, and… and I was running late, I was not meant to be there at that time-- I heard Padre Ernesto praying. He didn’t hear me coming in and… and I… listened.” She looked up, eyes huge and brimming with tears. His expression was stony now, but it was clearly not her his anger was directed at. “Oh, Padre, he wasn’t quiet - he was shaking, and weeping, and begging for forgiveness.”

Padre Juan stared at her, the stony expression turning into obvious astonishment. She may as well told him she had witnessed Ernesto flying over the parish. “He-- what?”

She sobbed again, covering her face with her hands. “He said-- he said-- oh, Padre, he is not who he says he is. What I heard, I… I think he escaped from the Federal Army.” A pause, just enough for a shake breath, taking note of the fact that Padre Juan was… not speaking just yet. “He's terrified they might find him-- they will kill him, Padre!” Sofía tore her hands off her face with perfect dramatic flair, looking up at him in what she hoped was a look of utter despair.

Padre Juan… stared at her, his expression blank. And then he stared. And stared some more.

… A little unnerving, that. “Padre?”

“Ah,” he finally said, recoiling as though snapped back to reality. He then proceeded to make the poorest attempt at feigning surprise Sofía had ever seen, and she had seen Imelda trying to pretend she was unaware of Héctor’s obvious pining. “Yes, I… my apologies. You just said-- what you said--” he trailed off, a look of alarm on his face. “Did he admit to-- anything else?”

Sofía fought with all her might to keep herself from cocking an eyebrow at him. “No, only that,” she said, her voice a little more dry than it should have been to keep up the Distraught Damsel Act, but he seemed far too relieved to notice the slip. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes. That is. That is indeed. Concerning,” the gringo muttered, his voice rather forced. He wasn’t even trying to go down the ‘you must have misheard’ route. God, he was such an awful liar. “If he indeed is a… an imposter, and a deserter, the appropriate authorities should--”

Sofía gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth in sheer horror. “No! Padre, you said this would be covered by the sacramental seal! The holy secret of confession!”

“I…” Padre Juan opened and closed his mouth for a few moments like a fish out of water, his pale skin suddenly flushing red. Last she’d seen a face like that, the man in question had been trying to pass a kidney stone. “Yes, I… of course… the secret of confession is sacred,” he repeated. Every single word seemed to be causing him pain. Much like kidney stones.

“I heard the things Federales do to deserters, it doesn’t bear to think about!”

“Regardless he-- er-- the Church is not to be mocked, he blasphemed and something ought to--”

“He must be so scared, Padre. Desperate men do desperate things.”

“Of course, but… but…” he stammered, too taken aback by the turn the situation had taken to be his usual sanctimonious self. Sofía had no intention to let him recollect his thoughts.

"I have seen men hang and left to feed the crows for trying to avoid service - we must help him, Padre, por favor, I cannot bear-- the Church cannot stand by and let a man be killed...” a fresh round of tears, hands over her face, but she kept her fingers spaced out just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He looked stunned, frustrated, angered and concerned at the same time.

He knew exactly the position her confession had just left him and oh, he clearly did not like it, but neither would he willingly break something as sacred as the secret of confession. Just as expected. Sofía highly doubted Pope Innocent III was anywhere near innocent and therefore anywhere near Heaven at the moment, but right there and then she could have kissed him with plenty of tongue for enshrining the sacramental seal in canonical law.

In the end, his tense expression melted into a long sigh. He reached over to put a hand on her shoulder. "Cease your crying, Sister. I can tell this has disturbed you greatly, and that you...you care deeply for Fath-- for Ernest."

… Well. That sounded suspiciously like he’d just gotten the wrong idea about her pleas to protect the man she had supposedly believed to be their beloved parish priest up to that afternoon, but if it helped her, so be it. Sofía grasped his free hand with both of hers, looking up with a sniffle. “Please, help him,” she choked out. “He was so distraught.”

His expression hardened one moment in anger, pain, and God knew what else; he clenched his jaw a moment before, finally, his expression turned blank again. “Of course,” he said, his voice a little distant. “I suppose desperation explains such… intense deception.”

And he did deceive you for a good while, Sofía thought. Longer than you’d like. You were in the best position to see all the things that didn’t add up. But you just didn’t expect a Mexican to be that good a priest in the first place, did you? You’d have clocked a gringo imposter much earlier.

“Sí, Padre,” she said instead. “And the way he prayed, oh, he repents. I am certain that if we have mercy, he will repay the Church for what he did.”

Another pause, a clench of his jaw. It was easy to see he didn’t quite buy Ernesto repenting, and yet he seemed to hesitate. “Are you certain he didn’t hear you coming?”

“Sí, Padre. He had no idea I was there.”

A long breath. “I see. We must… keep this a secret for time being, Sister Sophie.”

She ignored the butchering of her name, as always, and nodded fervently. “I will tell no one.”

“... Very well. I will confron-- talk to him, and… figure out the best way forward,” the gringo said, and let out a long breath. “Is there… anything else you wish to confess?”

“No, Padre,” she replied. He nodded, gaze a little unfocused, and gave her absolution, and his blessing. Sofía thanked him time and time again, mentally patting herself on the back; she had a foot already out of the door when he spoke again, suddenly.

“Sister. He has confessed you in these past months, I am sure, as he did many others. Does it not concern you, to know those absolutions were worth nothing?”

Ah. Sofía turned, her expression somber. The gringo was looking back at her, and he looked haunted. It was easy to guess what that was all about - it concerned him, and a great deal. Her next lie wasn’t for her own benefit, not really. It was for his own. “... Not terribly, Padre. I was sincerely regretful, confessed in good faith, and I am certain God knows as much.”

“I see,” John Johnson murmured, thumbing at the golden crucifix at his neck. “You say he prayed for forgiveness and truly repents. In that case, I’ll talk to him and… see for myself.”

Sofía nodded. “Thank you, Padre,” she said, her expression as grateful as she could make it.

The gringo just nodded back, looking away, and closed the door behind her without a word.

***

“And he actually-- believed all of that?”

Héctor hadn’t meant to sound that stunned - he’d seen first hand how good an act Sofía could put on - but it really sounded… a bit of a stretch. Mostly because he couldn’t imagine Ernesto sobbing out of guilt in the chapel of all things.

Sofía shrugged, finishing her glass of wine. “At the very least, he didn’t reject the possibility. Getting him to entirely believe it is up to him now,” she said, and turned to look at Ernesto, who had been quiet throughout her account of the meeting. Almost eerily quiet, really. “And you better not mess up. Remember, you are extremely repentant and prayed for forgiveness, wish you could undo what you did in your desperation to save yourself and all that.”

Ernesto made a face. He was learning back on his chair, arms folded over his chest. “If I throw this sob story on his lap when he asks, he won’t buy it.”

“Then find a way to sell it. I did,” Sofía replied, rolling her eyes. “Where’s Imelda, by the way?”

“Covering up for your duties while you are ‘indisposed’,” Héctor replied. “She figured this would come across more believable if she told everyone that you told her you were not feeling well.”

“Ah, fair point. I was so terribly upset,” Sofía chuckled, and stood. “We’ll, I should retire and rest, then. If he asks, tell the gringo that I told you I was feeling terribly tired and did not come out since afternoon.” She paused a moment, and reached to put a hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. “Look. I think he is willing to hear you out. So please, don’t mess this up. I don’t hate him quite enough to want to move on to plan B and plan out his murder.”

Ernesto looked up at her, let out a long sigh, and nodded. “I won’t mess up,” he muttered, and looked away. “Thank you.”

Héctor turned to follow Sofía with his gaze as she left, then he bit his lower lip and looked back at Ernesto. His gaze was oddly distant, arms still tightly folded. “... You can do this, all right?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well…” a sigh, and Héctor decided to drop the matter. He finished his wine glass and stood. “I guess I’ll go looking for Miguel. He was really mad at me when I saw him, for letting you know that he told me about you. What did you even say to him?”

A grunt. “He caught me in a bad moment, is all.”

“Well, you owe the chamaco an apology.”

“Chingate.”

“That was not a request, Ernesto,” Héctor snapped. “Miguel kept the secret longer than most kids his age would have. He’s eight, por Dios. You can’t blame him for caving in.”

“He wouldn’t have had to if he weren’t the only one with the brains to find me out right away!”

Héctor - who did not know, and would never know, how seriously Ernesto had considered silencing Miguel permanently that day - scoffed. “What, now you’re mad because I didn’t find you out? You shouldn’t be. If we had before we got to know you, I… I’m not sure what we would have done.” His voice grew a little weaker as he finished, because it was true and the thought had kept him awake a couple of nights. It caused Ernesto to fall silent, too, before he sighed.

“... Well. I guess I lucked out, the--”

“Father Ernest.” Father John’s voice caused the both to recoil and turn to see him standing in the doorway, hands tightly clasped together. His voice was firm, and rather chilly. “A word, if you please,” he spoke again before either could respond, and then he was walking off again, clearly expecting Ernesto to follow. And, with a long breath, he did, leaving Héctor to anxiously wait.

After all, as he’d put it earlier, what choice did he have?

***

“Sit.”

It was an order, delivered in a rather cold tone, but at least this time around he wasn’t screaming or sobbing. Ernesto found it easier to deal with, however little he liked being ordered around. He did sit, and heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Until not too long ago, having a locked door between them and the rest of the world meant Ernesto was about to enjoy what was to come. He suspected it wouldn’t be the case now, unless Juan had changed his mind rather dramatically, which he doubted.

He was dashingly handsome, but not that dashingly handsome.

“I gave you a chance to leave with your life.” Juan spoke up, and went to sit behind the desk. He looked at him, hands folded and eyes narrowed, remarkably in control. It made Ernesto nervous, but at the same time it was a relief. He had no wish to see him as shattered as he’d been. “You claim you’ll hang if the army gets to you, and yet you did not take that chance.”

“There is no place in Mexico that is safe,” Ernesto spoke, his voice just as firm. “I’m done for the moment you speak.”

A long silence as Juan kept staring at him, expression unreadable. “... Do you repent at all?”

Well, that was it. What Ernesto had told Sofía was true - there was no way he could immediately throw a sob story at him and expect to be believable, because Juan knew him far better than he knew her - so he had to be careful with his reaction. He paused a moment, and then turned away. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

“Even if it meant you’d soil me.” The hurt in Juan’s voice was plain, and it struck a chord Ernesto didn’t even know was there. He clenched his jaw a moment before he spoke again.

“I hadn’t-- thought it would get so far,” he muttered. “All I knew was that I couldn’t let them find me. If you left Santa Cecilia, and mentioned me to anyone who’d know the name of the priest who was supposed--”

“That’s your justification, then. You were afraid of death.”

“What sane man isn’t?”

A long breath. “Answer my question. Do you repent, Ernest?”

“Not leaving the army, never,” Ernesto crossed his arms, forgetting he was supposed to act. But, up to that moment, he did mean every word. “I couldn’t spend one more night in the barracks, or march one more day under the sun, gun down one more civilian or risk my neck for Huerta, or--”

The firing squad. The hangings. The wailing. The battles and the bullets and the death, it all came back at night and we tried not to think, me and the others, and in the dark a body is a body and we only wanted to feel alive again.

