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pengychan · 4 years

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[Coco] Showtime

Title: Showtime Summary: Honestly, ‘Ernesto’ and ‘stage fright’ had no business being in the same sentence at all. And yet there they were. Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera Rating: K

A/N: I wrote this fic for @tomato-bitch for the Cocolocos server Valentine Exchange. I, uh, hope you like it?

***

“Come on! Let’s show them!”

“Neto, wait!”

“What, are you afraid?”

Of course, Héctor was aware he was being baited; Ernesto was terrible at subtlety - sure he was, everything about him was so forward and loud and in-your-face - and even aged six, he could tell.

On the other hand, there is no worse insult for a little boy than the implication he might be afraid of something, and Héctor had no choice but to respond precisely the way Ernesto wanted.

“I’m not afraid!” he protested, and it wasn’t even a lie. He was not afraid of attention - he didn’t even dislike attention - only that he didn’t see the thrill in seeking it out. Also, it kind of sucked that Ernesto got to stand on the crate and sing while he was there to bang on a pot. And probably look very dumb while doing so.

“Then let’s go, come on!” Ernesto huffed, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him along. “Ugh, you’re such a pain, may as well go at it alone!”

Now that was something that really stung, really scared him: Héctor didn’t want to be left behind. “I’m not a pain! I can help!” he protested, his voice breaking up a little, which in turn made him feel even more embarrassed.

It caused Ernesto to pause and turn, letting go of his arm. “No no no-- wait, don’t cry, come on,” he muttered, bending his knees to be at his same eye level, the day Héctor would surpass him in height still far away in time. “I didn’t mean it. I’m not going to really go at it alone. Wouldn’t be Héctor y Ernesto without Héctor, no?”

Ah, that was enough to make Héctor smile, it took so little. Ernesto always insisted on having his name first, regardless of Héctor's opinion that Ernesto y Héctor didn’t sound nearly as good as Héctor y Ernesto; it just didn’t roll off the tongue as well. It was nice hearing him say his way for once. “No,” he agreed. “It wouldn’t.”

“Right. So we’ll do it together, sí? Get us enough pesos to get so many sweets, we’re gonna feel sick and then have more sweets. So, ready?”

In all fairness, it was a sound plan to a six year old. Héctor grinned, already looking forward to stuffing his face. He lifted up his pot and the stick. “Ready!”

Ernesto grinned back, showing off a gap where one of his baby teeth had fallen off and had yet to be replaced by a new one, and ruffled Héctor’s hair before patting his shoulder.

“Then let’s go, hermanito. It’s showtime.”

***

“Look at that! A full plaza!” Héctor laughed, let the curtain drop again and turned, a dumb smile spreading on his face.

Truth be told the main reason why he’d accepted to go with Ernesto to the festival in San Luz wasn’t about crowds and cheers, or even music - not that he minded either - as much as it was about money. They were going to be well paid, more than they would make in a month playing in the plaza in Santa Cecilia, and it would be enough to get a brand new crib for the coming baby. And toys, and possibly something nice for Imelda, since she was doing most of the work carrying their baby.

It was amazing, how she breezed through it like it was nothing, and now he was there to do his share, so that he could support their little family. Their baby.

The first of many, he hoped.

Taken as he was by the thought, Héctor didn’t even notice how oddly silent Ernesto was despite having just heard there was a full plaza waiting to hear them play.

“Better than we hoped, isn’t i--” he began, only to trail off suddenly, taken aback, when his gaze fell on his best friend.

Ernesto was standing a few steps away from him, guitar in hand, a smile on his face. Except it looked more like a facial rictus than a smile. And his eyes were wide and fixed, his face covered in sweat. And his hands were gripping the guitar much too tight. And also, he was pale as ash.