Ernesto’s voice died in his throat. The pause that followed was not planned, nor the breath he forced in and out of his lungs, or the words he managed to choke out afterwards. “I only ever wanted to be a musician.”

Another silent, long look. Juan’s expression showed nothing; if not for the dark shadows under his eyes, he’d have looked everything like the insufferable gringo who’s first walked in the parish to immediately criticize everything he did or said. “It has come to my attention that you’ve been praying in the chapel.”

Ernesto looked away. “And…?”

“Praying for forgiveness. Expressing remorse.”

“Nonsense,” Ernesto snapped, both because it was and because it was the only believable answer. “I don’t regret leaving the army, or taking advantage of some gullible parishioners. I--”

“You were seen and heard.”

Now.

Ernesto reared back as if slapped, letting his jaw go slack as though in shock. It was a reaction the gringo had been expecting, clearly, because he could see some of the hardness in his gaze fading. If he’d suspected Sofía’s confession had not been entirely truthful, that ought to have taken care of it. “What--” Ernesto stammered, his bravado gone. “Who…?”

“It is not for you to know.” Juan leaned forward, just a little, eyes searching Ernesto’s. “If not leaving the army, if not deceiving the Church and these people, what is it you regret?”

“I…” Words died in Ernesto’s throat, and it was not an act. Suddenly, holding Juan’s gaze was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. Something was there that hadn’t been before, an odd sort of hope that could be snuffed out with mere words. Words Ernesto couldn’t utter either way, because his tongue felt heavy as lead in his mouth. He lowered his gaze, saying nothing.

“... Ernest. I am owed an answer. I am no longer pure on your account, a sinner, unworthy of the cloth I wear. I chose this path in hope to redeem myself, to…” his voice faltered. “To perhaps be worthy of seeing my family again, and you took it from me. Everything I toiled and hoped for may be nothing but ashes now, and--”

“Lo siento,” Ernesto blurted out, and Juan fell silent. Gaze lowered, a weight on his chest-- “No choice! How did you have no choice but to defile me! You ruined me!” -- Ernesto did not look up to see his expression. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then a long sigh, and the sound of a chair being pushed back on wooden boards, followed by steps. He dared look up to see John walking up to the window, giving him his back.

Ernesto opened his mouth to speak, unsure of what he’d even say, but the gringo spoke first. “God has spoken to me,” he declared. Ernesto closed his mouth.

Oh, por Dios. He’s lost it.

“If you were a test put before me, I have failed - but I see now that in His mercy, the Lord is giving me a second chance. I will be an instrument of His will, redeem myself not by being the one to throw the first stone - but by being the shepherd who brings the lost sheep back to the flock.” He turned, reaching up to thumb at the golden crucifix at his neck. “As my mentor did for me when I arrived at his parish as a runaway. I was lost, too, and I was found.”

“Huh,” Ernesto muttered. Not his cleverest ever retort, but-- what else was he meant to say? He wasn’t sure what turn he had expected that conversation to take, but that was not it.

“Now. Of course, it is regrettable that the good people of Santa Cecilia are to be deceived any longer than they already have been, but given the situation, I am certain God will be forgiving. It goes without saying that I am to take on the most important duties,” Juan continued. “Sunday Mass, confessions, blessings and such. It is paramount that a real priest performs them.”

Ernesto suspected the parishioners would be less than thrilled by the change, but he knew he had no grounds to argue. “I-- of course. But what am I supposed to do--”

“... And of course, it is also paramount that you spread the true word of God for however long this has to keep up,” Juan cut him off, and dropped something on the table - an old, heavy-looking Bible. Where had he been keeping-- no, wait. He didn’t want to know. “You will study the scriptures, and better yourself through them. We shall be both redeemed.”

“It’s… in Latin,” Ernesto said, looking up. The gringo gave him the slightly manic smile that could only possibly be seen on the face of a missionary with… well. With a mission.

“You’ll learn, Ernest,” he said, and Ernesto suddenly wished he had, after all, taken the chance to run off when he could.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

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whattimeisitintokyo · 4 years

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Somos Familia: Ch 42: In My Arms Again

Chapter 42: In My Arms Again

“I don’t know if this is going to work…”

“C’mon. They’re smelling salts, aren’t they?”

“Sí, but I’ve only used them on dead people! Señor Rivera is not dead!”

“Well, he’s not quite alive either.”

Héctor heard the voices as he slowly clawed himself into awareness, a pounding pain on the back of his head convincing him that he was truly awake now. But at the mention of ‘dead people’ he forced his eyes to remain shut and kept his face slack. No no. This is a dream. I was asleep, probably hit my head or something, and this whole deal with skeletons has been a dream. Maybe even the entire day. The party probably never happened, nor that accursed contest. His fight with his family. His youngest son’s terror. Yes! This had been just a terrible nightmare, and if he’d just keep his eyes closed and drift back to sleep he would wake up and the terrible day would be a bad dream swiftly forgotten.

“This is a mixture of brimstone, the memories of a thousand cooked chiles, and cempazuchitl flowers. Very supernatural. I just don’t think-”

“It stinks! Stink will wake him up. Just do it!”

“Alright, alright! I just don’t think it will be good for him.”

All thoughts of staying asleep were abruptly ripped away when something small was placed under his nose and the foulest smelling and burning scent he had ever smelled propelled him off of the ground into heaving coughs. Eyes watering and lungs going crazy, Héctor could see that Gaspar and Mirasol were still with him -Great…- as well as a new skeleton who was staring at a small little canister in his bony hand with wonderment.

“Well what do you know?” he said as he smiled down at the smelling salts. “It works the same way as it does on skeletons. Good to know if this ever happens again.”

“Told you.” Gaspar grumbled.

Mirasol knelt to the ground to help keep Héctor upright, as well as fanning fresh air into his face as he slowly came down from his coughing fit. “There there, you’re alright. Just take deep breaths.” Making sure Héctor was starting to breathe normally, she turned towards the other skeleton with a smile. “Gracias, Dr. Rosales.”

“Oh no problemo!” The doctor said cheerfully as he put the salts back into his pocket. “It’s always handy to carry this around, especially when skeletons collapse into a heap of bones on the street. Plus not only is this a fascinating case of a human stuck between worlds, but Señor Rivera and I go way back! Well, at least Matty and I do. Right Señor?”

At the mention of his son’s name, Héctor stopped panting and stared at the new skeleton. Matty? Rosales? As he put two and two together Héctor managed to take in the skeleton’s features. He was much wider that Gaspar and Mirasol, enough that Héctor could easily assume that he would be considered fat. How on Earth could a skeleton be fat? Not only that but past the orange starbursts dotting his cheeks and brows were the familiar cocked eye ridges and the wide, goofy smile. Recognition was instantaneous.

“Barto?!”

“Hola, Señor Rivera!” Barto smiled cheerfully and waved. “It’s been a while!”

Barto’s overly loud voice sent a small spike of pain through Héctor’s brain. Shaking his head and rubbing the back of it with a wince, Héctor groaned weakly. “Ay… What hit me?”

“The guitar.” Mirasol explained. “As soon as you threw it came flying back to you like a boomerang. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a little funny.” She patted the guitar which, to Héctor’s chagrin, was still in his grip. “I think you’d better keep this on you for your health, mijo.”

Staring at the guitar still clinging to his hand like an ugly wart, Héctor sighed in disgust and nodded. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“Alright Barto,” Gaspar stood with his hands on his hipbones and stared at the portly skeleton. “What do I owe you for this?”

“You wound me, Gaspar.” Barto chuckled as he heaved himself off the ground with some effort. “Like I said, as a doctor I am fascinated by what has transpired here tonight. I am willing to make this a pro-bono case… Heh, get it? Pro-bone-o?”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Okay okay, maybe I could have some of your wife’s famous candied pumpkins, some calabacitas, and you buy the first few rounds at the cantina. Oh, and a request!” Pulling a folded-up piece of paper out his pocket he handed it to Gaspar. “Abuela wants some mamey if you have any.”

Snatching the paper away from him, Gaspar nodded. “The trees should be bearing fruit soon, tell her to wait a few weeks. Always a pleasure doctor.”

“Why do they keep calling you doctor?” Héctor asked, having made it to his feet to stand next to Barto. “You’re not a doctor. You were a bosun on an oil tanker.”

All of a sudden there was a reaction from all three skeletons. Gaspar groaned and rolled his eyes while Mirasol tried to hide her smile behind her husband’s shoulder. Barto, for his part, gave a prim little grin and hummed a smug laughed. “Ah, what a tale that is, Señor. One that I’m always glad to share.”

Seeing his in-laws reaction, Héctor realized he might have made a mistake. “Oh, I don’t really need to kn-”

“As you are well aware my boat was bombed by the Germans, apparently because they confused us for Italian vessels. I admit our flags are similar, but at times of war they should have been much more observant and less like the bunch pinche idiotas that they were.” Barto spat out nothing to the ground, but the intent was still there. “Well anyway, my death was extremely traumatic for me and for a while I was a mess. Panic attacks, jumping at loud noises, collapsing into a pile of bones and sobs in the street. Sound familiar, Señor Rivera?”

Héctor bristled at that comment, but held down his ire while Barto continued. “I was suggested to go get counseling at the Department of Traumatic Deaths, and while it helped with my own personal feelings I also helped others deal with theirs during group sessions. And lo, I discovered my true hidden talents after death! That and there was no need for oilmen in the Land of the Dead.”

“With your family’s generous offerings for me on the ofrenda I was able to afford to go to school, and since skeletons can go for weeks without sleep I was able to finish my studies and residency in no time! So here you see what the limitations of life had shackled before and had been released with death: Dr Bartolomeo Rosales, Psy.D, Ph.D, MA. Impressive list of titles, huh?”

Héctor’s brows furrowed at that, a sinking feeling in his gut. “So you’re… a shrink?”

“Oye!” Barto rightfully looked offended and crossed his arms defensively. “I know I said I didn’t need to sleep, but I didn’t spend eight years slaving over books and writing two dissertations on war-related deaths to be called a ‘shrink’. I am a professional, señor, and you should thank your son for it. He helped me be a better person than what I was as a child, and I helped him when he was so depressed he couldn’t get out of bed. Come to think of it I was practically born to be a therapist after dealing with Matty.”

“Get out of bed?” Héctor asked. Suddenly he had flashed back to times when Matty would hole himself into his room, but he had always presented himself as just a surly teen who wanted to be left alone. But to the point where he couldn’t even move? “I… didn’t know it was that bad. No wonder he’s getting help now.”

“Really, he is? That’s fanatastico!” Barto smiled. “’Bout time too, he was always so pig-headed when it came to change. A bit like you, eh? I’ve been watching you over the past few years myself, and I couldn’t help noticing some tics and behaviors that seem familiar with Matt-”

“No no, stop that right now.” Héctor said as he held up a hand in front of Barto’s skull. “Dios mio, you two are still thick as thieves even after you went and died. I’ll tell you exactly what I told Mateo: I do not have shellshock and I do not need a shrink. Comprende?”