“... Ernesto?” Héctor called out, walking up to him quickly and putting a hand on his shoulder. He felt so rigid, it was like touching a plank of wood covered in fabric. “What is it, amigo? Are you feeling sick? Ay, it was that chorizo, wasn’t it? I’m going to feel sick too in a minute and--”

Ernesto seemed to recoil and shook his head, stepping back with the least believable laugh Héctor had ever heard. It made him think of the creaking of rusty hinges, all of his natural charm just… gone. “No, no. All good,” Ernesto croaked, causing Héctor to roll his eyes.

“Look, if you’re not feeling well, we don’t have to perform,” he said. It would be a setback, because it would mean not getting paid, but he wasn’t going to force Ernesto to perform if he was feeling sick. It wouldn’t be right, and he was sure Imelda would understand.

Ernesto shook his head. “We must--”

“You sounded like you had a sea urchin stuck in your throat just now. There will be other chances.”

“I’m not feeling ill,” Ernesto lied, still looking a couple of moments away from collapse.

“That’s the worst you’ve ever been at telling a lie. At least let’s get someone else to go first, until you feel a bit better and--”

“Hey, you two,” a voice called out from backstage. “You’re on in five minutes.”

“Wait, can we swap places--” Héctor tried to ask, turning, but the man was already walking off, and he groaned. He turned back to Ernesto, and realized that now he looked like he was one moment away from collapse. He was paler, more rigid, eyes fixed on the curtain and… and…

Wait. Waaaait wait wait wait wait. Wait. That wasn’t sickness, was it?

For a moment, Héctor’s brain sputtered into a complete standstill. Suddenly, everything made sense and nothing did. Because someone having a bad case of stage fright before a big performance - the biggest yet - made perfect sense; Ernesto being that someone did not.

Honestly, ‘Ernesto’ and ‘stage fright’ had no business being in the same sentence at all.

“Huh,” Héctor said, entirely at a loss. Before him, Ernesto made another attempt at a Confident Smile. It was the most painful-looking grimace he’d ever witnessed.

“No need. I’m fine,” Ernesto strained to speak. If his grip on the guitar tightened another fraction, Héctor suspected, he’d soon hear the sound of cracking wood. And that would be bad, because he really didn’t think Ernesto could afford buying a new one.

“Hey now, don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not--” his best friend began, but his voice faded, and he just swallowed, looking down at his guitar. On the other side of the curtain, the current players were ending their performance; an unseen public cheered wildly. It didn’t seem an especially difficult crowd to please, if anything.

And Ernesto was a crowd-pleaser like no other. All would be well… as long as Héctor managed to get him back into working order, of course.

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” he said, trying to sound as confident as possible. Not the easiest thing to claim while looking at someone who looks close to a heart attack, but he’d always been good at bluffing.

Ernesto swallowed, and tried to scoff. “Of course. I always do.”

He… didn’t sound very convincing, but it was a start. “Then no reason for things to be different this time, no?” Héctor pointed out, and finally Ernesto looked back at him in the eye. He was still pale, still wide-eyed, and ah it felt so wrong to see him like that, seeking reassurance. This had never happened before; where had all his confidence gone? He had to swallow before he spoke.

“We never played for so many people.”

“I know. It’s exciting, no? You kept going on about what a good opportunity this was. Por Dios, you wouldn’t shut up about it for a minute the entire ride, what’s gotten into you?” Héctor managed a laugh that sounded almost easy, and put a hand on Ernesto’s shoulder again. “It will be all right. They’re going to love you.”

“What if they-- don’t?” he asked. He sounded scared in a way Héctor couldn’t recall seeing him since childhood. It was somewhat eerie, but he didn’t let it show. At least one of them had to be positive.

“Well, I’m no fortune teller, but I think we can rule out anything too extreme like hanging us to a telegraph pole, so we’ll probably live to perform again,” Héctor tried to joke, smiling. To his utter relief, the corners of Ernesto’s mouth twitched a moment. “Worst that happens, if this crowd has absolutely no taste, we’ll find out how good we are at dodging tomatoes. We had things thrown at us before, no? I mean, that guy last month threw rocks at us, remember?”

The twitch turned into something more similar to a smile. “That had nothing to do with music. It was because he’d found out I’d bedded his wif--”

“So what? Still rocks. What’s some rotten vegetables?” Héctor waved his hand dismissively. That was… probably not the time to express his disapproval for Ernesto’s utter inability to respect the sacred bond of marriage and all that. Not that he hadn’t tried, but each time he’d get a shug and something along the lines of ‘not my marriage, not my problem’.

“And besides, it won’t happen. We’ll go on stage, do our thing, and wow the crowd. That’s what we do, no? Héctor y Ernesto,” he added, giving Ernesto’s arm a light punch. “We’ll show them what good music is all about. Between that and your pretty, pretty face, they’d be crazy not to enjoy the show.”

Ernesto’s lips twitched again in something that was almost a smile. One last cheer beyond the curtain, and other musicians were walking back in, laughing, half-dancing and half-skipping. A man who seemed to be having nowhere as much fun peered over at them.

“Your turn, hombres.”

Héctor glanced at Ernesto, and patted his shoulder with a grin. “Come, amigo. It’s showtime.”

This time, Ernesto smiled - really smiled. He adjusted the strap of his guitar, wiped his forehead, and laughed; all of a sudden, he was himself again. “Hah! All right, let’s show them how it’s done. Where would I be without you?”

“Right now, probably hiding in the backstage,” Héctor replied, and ducked under a half-hearted swipe. They laughed, and he picked up his own guitar before following Ernesto to the stage, before a cheering crowd.

***

“ER-NES-TO! ER-NES-TO! ER-NES-TO!”

He can hear them calling out his name all the way from his dressing room; hundreds of voices, hundreds of people who paid months in advance to reserve a table for that performance in one of the most exclusive venues in Mexico City, with no greater wish than seeing him perform.

His family is out there, calling out for him, and how can he deny that call? He’ll answer, of course, give them the performance they want and bask in their adoration. In a minute.

As soon as his hair is done.

Ernesto de la Cruz brushes the forelock carefully, brushes his mustache, and flashes a smile at the mirror as he puts on his jacket and smooths down the fabric. Ah, yes - perfect. He’s ready. Only one thing missing, a little ritual of his that is far more important than his hair.

The guitar is leaning against the wall, the skull motif grinning at him. While it is an excellent instrument, Ernesto knows he doesn’t have to keep using it. He could have another made, newer, maybe even better; the best guitar makers in Mexico would die for the privilege. But he never will: this is more than just a guitar, and his to keep.

Ernesto picks it up and pats it fondly before smiling and saying the words he utters before every performance, without fail, letting them echo in the empty room.

“Showtime, old friend.”

***

(Part of this is very obviously based on the original deleted intro of the movie.)

#pixar coco #coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #cocolocos

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mc-dude · 6 years

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home

The sky is overcast, when it finally happens.

He thought it would be clear– the sun would come out, clouds would part, birds start singin’, etc., etc.. Had envisioned that the weight would lift off of his chest and he could finally take a unhindered breath for the first time in seven years, imagined some kinda cosmic entity would descend from the sky and tell him rest now, gabriel. You’ve done enough.

But there’s only a light drizzling of rain and a pile of bird shit precariously close to his coat, the fumes of distant smouldering buildings melting into the skyline. He snorts. Typical. His right heel clunks against the perforated concrete as he swings his leg out and in, out and in.

The world never gave a shit about him or his fucking problems, and it’s not about to start now.

A purple clad thigh settles down a respectful distance away from him.

“Well, that was almost disappointing,” she sighs, haphazardly waving her hand in the air in emphasis, “how easy they fell.”

Gabe huffs, leaning back on his forearms, eyes still trained on the billowing plumes of smoke in the distance. “It’s a lot easier to behead someone once you’ve removed all their limbs.”