Again Barto flinched a little at the slight on his profession again as well as quirked a brow ridge to display his disbelieve to Héctor’s claims, but with a click of his mandible he smiled good-naturedly and shrugged. “Well I can’t really diagnose anyone on the spot nor without their consent, so I’ll let the matter drop. It doesn’t seem you have a lot of time to sit around anyway, what with the… weirdness of your situation. However…” Reaching into his pocket again he pulled out a much crisper white card and handed it to Héctor. “when you do die and have suffered, or know anyone else who may have suffered, a traumatic death then please… refer to me by name. My card, señor.”

Héctor took the card and looked at it for a few seconds. Barto’s dopey face was next to his name as well as some contact information that made no sense to him at all, and when he looked back up Barto was wearing the exact same expression. Glancing between him, then Gaspar and Mirasol, Héctor started to chuckle bitterly. Shoving the card back to Barto, Héctor started to pace as his laughing turned a little darker. Then, just as the three skeletons were starting to question his already fragile grip on his sanity, he turned towards them with a glare.

“This isn’t fair.”

------

As Barto and her father talked, Leti hid behind a tombstone.

This whole night was a mess. She was there to enjoy the holiday as well as her little brother’s birthday, not witness the horrendous train wreck that had taken place. After Papá had gone off on Matty and he had to leave in distress, Leti couldn’t take it anymore and she plus Barto followed after him and her sister-in-law. Wanda had comforted him enough to where Matty finally was able to speak without breaking down, and he agreed with her that they would take Charlie and Clara back to the house, pack, and leave as soon as possible.

As everyone slowly trickled in back to the museum, all calming their children and getting them cleaned up to be ready to go, Mamá had come in as well. Her eyes red rimmed and puffy, she was still calm as she explained that Papá had gone off on his own to find Miguel.

No sooner had she said that then the sound of struggles and screams alerted everyone to the gate.

Leti and Barto’s jaws dropped as they watched the old gravedigger and his grandson struggle in earnest as they dragged Miguel in by his arms. Miguel looked almost mad with terror, tears streaming down his face, not even calming down as Mamá held him close and tried to keep him still.

When he finally got his words, the only thing that Miguel was able to say was that Papá was gone. Exploded into a cloud of golden cempazuchitl flowers and vanished without a trace.

As the living family tried to explain to him that was impossible, there was no way that could happen, Leti and Barto slowly stared at each other in shock. Something like that, on a night like this where the dead walked onto a magic flower bridge to the land of the living to sing and dance and eat with their living families seemed… not that far-fetched. But how did it happen? And why?

Before they could gather their thoughts on the matter Abuelito had come to fetch Barto. He had said that Papá was with Abuelita, something did happen to him and now he was seemingly trapped between two worlds. And that he was unconscious because of a flying guitar.

Every bone in her body tensed up at what her grandfather had said. Papá… was able to see the dead? To see her?! After over twenty years of only having one-sided conversations with her father, aside from that brief stint in Limbo which only she remembered, she was finally going to be able to talk to him! Before she even had a chance to be excited and joyous at the thought Abuelito had then asked Barto if it was a good idea to bring her along, since Papá had seemed so mentally unstable about the whole thing. Barto had taken a good hard look at her for a moment, then with an apologetic shrug and a wince had said:

“Sorry Leti. Maybe you should hang back for a while until I can tell if it’s wise for you to come.”

The very idea of it had shocked Leti out of all her happiness and left her mind blank for a moment. It was stupid, really, how she had numbly nodded in agreement and watched the two of them go off to see her Papá. That’s right! Her Papá! Now that she thought more and more about it, it didn’t seem right to her! Not right at all!

Bitterly she left the museum as the living family tried to calm Miguel down, and she found herself walking by herself down the streets of Santa Cecilia. Other skeletons had paused to greet her as she passed, but she was too angry to even acknowledge them and left confused souls in her wake. Kicking up an odd pebble or two, or tried to at least as she phased through them, Leti mumbled to herself with her hands shoved into her dress pockets.

“’I’m an expert of trauma’.” Leti mocked out Barto’s doofy voice as she tried to kick another stone. “’My own death was traumatic after all’. Please! You died taking while taking a leak off the side of a boat. You should ask me about traumatic deaths. Ha!...” Leti stopped then and looked to the ground sadly. “Well, the events leading up to my death were traumatic. But death for me was… peaceful.”

Yes, peaceful. She remembered warmth, surrounded by her family as they kissed her and cried for her. Sang to her. Yes, her death was a release from her painful, traitorous body. But it had apparently torn something up in her family that had never really healed. And Tio Nesto’s death had personally damaged Papá’s heart forever. But why? She’d understand that he’d be heartbroken, but hating him? Never wanting to speak about him or honor him? Something didn’t add up.

A sudden ‘yip!’ in the air startled Leti and she would have ended up exploded all over the streets if she hadn’t lurched away in time. Dante skidded on his rump past her then scrambled to make his way back to her. Grabbing the hem of her dress, he urgently tugged her in the other direction with force enough to nearly knock her skull off.

“Whoa, hey!” Leti reached down and placed her hands on either side of his face, which gave him the opportunity to lap at each of her cheekbones. “Ugh, basta! Ha ha! What do you want, perro loco? Why are trying to drag me to the cem-… etary…? Oye, are you trying to take me to see Papá?”

If possible Dante’s smile grew wider and his tail thumped rapidly against the cobblestones.

“Hmm… Well Barto and Abuelito told me to wait… But you know me, I hate waiting! Let’s go!”

And so thanks to Dante’s insistence that she should go, not that she needed that big of a push to begin with, she was in the cemetery watching her Papá grow increasingly angry with his situation. She clutched at her humeri until her knuckles began to creak, biting her lower bony lip as her heart ached for her to go to him. But now that she was here she found herself afraid. Papá had been so mad tonight, madder than she had ever seen. She didn’t want to add to that. Or rather, she didn’t want that anger directed at her. Despite Dante nudging her with his nose with some soft whines to move forward, she held her position.

Maybe Barto was right. She would send him over the edge. Her death had torn a hole into the hearts of everyone who knew her, and every once in a while she was afraid that they hated her for it. Despite her grandparents reassurances that fear still remained after all these years.

Yet seeing her Papá standing right there, glowing gold and talking to her grandparents and Barto? Knowing she could do the same but couldn’t bear the thought of him yelling at her too? It was heartbreaking. And anger-inducing. It just wasn’t-

“This isn’t fair.”

Leti blinked and peeked back over the tombstone, where Papá was still glaring at the other three. But he didn’t look as angry as before. Now he just looked…tired. And sad. Still waffling on whether she should make her presence known to him or not, he continued to speak.

“This just isn’t fair.” Papá said again, glancing down at the guitar held loosely in his hand. “I didn’t ask for this. Nobody would have asked for this. I just wanted to celebrate my son’s birthday in peace. Instead I’ve been betrayed by my whole family and then whatever this is has happened to me. Now I’m being coerced to go to a land full of literal dead people, despite not being dead myself, and the only ones to greet me are my son’s dead friend and two people I have never met before in my life. Believe me, if I were to meet anyone who was dead, it wouldn’t be any of you, but…”

Leti’s heart broke as she saw her Papá’s face twist up in terrible pain for a split second before he was able to control himself with a slight sniff. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway…”

That did it. She needed no other push. Her Papá wanted to see her, not her grandparents. Not Barto. Her. Any concerns she had about exposing her location to him were gone, and she frantically jumped away from her hiding spot.

“N-no, I’m here too!” she cried out, flinching back when all eyes turned to her. “I’m h-… here…”

Héctor just glared at her, recognition not immediately coming to him but just annoyed that another skeleton was coming to annoy him to, but softened it when he realized it was a child. Barto and Abuelito both sucked in sharp breaths and grimaced, waiting to see what kind of fallout would happen next. Abuelita, however, just smiled warmly at her and nodded her approvement. It was high time to put a stop to this nonsense, and only Leti was able to do it.

“Oh, uh… Lo siento, that was too loud. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Leti said more quietly as she slowly took baby steps to her father. “I mean, I can tell you’re already scared, and I’m a little scared too. I d-don’t know why you’re here, but I know it can’t be good, and yet…” Leti gave a trembling smile as she made her way even closer. “And yet I’m so glad to see you. And that you can see me. I m-missed you so much.”

Leti was emboldened further when Héctor had immediately stopped glaring at her as she continued to speak, but now he was just staring at her, transfixed. His mouth had dropped open slightly, his eyes slowly widening and starting to shine, and it looked like he wasn’t breathing. Beneath the orange glow she could see his face had paled considerably and his hands had dropped from his hips. Tio Nesto’s guitar fell from his slacked grip to the ground with a soft thunk, and her grandparents looked at its position with astonishment and confusion. Something must have happened with it when she wasn’t there. But she’d ask later, for now she was only focused on getting him to speak to her.

“Please say something,” she asked as a tremble started to waver her voice. “Please… Papá.”

He didn’t want to believe it, hated himself for it, but he had forgotten what her voice sounded like. Oh he remembered it having an adorable lilt and how fast she could talk when excited, but he hadn’t remembered exactly how sweet it sounded. Like a little song.

When the little girl first appeared he didn’t know who she was supposed to be at first. Then the little quirks started to pop up and everything fell into place. The way she rocked back in forth and fiddled with her fingertips when she was nervous, biting her lower lip between sentences. And those clothes, he recognized those clothes. She had been buried with them. And those big brown eyes with a distinct spectrum that made them look almost magenta in the right light. Those were how his eyes looked too.

An unbearable pain was starting to well up in his chest as she kept talking and moving towards him while the rest of him became fully numb, his face getting incredibly hot and his vision getting blurry. And just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, she called him Papá.

He fell down hard onto his knees. It would have hurt if he’d been aware, what with having fifty-year-old knees, but he felt nothing except the incredibly mixture of sadness, pain and hope. Finally he managed to find his voice, albeit a hoarse croak, to painfully force out one word.

“…Leticia…”

“PAPÁ!”

Leti practically pounced on him. Wrapping her thin arms around him tightly while he kept his own off of her in shock, completely unprepared for the hug. She babbled of steady stream of how much she missed him, how much she loved him, how much she had to tell him about what she’d done and how she’d been. Héctor just knelt there, unsure of what to do or what to say. This had to be a dream. There was no way his daughter, who had been dead for the last twenty years, was now clinging to him as a skeleton.

Then the smell hit him.

It had faded much too quickly from her bedsheets, her toys and everything else that was hers, but as soon as he inhaled her scent it was like his brain and his heart were both sucker-punched at once. Fresh strawberries, lilac shampoo, and despite not having any skin she still smelled like the pure essence of Leti. That was what finally broke him. As soon as the smell flooded his lungs and the memories came bubbling up, Héctor let out a hoarse scream.

Leti looked up, startled by her father’s scream, but then Héctor slammed her head back to his chest and cradled her so tightly that her bones bent and creaked. But she didn’t care. Héctor’s scream had turned into violent sobs as he held her as close to him as he could, with Leti hugging him just as fiercely and crying along with him.

Gaspar and Mirasol held each other as they looked at father and daughter reunite, both smiling while trying not to cry themselves. Barto wasn’t so in control, as he sniffled and wiped at phantom tears while turning to look at them. “Well, even professionals can be wrong, eh? Looks like this is just what he needed.”

Héctor’s sobs died down to gentle weeping as he rocked Leti close to him, leaning his cheek on the crown of her head and burying his nose in her hair. Leti petted him and soothed him, assuring him that she was alright and that he shouldn’t be so sad. It was still sad, but Héctor just couldn’t contain his pure joy and relief. His daughter was long dead, and yet here she was cradled in his arms again. And she still fit perfectly in his embrace.

“My baby…” he whimpered softly, and that seemed to set off a fresh stream of tears down his already puffy face. “My baby…”

“I’m here Papá. Please don’t cry anymore.” she said, even though she had just moments ago been crying herself.

“Oh, let me look at you.” Héctor finally pulled her up to look him in the eye, and cupped her cheekbones to trail his thumbs over her golden streaks. “I can’t believe it. The last time I held you… You were so frail and cold. And so thin.”

“… I’m pretty sure I’m thinner now than I was then.”

At that Héctor laughed through his tears, then started to kiss her all over her face until she too started to giggle. “Skin or no skin, you’ll always be my gordita.”

“Papá stop! You’re embarrassing me!”

“Never.” Héctor whispered, pulling her into another tight hug. “I’ll never stop. I’ll hold you for as long as I can. I love you too much to stop. Mija…”

He would have done just that if anyone would have let him, and for a while they did. A few minutes of hugging, gentle words, kisses that he lost count of and hugging again. Just when he was finally starting to relax a gentle hand touched him on the shoulder.

“Héctor…” Mirasol said. “We need to get you to the Department of Family Reunions before it’s too late. It’s already almost ten o’clock, and we’re here for only one night. They might be able to help you.”

“But…” Héctor whispered, suddenly afraid again. “I don’t… I’m not dead. I-I…” A short tug on his lapel made him glance down at Leti again, and he melted to see her smiling up at him.

“Don’t worry Papá. I’ll be right with you. You trust me, right?”

Without hesitation he nodded, and so he let Leti pull him up from the ground and put her little hand into his. He wrapped his fingers around it and gave it a squeeze, just like he always did when she was little and with all of his children. Just then he felt something solid come into his other hand and looked down to see the guitar back in his grasp once more. It was then that he dumbly realized that he had been holding Leti with both hands just a while ago. It had given up on it’s annoying clinginess, at least for a little bit, to let him properly hold his daughter.

“I guess even it could tell that you two needed a moment.” Mirasol said with a chuckle, and Héctor couldn’t help but nod at that.

“Well I’ll let you four go on.” Barto said after composing himself and trying to look professional again. “This looks like a family matter after all, and I still have to go collect all of my ofrenda offerings. I’ll get yours as well while you deal with this. Oh and Señor Rivera?”

“Sí?”

“Oh, no! I meant. Uh, living Señor Rivera. Could you…” Barto ducked his head for a moment, then smiled sadly. “If you talk to Matty again, could you tell him… that I’m okay? Great, even? I know my death was hard on him, but I just want him to know that I’m alright.”

Héctor’s chest ached at that. Things had ended badly for him and Matty that night, enough that even his wife was beginning to cut him off from their lives, because of his caustic words that he hadn’t mean to say. He’d doubt Matty would want to hear anything from him again, much less about his dead friend who had magically came back to the living world tonight, but he found himself nodding. “I will.”

Barto smiled happily. “Great, gracias Señor Rivera. Good luck, and don’t trip on the bridge!”

There was that bridge again. Why was everyone talking about a bridge? As Gaspar and Mirasol walked ahead, Héctor and Leti followed close by hand in hand. Héctor couldn’t stop gazing at his baby girl, forever stuck in youth yet with a wisdom in her eyes that only came from adulthood. He never thought a skeleton would be considered cute, but he was proud to say that his daughter was the cutest little skeleton in the whole world. Leti caught him staring at her and giggled, before pointing ahead to divert his attention. And so he did, and…

Ohhh… That’s the bridge.

It was enormous. The high walls of the cemetery had faded away enough to let a huge orange bridge come through from nothingness, disappearing into clouds of blue and purple fog. The fuzzy texture of the thing at a distance confused Héctor until he came closer to it, and was amazed to see that it was not made of stone nor wood. It was made of flower petals. The lovely, sweet scent of cempazuchitl flowers beckoned him closer to it and he could feel a pleasant warmth that the glowing bridge gave off. Other skeletons were coming and going on the bridge, passing through an invisible barrier that either gave them that golden glow or erased it all together. As Héctor passed through it his own glow was gone, and he was relieved to see that he was solid again.

“Back to normal, eh?” Leti asked.

“Well… normal as I can be, I guess.”

They continued on across the bridge, some of the newer skeletons stopping to stare as a full flesh and blood man was walking on the same path they were. Héctor weakly smiled and waved at them, but found he was growing increasingly embarrassed at all the attention being turned on him. And it irked him that they knew who he was, apparently all of the deceased hailing from Santa Cecilia. Luckily, Gaspar was able to shoo away the more annoying onlookers so that they could continue on in peace.

Suddenly a dark shape darted from underneath Héctor and he was forced down onto his knees again. It was a good thing the ground was nice and soft so that the impact didn’t hurt, or else he would have had a few choice words to give Dante. Leti laughed and pulled him up again while the dumb dog rolled around in ecstasy in the golden petals, sneezing out a few from his nose.

“Barto warned you not to trip on the bridge, didn’t he?”

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault. It was… all…”

Héctor trailed off as finally the smoke and fog cleared away to reveal what they had been walking towards this whole time. It was a city, but a city unlike anything Héctor had ever seen before. There were dozens and dozens of skyscrapers. Wait, no. Towers. There were towers of buildings stacked on top of each other in so many ways that the laws of physics would never allow to happen in the real world. Each jutted out at different angles and then those buildings had additions added on to them, construction equipment constantly on the move to make even more additions to that! Wires, stairs and more bridges connect these towers to each other, and Héctor could even see trolleys sailing high and low in ever different direction.

And the colors! Oh, it was the most beautiful array of colors he had ever seen in a landscape! Purples, blues, pinks and golds melded perfectly together as a millions of lights blinked and twinkled out of streetlamps and windows. And, if Héctor stopped long enough to count, he could see several skull motifs hidden amongst the architecture.

Leti smiled as she watched her father marvel at the city before them. “Isn’t it the prettiest, most beautiful place you’ve ever seen before in your life, Papá?”

It was… It really was

Héctor swallowed thickly and managed to tear his gaze away from the beauty and looked down at his daughter. “You’ve… you’ve been here this whole time?”

“Of course, tonto! Where else would I have been?”

On his more bad days, he was ashamed to admit, Héctor believed that his beautiful baby girls was no where else but in the Santa Cecilia cemetery. Buried beneath a thick stone slab and rotting away into nothingness. Everything about her gone forever. On his better days Héctor was sure that Leti could be nowhere else but in Heaven, watching over all of them and guiding them throughout their lives. But Mirasol had said they were only on Earth one day out of the year, so he supposed that wasn’t the case either.

Still, seeing the ethereal beauty before him, Héctor was sure that this was as damn near close to Heaven as he could imagine.

“This place suits you, mija.” He whispered and hugged her close to him as they continued on.

Finally they had reached the end of the bridge and made their way to what looked like a gate for a train station. Skeletons coming in with huge amounts of food and other gifts in their arms, sacks and buggies. Skeletons going out after passing through some weird ticket taker machine that made dinging noises instead of giving out tickets. For now it seemed they were finally being left alone, and as the four of them got in line for re-entry, Héctor looked back behind him.

The golden flower bridge stood there, fading into the nothingness where his home, his family, and the Land of the Living were sure to be. Héctor was amazed. He was here, in the Land of the Dead with his daughter by his side, and all it took was a simple stroll across a bridge.

“Well…” Héctor said to himself. “… that was easy.”

#coco fanfiction #coco pixar #pixar coco #Hector Rivera

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firefeufuego · 4 years

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allegrezza: chapter two

Inspired by the prompt ‘Media Adaption’ for RebelCaptain Appreciation Week, I thought I’d bang out another chapter of the coda to my Mozart in the Jungle crossover. Enjoy!

‘Tepoztlán’, the voice of the driver carries down the bus as it comes to a stop and Jyn stands and reaches for her bag before stepping off into Cassian’s hometown. It’s a bit odd to be here without him, but the orchestra’s delayed flight out of Rio left her with an extra day in her little surprise trip to Mexico and there’s something here she wants to do alone.

Tapping in her destination on her phone, she sets off through the streets of the picturesque town, nestled in a valley between the soaring cliff sides of lushly forested mountains. Jyn’s less interested in the landscapes and architecture than the people though, because everywhere she looks, she sees a younger Cassian — in the two boys kicking a football back and forth that could be him and Rodrigo, or the babbling toddler sitting on his father’s shoulders.

There’s a bittersweet heaviness to those fond invented memories that mirrors the ache she feels when she thinks of her own childhood, those early years of happiness making the subsequent loss cut all the deeper.

Still, better than to have never been happy at all, as Cassian would say if he were here. She misses him, even more than she has done for the past month that they’ve both been touring.

She’s supposed to be in Belgium now before setting off for the last leg of the tour in Germany, but the thought of not being there when Cassian played his first professional concert in Mexico (a concert that he and Rodrigo had been stressing each other out over for months) was unacceptable. Or so she’d thought after a bottle of wine in her empty hotel room before shelling out more money than she’d rather think about for last minute flights.

Her phone buzzes in her hand, telling her she’s reached her destination. There’s a stand selling flowers near the entrance and she buys the two most expensive bouquets, feeling strangely nervous about first impressions even though the people she’s buying them for could literally not care less.

After a few minutes scanning the rows of stones, she finds them.

Jeron Andor Lopez and Charlotte McMillan share a simple headstone, engraved with a short message about Cassian and — Jyn notes with a smile — a few of the best bars of the Brahms sonata.

Laying down the flowers, she gets the water bottle and a packet of tissues out of her bag and sets about cleaning the dirt and dust off of the stone, which looks as if it had gone unvisited in some time. She knows Cassian is never able to visit as often as he wants to and he has no other living family in Mexico, which is why he had to move to the US to live with his mother’s dour brother after the accident.

Once she’s done scrubbing, she drinks the rest of the water and sits beside the newly gleaming granite, looking around to check that she’s alone before clearing her throat awkwardly. ‘Hello. My name is Jyn Erso and I’m in love with your son.’ She pauses for a minute, tracing Cassian’s name. ‘You would be so proud of him, he’s just— he’s the best person. I feel like I should thank you both, for, you know, making him. I’m, um, I’m going to ask him to marry me soon, actually, which is kind of why I’m here. I think that if you knew me, and how I hurt him, you probably wouldn’t trust me with him. There are days when I don’t really trust myself with him. But I promise, on every grave in this place, that I will spend every day of the rest of my life trying to make him happy. And if I don’t, you can feel free to strike me down with whatever powers you have at your disposal.’

There’s no sudden burst of sun or gust of wind that she might imagine into a response, but the sense of duty that brought her here still feels satisfied. She feels the weight of responsibility of making that promise to the only other people who loved Cassian as much as her, but it feels grounding — more like an anchor than a burden.

After another few minutes of thoughtful silence, Jyn murmurs a goodbye and starts toward the second place she’d come here to see.