“Eugh, asqueroso,” she pinches her nose. “I’m glad I can count on you to provide the vivid imagery as usual, amigo.”

His nose itches. It’s something he’s long ignored, the constant mending of his skin, the way it destroys and rebuilds itself over and over in a disgusting mockery of biology. The constant pain has become something of a reassurance– it means he can still feel something. He leans back on aching wrists, angling for a distraction.

“Did you dump the info online?”

“Por favor, who do you take me for? I did it ages ago. It’s trending on every news site worldwide.” She pulls up a holoscreen, shoving it in front of his nose. “This one is even calling for a post-humerus pardon for one Commander Gabriel Reyes.”

“Hmm. A bit late.”

“The common folk are always such, amigo. Can never see what’s right in front of their noses.” She reaches over to boop his nose. Gabe swats at her hand without any real vigor.

“So,” she starts, hesitating just long enough for Gabe to know whatever she’s about to say he’s not gonna like. “What are you gonna do now?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Die, I guess.”

“Dios mío, you’re always so fucking dramatic.”

Gabe ignores her. He always thought this fight would end with his (second) death, splattered against the floor of some forgotten warehouse, alone and forgotten. Now that it‘s over, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to do.

That’s a lie, an annoying voice whispers into his ear. You know what you want to do. He tells that voice to shut the fuck up and flops back against the rooftop, hand rubbing at his temple.

“Here I thought you would settle into a nice retirement– ” Gabriel catches the incredulous laugh that bubbles out of his throat before it leaves his lips “ –get a nice quiet house in L.A., adopt a dog. Maybe take up cross-stitching.”

“Hilarious.”

“I wasn’t making a joke.” She stands up, stretching her hands above her head. He trains an eye on her as she perches on the edge of the roof, arms outstretched to keep her balance. Adrenaline junky, he grouses to himself. Gonna get her killed.

“You’re right, Gabe,” she says, quietly. Serious, for the first time in a while. It makes him lift his head to give her his full attention. “You’re done. This long war you’ve been raising, it’s over. You deserve a little R&R.” She turns to him, smirk on her face. She taps her lips with a finger as if in deep thought. “Maybe a vacation? Somewhere sunny with a nice view.” She points her finger in the air, eyes going wide with a wicked sort of delight. “I know this great place in Gibraltar–”

Just like that, his amicable mood sours. He throws his arm over his mask with a groan. “Shut the fuck up, Sombra.”

“No, I’m serious. Hear me out– you’ve exposed them!” She pauses, spinning around on the edge and walking back the way she came. “Well.. I did, because I’m awesome and the security on that omnic’s hardware was hilarious bad, but that’s besides the point.” She turns and spreads her arms wide, gesturing to the horizon. “They know now. Everyone knows what really happened, what caused the fall of you’re little club.” She takes a few steps closer to him and kneels down so that they’re on a more even level, her voice growing quiet again. “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

Gabe stares at her. Doesn’t have to hide. What a joke. His nose itches again. He wiggles it in annoyance. Tired red eyes glance back up at the overcast sky. A drop of water lands on the eye hole of his mask, rolls down until it hits his decaying skin and evaporates. A wisp of smoke rolls off the point of impact, fading into the skyline. The exhaustion hits him all at once.

“I’m tired, Somb.”

“I know,” she coos, patting the top of his hood with fondness. “And now you can rest. Reconcile. Relax.”

Gabe glares at her. “You think it’s gonna be that easy? Forgiveness doesn’t just happen overnight.”

“But they must have read the news, must have realised by now what you’ve been doing–”

“Who said I was talking about their forgiveness?”

“Gabriel,” she says softly, tentatively.

He sits back up, wraps his arms around one of his knees to rest his chin on it. The fires are starting to die down, now just a whiff of smoke lazily drifting towards the sky. He can hear sirens in the distance, muffled by the thick fabric of his hood.

“.. you know what Talon did to me. You read the files.”