Maestro Rivera’s music conservatory is a gorgeous old building, bustling with young students lugging around instrument cases that are still just a bit big for them. There’s a particular kind of cacophony that only comes from music schools and makes her miss Yavin fiercely.

More than a few of the students recognise her and excitedly ask for selfies and after a few minutes of increasingly awkward smiling and being maneuvered within various configurations of friendship groups, she asks them where she can find the maestro. Two of them immediately appoint themselves as her guides, eagerly pointing out various ensemble rooms and places of interest, including a bin where the great Rodrigo de Sousa apparently set all the school’s Tchaikovsky scores on fire in a fit of adolescent pique. With the benefit of years of living with Cassian, Jyn just manages to keep up with their slowed-down Spanish, though she keeps her responses to a minimum to avoid having to use her apparently comical accent.

About a month after that first recital at Yavin, Jyn — feeling outgunned in the romance stakes after Cassian had so tenderly nursed her back to health then treated her to a series of increasingly lovely dates — tried to tell him how she felt in Spanish, practising in the mirror more times than she was willing to admit until the words felt comfortable in her mouth.

Once she’d said them, Cassian’s expression was almost entirely charmed, but she still caught the laugh he’d quickly suppressed.

Flustered and a little dismayed, she asked, ‘How did I not get it right? I looked it up in a proper dictionary and everything.’

Quickly wrapping her in his arms, he explained between kisses that he’d just never heard such strongly Danish-accented Spanish before. ‘I think your brain just defaulted to the foreign accent it already knew.’

Somewhat mollified, Jyn nevertheless looked up the hardest words she knew in Danish and made Cassian pronounce them, which he did with exaggerated incompetence.

Then of course, because he really was impossible to compete with as a romantic, he took her face in his hands and said, his voice hushed and reverent, ‘I’m falling in love with you too.’

She shivers now as she did then, but her reverie is soon interrupted by their arrival at Maestro Rivera’s room.

The man who opens the door looks like some kind of vengeful Old Testament deity, all stern brow and long, white beard. No wonder Cassian and Rodrigo are as good as they are, if this is who was telling them to practise. His face soon brightens as he takes her in though. ‘Ms Erso, what a pleasure.’ He takes her hand and presses it to his lips. ‘How you have grown since the last time I saw you.’

Jyn opens her mouth in surprise, brow furrowing. ‘When—’

He links his arm with hers and starts to walk down the hallway, raising an eyebrow at the two students who have surreptitiously moved to follow them and sending them scurrying off. ‘Your father and I crossed paths a few times before I retired here. I remember you as a very well-behaved young child at one of his concerts.’

‘That doesn’t really sound like me.’ Hellion had been bandied about quite a lot during her childhood.

‘Ah!’ He chuckles. ‘Perhaps not normally, but you were so enchanted by the music, even then. You followed your father’s fingers so closely, I’m surprised you didn’t turn out to be a violinist.’

‘I nearly did.’ She’s about to go on to explain why she chose piano instead, but decides she’s had enough of thinking about children losing their parents for one day.

‘Now, I think that you did not come here to talk about your past.’ Guiding them to one of the many photos lining the corridor, he points to one with a hint of mischief. ‘Maestro de Sousa tells me one of my other students has caught your eye.’

The photo shows a string ensemble mid-performance and in the first row sits Cassian at around eight years old, face serious as he holds his little 13 inch viola aloft. She gasps out a delighted laugh at his terrible haircut and chubby cheeks, marvelling at how they could have transformed into the razor-sharp beauty of the man she knows.

Maestro Rivera laughs along with her. ‘Puberty really was a blessing for that boy. But so talented.’ He frowns. ‘I’ve always thought he’s wasted on the viola. You know, I tried so hard to get him to switch to the violin, but he would not listen.’

Jyn thinks of how Cassian’s face lights up when he’s playing with the orchestra in a way that it never quite does when he plays alone. ‘He’s too selfless for violin, he just likes making other people sound good.’

The maestro hums in acknowledgement. ‘And of course there was his mother. A truly impressive musician. She played like you, not quite as beautifully as Cassian, but with such fire.’

‘With the blood?’

‘With the blood, exactly. I see someone has been stealing my lines.’ He leads her down the corridor to other photos of Cassian, including one of him and Rodrigo in a string quartet, arms around each other and smiling. Jyn gets out her phone and is about to take a picture of it when Maestro Rivera plucks the frame off the wall and hands it to her. ‘Consider this my payment.’

Raising an eyebrow as she puts the photo away, she asks, ‘Payment for what?’

‘For the piano recital that you’re about to give for my students, of course.’ His tone is benevolent but brooks no argument and she pities the poor soul who would ever try to say no to this man.

Within half an hour, she finds herself seated at an old but well-maintained grand piano and surrounded by students. Most of the hastily-gathered crowd is seated but the maestro has allowed the pianists to come up close and they watch her technique with eagle eyes, making her think harder about it than she has in a while.

She plays the Prokofiev from her current tour repertoire along with some Beethoven and Mozart for good measure. Once she’s finished, the piano students are asked to list all of her mistakes, with any that they missed helpfully supplied by Maestro Rivera.

It’s just like she’s back with Saw, and she makes a note to find his most recent contact details. Rumour has it he’s somewhere in Mongolia doing something interesting with throat singers.

After many more selfies and a fond ‘Hasta pronto’ from the maestro, who’s coming to the concert in a few days, she’s put in someone’s parent’s car and driven back to the bus stop.

While she waits, she gets a message from Cassian. You still awake?

She goes to call him before realising the country code will ruin her surprise and she doesn’t have enough data for an internet call. With a disappointed sigh, she replies, Barely. Talk tomorrow?

Okay. Miss you.

She feels a little awful, knows he’s even more stressed about coming to Mexico and the concert than he’s letting on. But she’ll more than make up for it tomorrow. God, she’s never felt better about dropping two grand on a whim. Miss you too, it’s not long now. Have a safe flight.

Yeah, just two more weeks. I love you.

Who knows, maybe it’ll feel shorter. Love you too. So much. Even without those cheekbones.

?????

;)

#my fic #mitj au #rebelcaptainweek #i promise there'll be a chapter where they actually interact soon!

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bklynpigskin · 3 years

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COVID Week 13 - NFC East

COVID, COVID, COVID...

Miraculously, NFL protocols have held and, to this point, all games have been played with few postponements. Notably, Cam Newton’s comeback season with the Patriots started off well, until it went into a skid after missing a couple of games with COVID. I like Cam Newton. He’s an amazing athlete. Judgement, not so much. His drop off after the illness may be because of lasting effects we don’t yet understand. Lamar Jackson, coming off one of the most awesome regular seasons in the history of the league, also missed a game with a major outbreak that sidelined many Ravens starters.

But this post is about the NFC East (AFC East up next). You would expect teams to struggle with new head coaches, in particular with an irregular and short pre-season. And, you would be correct. For its past sins, the NFC East has three new HCs in Mike McCarthy, “Riverboat” Ron Rivera, and Joe Judge. You would also expect the most experienced HCs to do better. And, you would be wrong.

The Cowboys have so much talent, especially on offense, it’s almost frightening. The D has it’s share of stars in Demarcus Lawrence, Jaylon Smith, Vander Esch, the injury prone Sean Lee, and rookie Trevon Diggs, to name a few. Well, they would be frightening if not for the fact that they can’t stop the run, struggle against the deep ball, can’t throw the ball much, and my favorite NFL running back Zeke Elliot...let’s just say he’s the most highly overpaid player in the NFL. Bucking the trend, Jerry Jones coughed up big bucks for Elliot, only to see his production drop with attrition in the O-line, and quibbled with his QB. Poor Dak Prescott. We all with him well and a speedy recovery, which looks on track.

Washington won in HC roulette this offseason, picking up Ron Rivera after a dysfunctional, unceremonious departure from Carolina. After a to be expected rough start, Rivera seems to have turned his new team in the right direction. After ditching Dwayne Haskins (15th overall pick in 2019), Rivera landed on comeback player of the year, Alex Smith. He suffered a grueling injury in 2018, the same injury that ended Joe Theismann’s career on the same field 33 years later to the date. His struggle to come back is a testament to willpower, perseverance, an character. Alex also implemented a game plan that unseated the 11-win, undefeated Pittsburg Steelers. THAT is a statement win if I’ve ever seen one, and Washington is second in the conference at 5-7. It is still the NFC East after all.

That brings us to rookie head coach Joe Judge and the New York football Giants. Four straight wins and their own statement win over the Seahawks, Patrick Graham’s very young defense is firing on all cylinders. The Giants held Seattle to just 12 points with Russel Wilson cookin’ along side sensation DK Metcalf and Tyler Lockett. The win is particularly impressive with Daniel Jones sidelined and backup Colt McCoy getting the start and his first win since 2016. The Giants sit majestically on top of the NFC East, ready to do some damage in the playoffs, with an impressive 5-7 record...and the tie break over Washington. It’s time to pop the champagne, or at least place that bottle of Andre on ice.

That brings me to the beloved Philadelphia Eagles, at home in the city of brotherly love, with an established and successful coaching staff under Doug Pederson and DC Jim Schwarz. I love football, and I don’t hate any NFL team or their fans. And, I love Carson Wenz. So much so that I wished the Rams had picked him number one overall, recognizing that the Eagles would break him. I’ve always said that the Eagles are the only NFL team anyone is allowed to hate, because their own fans hate the team more than you possibly could.

This brings me to one story in particular, and there are plenty of others I could tell. Last January, I was skiing in Colorado when I sat down on a lift with a lovely women my age and her two children in their early teens, or so I thought. A playoff Sunday, I asked whether everyone was as excited about the games as I was. The lady answered politely that her Broncos were out and she wouldn’t be watching. While puzzling over her response unable to comprehend why that would matter, she asked me about my team. I answered just as politely that I was a football fan in general, but that the Giants had a special place in my heart. At that point the boy on the lift with us chimed in with “Eli Manning sucks!” I asked which QB the boy preferred, already knowing what the response would be: “Carson Wenz!” I asked the youth politely, whether he was an Eagles fan, to which he responded in the affirmative. I informed the boy that Eli Manning had twice as many Super Bowl MVPs as his franchise had Super Bowl victories. I also noted that Carson Wenz had spent considerable time on the sidelines due to injury and that this may not bode well for his career. The boy simply responded that Eli Manning still sucked. I confirmed with the lady that these were in fact not her children, and explained to her that Eagles fans were particularly difficult. She chuckled, as I said to her: “watch this.” The ensuing dialogue went as follows:

Me: What do you think of Andy Reid?

Andy Reid SUCKS!

You do realize that Andy Reid is the winningest head coach in Eagles history and has resurrected the Chiefs. What do you think of Donovan McNabb?

Donovan McNabb SUCKS!

You do realize that Donovan McNabb is the winningest QB in your franchise history. What to you think of DeSean Jackson?

DeSean Jackson SUCKS! (apparently unable to make a statement without pronouncing that whatever he was talking about SUCKED)

I turned to the wonderfully patient lady sitting next to me and said “you see?”

She turned to the young Eagles fan and asked his age. 14 was the answer. At which point she turned to me and pronounced “they start ‘em out young, don’t they? True story.

Not even 12 months later, Eagles fans are calling the Wenz pick the worst ever and screaming for rookie Jalen Hurst, who lead a number of drives on Sunday. Never mind an offensive line that has seen more changes this season than the Trump cabinet. Never mind the ensuing non-existent running game and pass protection. Never mind a receiving corps that has dropped more balls than the Trump cabinet. Wenz is at fault for everything. One thing is true: the Eagles truly do suck.

Not as analytical as I am normally, but more humorous in these COVID times.

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tamorasky · 4 years

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Poco Loco Ch 10

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamorasky/pseuds/Tamorasky

July 17, 1917 Imelda carefully removed the stems and seeds from the peppers sitting in front of her in a bowl. Josefina sits across from her; peeling leaves from radishes.

“Mija will you go get water from the well?” Josefina asks. “Of course.” Imelda replies, placing the seedless and stemless poblano pepper on the table. The young woman stands from the table and grabs the two water jugs by the door as she leaves the kitchen. She smiles as she sees a familiar lanky figure standing at the well.

“Buenas tardes Héctor.” She greets politely, attempting to suppress the grin threatening to form on her lips.

“Hola, ‘Melda.” He responds, not holding back his grin. Imelda feels a blush across her chest at his informality, something they never dropped when they were around her parents.

“Would you help me with the water?” Imelda asks, attempting to get him to stay longer.

“Ah-ha. About that, I really can’t.” The young man responds, Imelda raises an eyebrow at him. “Your brothers hit me over the shoulders the rank handle today.”

“Which one? How?” Imelda demands

“I-I don’t know.”

“That’s fair, they were basically the same person. Esas pequeñas.” Imelda curses, Héctor tsks and shakes his head at her.

“Your mamá should wash your mouth out with soap.”

“She’s tried. It didn’t work.” Imelda smiles up at him as she casts the bucket into the well.

“Of course, she did.” Héctor chuckles, crossing his arms as he leans against the well to watch Imelda pull up the water. The young woman transfers the water into one of the water jugs.

“Shouldn’t you be getting back to work?” Imelda asks, casting the bucket back into the well.

“Nah, your papá told me to take a break while he dealt with the twins.”

“Because they hit you with a rake?”

“Well…yes. But also because one of then hit me in the shin with a hoe and the other hit me with a rock.

“Please tell me your kidding.” Imelda sighs, resting the bucket on the edge of the well.

“…Sí. I am…kidding.”

“No mientas Héctor.”

“Okay, yeah they did.”

“Esos hijos de puta!” Imelda yells. Héctor laughs at her cursing, stepping away from the well as Imelda fills the second jug.

“I’m going to go back to work before you get me into trouble.” He teases as Imelda straightens up. Héctor quickly looks around them before pressing a chaste kiss to Imelda’s cheek.

“I’ll see you tomorrow mi amor.” He winks before wandering back to the fields. Imelda smirks as she watches him walk away. She picks up the two water jugs and goes back into the house. Josefina sits at the table, glaring at her daughter. Imelda’s heart rate picks up; did she see the kiss?

“You really shouldn’t swear around men. It’s very un-ladylike.” Josefina simply says, going back to her task. Imelda sighs in relief, placing the jugs down by the door.

Imelda walks over to the stove, lifting the pot lid to make sure the tomatoes, peppers, onion and garlic were cooking well; as well to check on pumpkin seeds were roasting. She removes the seeds from the stove as they turned golden, placing them in a small bowl next to the stove. She adds the sesame seeds into the same pan and quickly covers the cooking vessel, to avoid the seeds from jumping.

Imelda looks over to see her mother blending up the poblano peppers and the cilantro at the table. She removes the sesame seeds from the heat and puts them into the same bowl as the pumpkin seeds.

“Mija, the onions should be ready by now.” Josefina announces. Imelda nods, placing the bowls with the seeds on to the table near her mother. She goes back to the stove and takes the pot off of the heat. Imelda places the clay casserole dish on the stove and adds oil to the vessel. Imelda grabs a water jug while she waits for the oil to heat and pours some water into a basin in order to prepare for dishwashing. Josefina’s knee had been bothering her all day, nearly making the middle-aged women unable to walk. So, Imelda was taking on most of the heavy work for that day.

Imelda grabs the blended poblano peppers from her mother and adds the mixture to the casserole dish while Josefina blends the seeds, lettuce, and cilantro. With much difficulty, she stands, walking over to her daughter with the new mixture. She hands Imelda the bowl with the mixture, who then adds it to the casserole dish.

Imelda stirs the mixture and tastes it to see if it needs more salt. This mole verde was her favourite dish as a small child and even as an adult it was one of her favourites. It was also one of the first dishes she learned to cook as a pre-teen. She adds more salt, as she often has in the past. When the dish begins to boil Imelda grabs the pot sitting on the counter, which held the chicken they had cooked slightly earlier in the afternoon. She walks away from the dish to let it come to a boil, sitting at the table with her mamá.

“So, I heard an interesting conversation with Señora Ortiz today.” Josefina says, placing the radishes in a bowl for tomorrow’s supper.

“Did you?” Imelda asks, putting away the remaining seeds.

“Yes, apparently Joaquín is no longer engaged.”

“How horrible. I hope they parted on good terms.” Imelda responds dryly.

“It’s fine. Apparently, she wasn’t willing to leave the city and of course, he’s set to inherit his father’s business.”

“Mamá, que estas diciendo?”

“Nada. I just thought it would be good for you to know when he returns.” Josefina shrugs. Imelda sighs, her mother had never been one for subtly.

“Se lo que estas haciendo.” Imelda raises an eyebrow at her.

“No estoy haciendo nada. It’s just….”

“It’s just what?”

“Well…you’re going to be 18 this October mija.”

“And? What does that have to do with anything?” Imelda questions as she stands up to check on the chicken. Seeing it was near to the point on boiling she places the pot which held the red rice onto the stove to re-heat it.

“I know all your amigas were married young, starting with Lucia’s well predicament at the time and of course that dreadful Carmen couldn’t let Lucia be the only one to marry.” Josefina says, Imelda chuckles at her comment; she always knew her mamá didn’t like Carmen, neither really did Imelda if she had to be honest. Josefina was right though, if Carmen had her way, she would’ve been the first to marry and have children; but instead shy Lucia had beaten her to both. Nearly 2 months after Lucia married Francisco, Carmen was engaged to a man she hardly knew and was married 4 months later. Margarita always was quick to do whatever Carmen did and married Pablo 6 months after Carmen’s marriage. Both Gloria and Imelda didn’t care about marriage or children until Gloria’s engagement over a year ago.

Of course, it had changed for Imelda as well.

“I think it’s time for you to find a serious suitor. Your aunts agree, your Tia Yolanda still has everything from Carla’s wedding.” Josefina sighs at Imelda’s disinterest. “Joaquín would make a good match for you. He’s a capable young man.”

“Capable? Is that all?”

“Well I’m sure he has other good qualities; I don’t know him well. His mamá is a pleasant enough woman and his papá is a hard worker, no doubt he has the same quality and would provide for you are your children.” Josefina says, Imelda cringes when the older woman discusses children.

“Mamá I’m not marrying Joaquín.” Imelda says, turning away from the stove.

“Lo sé… I’m just saying it’s time to consider suitors.” Josefina says. “a serious one.” Imelda turns away from her mamá in order to hide the blush spreading across her face, she chews her lips trying to decide if Josefina knew about Héctor and her. No, she couldn’t possibly know, Héctor and her were always so careful and she’d be much madder. Imelda couldn’t even imagine how Josefina would react once she learned what they had done together…multiple times now. No Josefina could never know that Imelda had given up her “virtue” to Héctor Rivera. She takes the mole verde off of the stove as it comes to a boil, taking the rice off of the stove as well. Josefina stands from the table, grabbing serving dishes from the cupboard as she comes to stand next to her daughter. Imelda serves the rice onto the clay serving platter her mamá was holding out to her.

“I’ll put everything on the table. Go get the boys. I expect that Arturo, Mateo and Héctor will be staying for supper.” Josefina says, placing down the serving dish on the counter as she takes over Imelda’s spot. The younger woman wipes her hands on her apron, nodding at Josefina’s request. As Imelda leaves the house, she hears laughter coming from the barn; which was obviously the men. She walks over to the large structure, pushing open the cumbersome doors to find her papá, Arturo, Mateo and Héctor sitting on the ground, sharing a bottle of tequila between the four of them while Oscar and Felipe were back in the corner, no doubt tinkering with one of the inventions. Imelda puts her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow at the men.

“Parce que hemos sido.” Raúl chuckles at the sight of his daughter.

“Imelda!” Arturo calls. “Come have a drink with us.”

“I think not.” Imelda retorts. “Supper is ready.”

“Gracias a Dios, que me muero de hambre.” Mateo exclaims as he struggles to pick himself up from a haybale. Imelda takes notices of where Raúl hides the bottle of alcohol, a rather poor spot between the stables and the doors.

“Don’t tell your mamá.” Raúl says, squeezing her shoulder as he follows Arturo and Mateo. Imelda keeps in mind her brothers’ presence as Héctor lingers.

“I should go.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Solo quédate. I think Ernesto could manage without you for one evening.” She jokes. the young man chuckles at that, nodding in agreement

“He probably could.”

“Then it’s settled, you’ll stay for dinner. You can head back into town with Mateo and Arturo.” Imelda says, subtly brushing his fingers with hers. Héctor smiles at her and nods in agreement. She watches him leave the barn for supper with a smile. She grabs the twins by their shirts as they try to make their way past her. She spins their bodies around and blocks their way to the door.

“What do you two know?” Imelda narrows her eyes, her hands going to her hips again. The twins share a look between the two of them before looking back to their elder sister.

“Know what?” Felipe questions back, Oscar nodding in agreement.

“Escucha ustedes pequeñas mierdas.” Imelda bends over, shoving a finger in their faces. “I will tell mamá that you two have been skipping school for weeks now.”

“Well then we’ll tell mamá you’ve been seeing Héctor behind her back!” Oscar exclaims, flustered from Imelda’s confrontation. She straightens up, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Dios, ustedes dos son idiotas.” She sighs. “Okay, stop hitting Héctor with assorted items. Mamá and papá cannot know about him, so keep your mouths shut and mamá won’t know about your school records.”

“Deal.” Both the twins' nod in agreement. Imelda nods in response, stepping aside to allowing the two of them to leave the barn. She follows after them, closing the doors behind her. She walks into the house and goes to the dining room, once again suppressing her smile as she sees Héctor sitting next to her usual spot.

“There she is. Raúl would you lead us in prayer.” As everyone around the table closes their eyes and folds their hands, Héctor grabs Imelda’s hand under the table. This had become a common occurrence between the young couple during prayer. Imelda never considered herself to be particularly a religious woman, so she didn’t care if this was frowned upon. The quickly unlock hands as a chorus of “Amens” echoes throughout the table. Imelda stares at Héctor from her peripheral, lightly brushing her index finger against his knuckles. Neither of them noticing the way Josefina was staring at them from the other end of the table.