“I recall skimming the procedures done to one Subject 002 while I was carefully reducing their supplies of relevant pharmaceuticals over time, yes.” She pauses. “.. but you remember, don’t you? Once the sessions stopped, once the drugs were so watered down they had no effect on you anymore.”

“Bits and pieces,” he admits reluctantly. “They’ll come back to me in dreams, sometimes. Never know if they’re fucking real.” He kicks at the wall again. “The anger stays, though. The betrayal. All those years of having them feed that shit directly into my brain. Those aren’t so easy to get rid of.”

“You read the reports yourself, Gabe. What they did to you, what they made you think. What they did to make Jac–”

He glares at her sharply. “Don’t,” he rasps, low and dangerous.

Sombra puts her hands up defensively. “I’m just sayin’. The data doesn’t lie.”

He sighs, the exhausting eating away at his bones like it always does, making him hunch over like the old fucker he is. “I know. But this–” he taps the side of his skull. “This does.” A whiff of smoke rolls off of the impact, sifting into the air like a disease. “Who knows what fucking side effects I have from the shit they did. Some kind of programming to hurt someone after some predetermined conditions are met.” He tries not to think about the way they found Gerard, lying in a pool of his own blood with a single bullet hole lodged neatly between his forehead, a peaceful smile on his face. Of course, of all the fucking memories he got back, that is the one he can remember with perfect clarity. “Maybe by killing them all I just triggered something,” he says darkly, cautiously, “and one day you’ll wake up to see me hovering over your bed with a shotgun in your face.”

Sombra tsks, disgusted. “Like you could get past my security.”

Gabe rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You know what I mean.” He kicks his feet again. “It’s better if i just– fade away. For everyone.”

“Hmm,” Sombra sits down next to him, neatly folding her feet under her legs. “For you, maybe. Not for the people who still care about you.”

Gabe huffs. “No one cares about me.” Sombra taps her chin.

“That’s weird, then what’s the recorded 248 hours of log files I found on a certain swiss doctor’s computer of her running simulations on how to reverse your condition? The last one was made, oh,” she checks her arm display, “two days ago, by the way.” She opens a holodisplay of a white lily and waves it in front of his face. “Or the flowers that get sent to your sister’s fabric store every other month? There’s no name, but I traced the account to a bank in Cairo.” Gabe tenses up, fingers curling into the concrete. It crumbles beneath his grip. “Or should I tell you about a certain old man with a receding hairline who visits your grave every third sunday of the month–”

“Enough.“

“Oh, and then there’s a certain renown hacker who has been assisting you with your fucking mission for the past few years, you absolute moron. I know we don’t talk about feelings much, but you have to know that I care about you.”

Gabe tries to uncurl from where he’s been cradling the panging in his chest. “You care because I’m useful,” he spits between clenched teeth.

Sombra laughs. “Just because you’re useful doesn’t mean I don’t care. What’s the point of friends if you don’t help each other out?” She leans over to bump her shoulder against his arm. The impact makes him wince. “Nice attempt to change the subject, by the way.” She leans in closer, wrapping her fingers around the cuff of his jacket. “What are you so afraid of, Gabriel? That they won’t accept you, or that they will?”

His hand is shaking as he reaches for his mask, unclipping it and unsteadily pressing his knuckles to his forehead. “Fuck.” He hates how fucking perceptive she is. He used to have so many secrets before he met her. Smoke drifts away from a hole on his face, a haze of nanites that remind him just how fucking hopeless his situation is.

“They’ll never accept me looking like this.” He feels a third eye erupt from his forehead, world tilting with an infrared hue that he'll never get used to. He trains it on Sombra (as if to say see?) who doesn’t even flinch, just shrugs.

“Pff, come on. I’ve seen pics from when you were younger, Soldier 24.” He instinctively bristles at the name. “You were super hot. I’m sure the good doctor will be able to fix you up.” She pats his thigh amicably and reaches for a pouch on her belt to pull something out, hiding it behind her back. “Okay, hold our your hand.”

Gabe narrows his eyes. “Why.”

Sombra pouts. “Because that’s what you do when you’re accepting a gift.”

“I don’t want any of your gifts.”

“Always so difficult. Here–”

Sombra reaches out for his hand and places a light metal object in it. Gabe turns it over in his hand.

“.. and this is?”

“A phone. Come on, I know you’re not that old–”

“Sombra,” he interrupts with gritted teeth.

“It’s secure. My own work, of course. All you have to do is hit número uno on the speed dial.” She pats his hand one more time and springs to her feet. “For when you’re ready.”

If his heart still beat he’s sure it’d be bleeding out of his chest by now. He tries to clear his throat, but when he speaks it’s a barely audible rasp. “Ready for..?”

Sombra smiles at him before spinning on her heel to the fire escape, one hand waving casually over her shoulder.

“To see your family again.”

Gabe watches her walk away. He glances back down at the phone in his right hand. His mask is still in the other.

He stares at the both for a long time, until the sun sets behind the distant hills and the moon peaks out behind a sudden gap in the clouds. The moonlight gives his mask an almost ethereal glow. It’s well-crafted; hand-sculpted carbon fiber, built in holographic display with all the latest tech. He vaguely remembers the day he got it, handed to him by some dead guy with a smug look on his face. A new face for the new you. We can’t have you scaring the populace, now can we, my dear Reaper.

Fuck, he hated that guy. The shotgun blast to the roof of his mouth was the least he deserved. He curls his fingers around the edge of the mask.

It’s transformed from something they forced on him to something he’s chosen to hide behind, something that keeps him safe from prying eyes. He doesn’t remember the last time he took it off, before now.

You don’t have to hide anymore. Gabe pauses. Considers.

“Fuck that,” he announces with finality.

He takes one last look at the mask before curling his arm back as far as it can go and launching it into the distance.

He lets his coat and gloves dissolve and tugs the hood from his hoodie up over his head. He palms the phone, chest clenched with indecision before powering it on and hitting the 1 button before he can stop himself.

The dial tone rings once. Twice. Someone picks up.

“.. Gabriel.”

Not a question, not a statement. Just his name, spoken from lips he hasn’t heard it from in years. His knees almost give out and he sags heavily against the wall, hand clenched over his mouth to muffle the sob that works its way up his throat.

“Are you ready to come home?” No nonsense, straight to the point. Just like she’s always been. Gabe lets out a shaky laugh and stands, wiping his palms on his pants.

“Yeah,” he makes for the fire escape, making sure his hood is tugged snugly on top of his head before opening the door. “I’m ready.”

#gabriel reyes #writin #i haven't written anything in so long don't judge me #i just had this mental img in my head and i wanted to barf it down somewhere #i barely proof read this so #brace urselves #vague r76

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slusheeduck · 6 years

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Arrival

I’m trying to write a post-movie fic but it’s not quite coming together. For now, here’s the first snippet from it; I have a second snippet I’ll upload later, too.

“You know, you can tell me if I’m in hell.”

Imelda entered the afterlife in the same way she spent a majority of her life: alone, ready to get to work, and frustrated at what was keeping her from getting to work. A few hours ago, the target of that frustration had been her arthritis and weak lungs; now, it was the skeleton in front of her who was sorting through entirely too many files and making her wait.

He laughed at her comment, apparently not thinking she was serious. “You are definitely not there, Señora…Rivera! There we are.” He opened her file and set a neat stack of papers in front of her. “Yes, Imelda Rivera. I’ll just need you to sign in a few places.”

Imelda rolled her eyes so hard she felt them rattle a bit in her skull, but she took the pen and signed wherever she saw an X. The clerk chattered as she signed.

“Usually we try and call whatever family is here to welcome new arrivals,” he said. “We, ah, we tried contacting your parents, but they didn’t…”

“Good. I didn’t want to see them when I was alive, I don’t want to see them now,” she said crisply. Ayy, why were there so many X’s? Dying shouldn’t be this complicated.