#coco #imelda rivera #hector rivera #imector #rivera family #disney #pixar #fanfic

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deduce-me · 4 years

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First Submission - Let’s Play Deductions!

We have our first submission, by email, from a Logan P. Let’s go through a run through of what can be noticed.

So starting with the first two images, we clearly have a lot to go on here. Clearly this is a living space not just for one individual, but for a family. This is evident not only by the set up of the furniture but where the room is in the house. That is, the dining room is adjacent to the space here and the windows show a room on the first level, in prime living space location (living spaces tend to be in the room with biggest windows). Now, more specifically. Starting on the back wall there are photos on the wall along with some artwork. The photos are a little difficult to make out but never seem to include more that three people. So perhaps a family of four, since the fourth family member would be taking the image. This is supported by the “full” family photo in the second image, depicting two sons and male and female parents. Additionally, it is evident that both parents are still involved, since they not only appear in this “full” family photo, but there is a wedding photo in the bottom right corner. If the parents had been separated, this would not be on display. The photos seem to depict traveling, possibilities including hiking, visiting a statue, and possibly an aquarium. The artwork that is visible tends to denote someone in the family of Spanish heritage. Its difficult to pin the specifics. The largest photo in the center on the back wall is a piece by a Mexican artist, Diego Rivera, called the a “Vendedora de Flores”. This might suggest Mexican heritage or an appreciation for Spanish culture or another Spanish heritage.

Next, there are two bird cages visible in this image. So, they have two birds, one of which appears in the image. The fact that they are cared for in the living room is evident that these are family pets. On that train of thought, it is evident that this family has multiple dogs, obvious from the large pile of dog toys and a durable couch (less for aesthetic purposes and more to last having dogs and children). There is also a dog statue on the left side, denoting their love of dogs. Based on this, they seem to have at least on large sized dog. This is also evident because there appears to be a dog toy on the sofa. On couches that high, only a large or medium dog would be able to put it their or get on the couch to leave it there.

Some general remarks about the room is that it was obviously decorated by the mother, which suggests that the Spanish heritage is at least on her side, if not the father’s too. The couches appear to be facing a television, and there are remotes on the coffee table. Common in this age, but it denotes some value placed on family time spent watching tv or movies. The mother appears to care about the appearance of the room, evident from its coherent color scheme, the level of organization, and the amount of décor. The organization is not strictly maintained. This, along with items such as the tissues, location, and astray pillows, suggests that the room serves as a functional space, not a “show room”. The economic class is somewhere in the upper middle class, evident from the general expense of items and the size of the room (three large windows implicate the size of the room and the modern construction of the house itself) and the ability for the family to do a bit of traveling.

Now, we transition to a more secluded space in the next two photos, possibly in a basement judging from the lack of apparent windows and natural light. This space is male dominated, likely between the ages of 16-18. I say this because the organization level, and interests, and the fact that, coming from the same submission, this is apart of the living room where it was concluded that two sons live her. The name is also most likely male. The space does not have the same decorative touches from the mother. This person is an obvious gamer. This is evident in the use of two monitor screens (often serious gamers or people who work with computers a lot have these, but since this space is not an office and because of more details to be discussed, it suggests the person is more likely a gamer). This is supported by the numerous controllers that are here. And the game consoles, the one a play station. The user has a keyboard and headphones used by gamers as well. The mouse bares the same symbol as the keyboard, and so it can be assumed this is also a gaming mouse. The outlets appear to be from the United States in appearance. This location is also supported by the brands of certain items (soda, water, consoles), the book in English, and the general appearance of the furniture in the living space. The person spends a lot of time here, evident from the water bottles and soda can, as well as the chair (designed for comfort while sitting long hours). But there is no evidence of eating food. So likely the person has a garbage bin nearby and holds a certain level of cleanliness. Now, the book that appears on the desk is “Feed” by Mira Grant. This suggests some interest in fiction, namely zombies. The book seems to have some damage to the bottom, suggesting it may have been stored in a backpack of some sort. The book does not bare large crease marks or indication other indications of reading use. This combined with the general lack of books in the vicinity indicate he is not an avid reader. The interest in zombies/fiction is also supported by the zombie sticker on the laptop. The other stickers are evident of his strong interest in anime type shows and possibly cartoons. Between all the technology present, it is evident that this person is tech savvy. Based on his interests (fiction book and anime) and his enjoyment of games, he has a large imagination. He appears to be on the more introverted side, though he might have some ambivert tendencies, since he likely talks to people while gaming. He likes the colors black and red, evident on the chair, laptop, and water bottle. He may sometimes have a companion, maybe his brother or a friend, as there is a chair next to the desk. Possibly they watch him game or they game together. This chair is less comfortable and more easily removed than his own, suggesting the companion is not frequent or doesn’t sit there for long. He is likely right-handed, because the desk chair is shifted to the right of the space, where he’d be doing things. The mouse is on the right hand side (this is not proof since both left and right handed people may put their mouse here) and the stuff that is “finished” is on the left, as if casted away (the soda can, tab pulled off (usually something someone does after finishing the soda), the closed laptop is there, and there is more clutter on the left then the right). The water bottle, unfinished, is on the right side. He likely wears glasses, since the items are arranged for someone of nearsightedness. He likely has a mild interest in playing music, evident because the piano keyboard in the background, but there’s no clutter to suggest frequent use or an easily available/comfortable chair, so obviously it is infrequently used. There is also more clutter in the background, as well as another sofa and television, suggesting that this is a place to hang out and have fun/relax (playful old style gumball machine back there as well). Person may have some nervous tendencies, possibly in social situations, evident from the tab being fiddled off the soda can and the isolation (he spends most of his time in a basement).

There is a lot of information in these photos so forgive me if I’ve left out something important or made a grammatical error above. I will post the Logan P.’s response to these deductions once I receive them, then we’ll see what was missed and what may be correct. Remember, these deductions depend on submission. The photos don’t need to be more that one location. It’s best if its good quality and a person space of an individual. Anything to add? Contact me. But, until next time! Happy deducing!

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notgonnarememberthis · 5 years

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Beautiful- Chapter 9

Wow it has really been half a year since I updated this but I am back and I intend for the next chapter (after this one) to be the last of this story. I knew I wanted to wrap it up somehow but I never knew and FINALLY I have some ideas.

A big ol' thanks to Mislav for getting me back into gear and providing some ideas that I could bounce off of as well as Em for being my ever favorite sounding board and test audience when it comes to my writing.

As for the case, for a large part the profile of the killers are based on the parents (or Pride) in the show Runaways. They have some allusions like jobs, how they know each other, and how they're connected but other than that they're original characters. This case will be tied up with a nice little bow in the next chapter!!

Watson wakes to the feeling of scruff brushing between her shoulder blades. She lets out a soft hum as her body tries to give back in to the pull of sleep. She didn’t even feel the dip of the bed when he climbed back into bed. Soft lips press against her skin muttering her name. Another groan leaves her lips as she stirs back against her partner. A heavy arm draped across her hips pulls her closer to him.

“Joan,” he says softly. Her heart pounds against her chest with the affection laced in just her name. She finds herself at a loss for words.

“Don’t call me Joan,” She mumbles feeling a deep chuckle rumble through his chest. “It’s too weird,” She turns slowly finding bright blue eyes staring at her with a softness she never knew he could possess. “Holmes.”

He smiles at her teasing remark. Her heart swells as her fingers find his cheek, brushing against the corner of his smile. His eyes possess so much wonder that she wishes she could read his mind. “Morning.” He whispers.

“When did you come back?” She shifts so that she can face him. He braces an arm against the bed looking down at her. His other hand slips beneath the sheet tracing her skin with such practiced care she wonders how long he’d thought of this moment.

“I only left for a minute.” The words are uttered so quietly part of her wonders if she imagined them. That she imagined this moment. She’ll wake alone in bed to Sherlock yelling her name rather than his lips on her body.

“Good.” His forehead falls against hers and she allows herself to be swept up in the quiet moment between the two of them. His lips brush against hers and she hums at the contact.

“The Captain called, they arrested Lara Noel this morning. She confessed rather quickly to Marcus out of guilt. It looks like we won’t be needed for the rest of the morning.”

“Is that so?” She hums burrowing into the pillows. “Another hour of sleep sounds really nice.” She opens one eye at his long whine as he lays his head against her shoulder. “No.”

“Watson.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You just said you wanted to sleep.”

“I did not.” She raises her hand, arm now pinned beneath his heavy frame, stroking the fine hairs at the bottom of his neck. “I said sleep sounds nice. But then you woke me up.”

“I always wake you up.”

“I think we both know that this is far different than how we usually behave.” That seems to change the air in the room. His eyes flash up to hers searching for answers to a million questions bouncing around his mind. She swallows heavily wishing more than ever that they were able to read each other.

“Do you want this?” Again his voice is but a whisper, but this one laced with dread. Fear of rejection hides behind his clenched jaw. A broken past has long shattered any expectations of romance for the both of them. It’s too complicated to catch someone up to speed. It’s too dangerous to keep them close. It was inevitable that they’d end up here, clinging to each other in the hurricane.

“Yes.” The answer is without hesitation in her mind. Yet nothing with them is that simple. They both have a fair load of baggage in aspects of relationships. Names forbidden from the home because they hurt too much. “I trust you.”

“Good.” He pops out of bed like a spring pulling on a pair of pajama pants that weren’t there last night.

“Where are you going?”

“You said you were hungry. I’m going to bring you food.”

“Breakfast in bed?” She stretches smiling at the idea.

“It’d be more like brunch by this hour.” He teases gently.

“Well maybe if someone hadn’t kept me up all night.” He opens his mouth to retaliate when her phone ringing breaks the playful moment. She flashes him and apologetic look flipping over to grab her cell off of the nightstand. “You’re on speaker.”

“Hey. I know you guys were trying to get today off but you’re going to want to come in for this.”

“I thought Lara Noel was confessing.”

“It’s another thing. We’ve got eight people in here confessing to multiple murders.” She sees Sherlock’s eyes light up with curiosity, she’s sure her own did as well. She nods to him signaling that they need to leave immediately.

“We’ll be right over.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“We need to keep this between us.” He speaks up when they’re nearing the precinct, their takeout nestled between the two of them. She lets out the breath she’s been holding for a while. Since the call from Marcus he’s been distant, part of her wanted to believe it was due to the odd case they’re walking into but she knows him too well. His muscles were drawn taught, eyes flashing to her only when he thought she wasn’t looking.

“I agree. It’s a liability. We need remain professional.” He finally seems to relax at her words his fingers brushing hers. She feels like a teenager sneaking out of her parents’ house. It’s ridiculous but simultaneously thrilling. He lets go as the precinct comes into sight, a mask of impassiveness sliding onto his face.

They walk into the building side by side with the case at the forefront of both of their minds. Watson spots Marcus first and he looks utterly exhausted. He’s cradling a cup of coffee listening to another detective rattle on details that she can’t hear from this distance.

“Someone order lunch?” Marcus looks up at them then with a grateful smile. Judging by his demeanor he’s been here all morning, likely called in when they brought in Lara Noel and swept up in the next case without break in between.

“You are an angel.” Out of the corner of her eye she sees Sherlock feign offense. “You’re alright too.”