“Ah…yes. Well. We did find one relative, and I think you’ll be very happy to see him.”

She frowned slightly as she continued signing, racking her brain for who she’d possibly want to see. Coco was still alive, as were the grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Oscar and Felipe weren’t in the best health, but unless one of them miraculously dropped dead and finished all their paperwork before she did (Ha.), it couldn’t be them.

On the other side of the door, she sat up as she heard a slight commotion, narrowing her eyes at the door. Ay, wasn’t death supposed to bring peace? Who was the idiot out there causing a ruckus?

“Ramirez, mira mira! It’s the escape artist!”

“Aren’t you a little early, amigo? Dìa de los Muertos isn’t for another four months!”

“Ha haaa. Qué gracioso! You two should do comedy, really.”

Imelda stiffened as she heard the last voice. It couldn’t be…no, es imposible. Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from imagining the way the speaker straightened up with a big, proud smile as he added, “I’m here to greet my wife.”

“Um…Señora Rivera? You’re about to break my pen.”

Imelda blinked once, twice, then let out a breath. As she resumed her signing, she asked in a clipped voice, “Who’s the relative you found?”

“Well, from the sound of it, you haven’t seen him in a while and I always think it’s fun to surpri—”

“Who is the relative?” She flicked her eyes up to look at him. The clerk swallowed (impressive she could notice that, considering he had no throat.)

“Well, we…found your husband.”

Ave María purísma. That had been him. She seethed quietly, immediately imagining a million ways he could have died. Maybe he had been crushed by a bell like that friend of his. That would have been satisfying to know. Or maybe he’d lived too hard a celebrity’s life and died alone in some hotel room—or, more embarrassingly, in some other woman’s bed—after drinking too much. Well, regardless of how it happened, serve him right.

She let out a long breath as she signed the last paper, then said, very calmly, “There’s been a mistake. I don’t have a husband.”

The clerk let out a nervous laugh. “Um…well, you…kind of do? It says right here: Spouse: Hé—”

“I. Don’t. Have. A. Husband.”

Imelda leaned forward, fixing her eyes right onto the clerk’s. She could hear his bones rattle slightly as she maintained eye contact, keeping her face fierce. Finally, he swallowed again.

“I…well, yes, there…must have been a mistake.”

Imelda crossed her arms again. “And I don’t want to see whatever vago you found. All I want is some good quality leather and some thread; I bet you people haven’t had decent shoes in centuries.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll…I’ll let him know.” He quickly skittered down from his seat, heading to the door. He poked his head out, and Imelda flinched as she heard that voice again.

“Can I come in? Is she doing all right? My diosa, she’s always…”

“There’s…been a mistake, señor. She says she doesn’t have a husband.”

“What?! But she…I mean, that must be her! Look, i-if I could just get in and say…”

“I’m sorry, Señor Rivera, but there’s been a mistake. Rivera’s a common enough name that…”

“Please, just let me—!!”

There was another commotion, and Imelda fought to keep her eyes forward. The clerk quickly shut the door, muffling the voices outside.

“Let go!”

“Come on, amigo. Isn’t it time you get to planning your next bridge crossing?”

“Look, if you two can just let me go see her, I won’t bother you at all this Dìa de Muertos! I’ll be a saint! Just…just let me see her!”

“And miss this year’s scheme? I want to see if you can out-do the minivan year.”

“Just…please, I need…Imelda!”

She flinched again, her name piercing right through the door, and the clerk gave her a sympathetic look.

“Sorry about that, Señora Rivera. We try our best to keep arrivals as worry-free as possible. If there’s anything I can do to make up for this mistake?”

She glanced back at the door again, then gripped her arms before putting on the same strong face she had the day he had left. “Like I said, show me where I can get some good leather and thread.”

#Coco spoilers #coco fanfic #WIP

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