“So the case,”

“It’s a mess. We’ve got several murders being accounted for but none of them know names.” Watson takes a peek at the files noting the names of each of the apparent murderers.

“You’re kidding me right?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Sherlock looks between the two of them, confusion etched in his face. “Clearly I’m missing out on something, care to fill me in.”

“The Williams, The Lees, Riveras, Jones, Murphy. These are some of the richest people in New York right now why the hell would they be confessing to multiple murders. They could wave a check and someone would confess for them.” When her explanation is met with a blank look from her partner she divulges further. “Alison and Jameson Williams own A&J Law Firm, Mae and Simon Lee are software architects building new programs currently working on renovating facial software for lie detection, Martin and Sloan Rivera are scientific analysts who study pathogenic diseases, Emma Jones runs one of the biggest volunteer profits for the homeless in New York City, and Lena Murphy she’s a software developer but rarely in the spotlight.”

“Until her husband was shot in a mugging gone wrong three months ago, I remember her name.” Sherlock nods eyes combing over the files. “What would compel all of them to confess all at once.”

“They have to be connected in some way. Personal relationships or something.”

“Do you consider children roughly in the same age group attending school together a well enough connection?” He shows a photo on his phone of six teenagers posing for a selfie. “I’d say so.”

Sherlock steps to the boardroom housing the eight potential murderers opening the door for them to step inside first. The best way to start would be to get individual accounts, make sure their stories line up. Sherlock and Gregson take the first half of the suspects and she and Marcus take the second. Her fingers barely brush Sherlock’s hand as he takes away Simon Lee. From the relaxing of his shoulders she knows he noticed without alerting Marcus or Gregson to the silent action. It’s going to be a long day after all they need all the comfort they can get.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Already into the third interrogation Watson is exhausted. She cradles a cup of coffee brought to her by another detective with a sympathetic smile. Thus far, they’d investigated Sloan Rivera and Emma Jones but they got nothing more than a cluster of botched explanations and “I don’t knows”. It was evident that they were nothing more than pawns in the murders but conspirators nonetheless. They had enough information to give descriptions of two victims to a sketch artist. They’ve already sent photos to Mason in hopes of IDing them at least.

“Hey,” Marcus places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Lunch break is up and they got Lena Murphy lined up in there for us. You ready?”

“Yeah. Sorry just running what we got so far through my head.”

“Wouldn’t take long.” She lets out a bitter laugh in agreement. “Sherlock and the captain haven’t had much luck either. From what I could overhear Simon Lee is a ‘blithering idiot for a technological genius’ and Jameson Williams is ‘more dull than a children’s crayon’.” She rolls her eyes fighting the smiling pulling at her lips. “Hey it’s his words not mine.”

“Let’s just get this over with. The sooner we get out of here the sooner I can have coffee that’s not from the station’s machine.”

“Actually I just sent Mayer to McGregor's to get our orders.” She gapes at him for a moment. “Don’t thank me I owed you guys for bringing me lunch earlier.”

Their amicable conversation fades away when they reach the door to the interrogation room. Lena Murphy sits on the other side of the table with one wrist bound to the table by handcuffs. From immediate character analysis she strikes her as a demure woman. Soft spoken and definitely not likely to commit a murder but at the same time she’s seen first hand at how well cons can play the people around them.

“Lena Murphy. My name is Detective Bell and this is my associate. We are going to ask you a few questions about the murder-”

“Xavier Corbero.” Her eyes flash to Marcus as the woman speaks up. “We- I killed a man named Xavier Corbero.”

“You said we.”

“It doesn’t matter if it was me and my husband anymore does it.” She wipes away the tears building in her eyes with her unchained arm. “He told me not to care but I couldn’t do it. I learned his name, his life…”

“So you’re admitting that you and your husband killed Xavier Corbero.”

“Yes.” She sniffles but no more tears fall. From what she can gather, Murphy is telling the truth.

“Why?” An odd look settles over the woman’s face. Her skin goes pale and her breathing increases ever so slightly.

“He came to us. Six years ago.” Lena closes her eyes letting out a shaky breath. “He came with blackmail material and said we had to help him with his cause.” She spits.

“Who came to you?”

“He said his name was Liam Miller but Mae looked into it and didn’t find any indication of a Liam Miller that looks like him.” She looks down at the corner of the desk and initially Watson would attribute to that action of a lie if she weren’t shaking like a leaf. “It was small stuff. We flubbed data, cut corners on safety precautions, planting evidence. But it was enough to run all of our businesses into the ground. We would have lost our life’s work. All of us.” Another deep breath. “But then he asked us to get rid of someone. Naturally we freaked. We all thought he was insane. We’re not killers… We.. weren’t killers.”

“Ms. Murphy.”

“I’m getting somewhere I promise.” She sighs. “We all tried to bail. We couldn’t even think of how to kill someone much less actually commit the act. But he-” Finally she looks up meeting Watson’s eyes with a chilling stare. “Mae’s girl, Amanda overdosed on painkillers and they found her the next morning in her bed. He all but admitted that he coerced her into committing suicide. It was a crystal clear message. We cooperate or our kids would die.”

“Why didn’t you come to the police?”

“We were too afraid. It was like he had eyes everywhere. He had detailed accounts of what my son was doing at school I don’t know how he could have possibly known. Stuff that I didn’t even know!” Her leg begins to bounce beneath the table, likely a nervous habit. “He was sick. He gave us names of people,”

“Victims?”

“Killers. Serial killers.” She rubs the bridge of her nose, likely as exhausted as the both of them. “He would give us names of serial killers and make us… recreate the crimes. If he wasn’t satisfied there would be repercussions.”

“Repercussions.” Marcus sounds as skeptical as her but she doesn’t dismiss anything yet.

“I know you don’t believe me but ask Alison. She kept records of everything. She thought we might need them in the future.”

"What changed?" She shifts, clearly Marcus had struck a nerve. Her chin wobbles for a second and Watson actually wonders if she's going to burst into tears.

"Our kids got away... ran away. We don't know where they are. But they're safer than they were here."

“And this wouldn’t have been helpful to tell us this in the first place?”

“She wanted to wait until we were all together after we were individually questioned.”

“But you didn’t agree.” Murphy stiffens all but confirming Watson’s suspicions. “The others don’t take you very seriously do they? They never have.”

“I’m done answering questions.” The meek persona slides back over her and Marcus guides her back out. Only one more to go. While peeking out the window in the door she catches a glimpse of Sherlock. He looks so focused, lips drawn tight as he cycles information through his mind once more. Before he can notice, though, Marcus and another cop have Alison Williams coming through the door. She is quickly chained to the table and they’re alone once again.

“Alison Williams, I’ve heard of your work. You’re lawfirm is quite successful.”

“I only hire the best.” From the smug smile alone Watson knows that this round will be starkly different from the last. Mrs. Williams holds herself high with confidence, that much shows in her all white attire. She’s practically calling attention to herself wherever she goes. Dark eyes turn on her meeting her with the same curious gaze. “Ms. Watson I presume? I’ve heard of your… work as well.” Great just another person ripe with knowledge of the “controversies”, as the NSA deemed them, rifled through her and Sherlock’s work.

“We do our best.” She defends.

“Now Mrs. Williams let’s cut to the chase,” Marcus interrupts. “Lena Murphy already told us a lot. She said you have records documenting the murders.”

The older woman rolls her eyes. “I knew she couldn’t listen.” She fixes her blouse with her free hand as she leans against the table. “I do. In my bag in your conference room. But I’d rather share them with the entire class present.”

“Who is Liam?”

“Our… employer.” She says it with a self satisfied grin filling Joan with disgust.

“Employer?”

“He didn’t pay us. Not in the traditional sense at least. We got gifts from him. Sometimes it was a connection our people couldn’t see before, others it’s a full ride scholarship for our kids to the college of their choice. If we didn’t well, then he made us pay.”

“How?” It’s no longer a question as much as it is a demand.

A cold gaze settles on Joan once more. The ice in the dark eyes has the power to send chills up and down her spine yet she doesn’t move. This woman clearly has no remorse. In fact, she almost seems to revel in the attention. “Tell me Ms. Watson, how far would you go if you knew Mr. Holmes was in danger?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple question. Would you hurt a defenseless person? Kill them? Listen to them beg for mercy and swear that they didn’t do anything wrong?” A look of almost excitement slips over her face. “Have you?”

“That’s enough.” Marcus barks.

“You love him don’t you? It’s quite new, the longing looks and passing touches. It’s sweet actually. I did everything I did for the ones I love. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

She doesn’t let her facade betray her only throwing her a look of vague confusion. Marcus, seeming as finished with this interrogation as she feels, takes Alison Williams out of the room with a strong grip. She waits three beats before she exits as well. She’s careful to keep her steps confident as she struts to the bathroom, the conversation still lingering in the back of her mind. She can’t shake the feeling trapped in her chest feeling like it’s going to suffocate her.

She pushes her way into the ladies room careful to make sure that she’s alone before letting her emotions overwhelm her. The tautness in her chest makes it hard to breathe so she unbuttons her jacket, shaking fingers clutching the sides of the porcelain sink. She’s done a lot for Sherlock and her friends in the past, guilt haunts her behind closed doors but she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Still the cold gaze of Alison Williams stays with her as she stares into the white sink trying to catch her breath.

“Joan!” Her name nearly sends her jumping out of her skin. She spins around quickly to find Sherlock looking down at her, concern etched into his features. “You didn’t answer me the first three times I called to you I thought,”

“I’m okay.” She whispers. He crosses the line first, fingers reaching to her cheek.

“What happened?” His voice feels so wrong compared to his hand on her, all gruff and threatening while his fingertips barely brush the tendrils of hair that had fallen from the tight updo. He’s so gentle with her, as if he’s afraid she might disappear if he dares to touch her more than a passing caress.

“She found us out. Alison Williams knew about us.” She turns her head finding comfort in his touch, as if the warmth of his hand could chase away the chills plaguing her. “I thought we were careful.”

“We are.” He pulls her eyes to his, now grasping her anchoring her to the earth. “Alison Williams is a remarkable lawyer. I’ve had the benefit and misfortune of seeing her in action once before. She’s like us Watson, she’s a master at deduction. Except she uses her powers for evil.”

He dips his head to leave a whisper of a kiss on her hairline. It steadies her and all she can do is cling to his jacket, holding him close to her. They remain like that until her resolve returns to her. His thumb caresses her cheek until she dares to look up at him. Crossing the short distance to place a soft, sweet kiss on his lips. His forehead rests against hers and they revel in the quiet moment.

“You don’t have long before Marcus becomes worried.”

“I know.” She sighs slowly releasing her grip on him. He squeezes her against him once more before letting go as well. They linger in the tight space between them before a knock interrupts their moment.

“Joan? You alright?” He shoots her a look that radiates with ‘I told you so’ that she elbows him lightly.

“Yeah I’ll be out in a minute.” She calls back to Marcus.

She bids Sherlock goodbye and steps out as if nothing was ever wrong. She raises her head ready to dive into the case once again.

#joanlock #joan watson x sherlock holmes #joan x sherlock #joan watson #Sherlock Holmes #elementary #elementary AU #elementary cbs #One Night Stand #beautiful #fanfic #marcus bell

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