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foggyfanfic · 3 months

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Echoes on a Toy Guitar

Oneshot Summary: Coco AU. Imelda's parents die in a house fire and it just so happens the only photo she has of them is from her and Hector's wedding. On the Day of the Dead she puts the photo of her, her parents, and Hector on the ofrenda without a second thought. That night, the toy guitar Hector sent for Coco starts playing Coco's lullaby.

TW: Death, implied sex

It started on the Day of the Dead. Imelda’s parents had died in a house fire barely a month before the holiday and the only picture she had of them was from her and Hector’s wedding. She put it up without much thought to her husband standing beside her in the middle of the photo, the only one smiling in what was supposed to be a serious portrait of their wedding party.

“How can I do anything but smile?” he had asked, when her father had complained, “I just married the most wonderful woman in the world.”

Imelda had blushed, and tried to fight down her own love sick smile, but when he’d turned those soft brown eyes her way, she had melted.

So she put the wedding photo on the ofrenda and placed down a few offerings, including the gifts Hector had sent for them three and a half weeks ago. Well, gifts was perhaps not the right word, her parents had asked her to ask him to send them some parts to fix their record player, and he had complied, albeit a few days too late. She didn’t know what she expected them to do with those parts in the after life, but hey, they’d asked for them.

As Imelda placed the wedding photo on the ofrenda, her only worry was that Hector might not have received her letter alerting him that her parents were dead. In the letter sent with the gramophone parts, Hector had mentioned that he was trying to talk Ernesto out of yet another detour that would only serve to lengthen their tour. Based on the return address on the money she’d received two days later, Ernesto had once again gotten his way.

A toy guitar had arrived for Coco the day after, with a note promising he would teach her how to play it as soon as he got home.

She was glad the tour was going well, really she was. They had bills to pay after all, and it was nice to have some savings. However, Imelda missed her husband, and she couldn’t help wishing that he would just come home already. She had started looking at alternate ways for her to make money, perhaps working was a bit below her station, but if it meant their little family could be together more…? Imelda would do it with a smile on her face.

But then on Day of the Dead, less than a month since she’d last heard from her husband, the little toy guitar in Coco’s room started to play music.

It was when the child friendly festivities were over and Imelda was putting Coco down for bed. Her teeth were brushed, her face was washed, and all that was left for her to do was sing the lullaby her father had written at 8:15 sharp. Coco started singing, and the small guitar sitting on the rocking chair in the corner accompanied her.

Coco laughed and clapped, “Papa sent me a magic guitar!”

Imelda stared at the guitar, slowly nodding, “You know your papa, he wants you to have the very best.”

She tucked her daughter in, kissed her good night, then lifted the toy guitar so she could inspect it for gears. Imelda didn’t find anything, but she decided that they must be there regardless, hidden somehow. It was simply a fancy looking music box, she told herself, that went off by itself after three weeks of lying silent. It meant nothing.

No, that wasn’t true, it meant Hector had tracked down a toy maker and custom ordered a music box for their little girl. That ridiculous man. Didn’t he know Coco would have been happy with a perfectly normal toy guitar? Imelda shook her head, smiling fondly.

When she was done toasting their parent’s memory with her brothers, Imelda changed into her nightgown and laid down to sleep. She thought again of Coco’s “magic” guitar and her heart ached for her husband. It ached so hard that as she fell asleep she could almost swear that she felt a hand stroking her hair, just as Hector sometimes did.

The guitar played Coco’s lullaby the next day, and the day after. Coco was delighted, Imelda was mildly curious about how it worked.

No more letters arrived from Hector. The last gift she got from him was a necklace with Coco’s and his name inscribed on the heart shaped pendant. She wore it every day.

The money he had sent lasted them six months, long enough that Imelda was able to learn how to make shoes and had started doing so before Hector’s money ran out. Her brothers moved in to help her run her new business, they didn’t ask where Hector was, but they eventually did ask about the self playing guitar.

“It’s a music box,” Imelda brushed off the question, “Hector wrote that song for Coco, he must have gotten it custom ordered. Like my necklace.”

Oscar and Felipe had shared a look, a worried frown taking over both their faces. Imelda pretended not to see it, she just focused on the shoe she was making.

The guitar accompanied Coco every night, even when she sang the song a little bit late or early. Most nights, Imelda fell asleep to an invisible hand stroking her hair. She tried not to think about it, she focused on shoes and raising Coco, and tried not to wonder where her husband was.

A year after Hector’s last gift arrived, the radio in her workshop began playing Hector’s songs. Sung by Ernesto.

The first time one of his songs came on the radio, everything in the workshop froze. It was the song Hector had written for their first anniversary, a song that he had never allowed Ernesto to sing.

“It’s not for them Ernesto, it’s not for money,” Hector had said, shaking his head, “It’s for the love of my life, and the many years we will spend together.”

“But Hector-.”

“No,” Hector had stood firm, he always stood firm when it came to songs he’d written for his family, “I’m sorry mi amigo, but this one belongs to Imelda.”

Imelda stared at the radio, Oscar and Felipe did the same. She put down the shoe, and stood to turn it off or perhaps change the channel, but before she had taken a single step towards it, the radio turned off by itself. They could all clearly see the off switch toggle off without anyone touching it. In the ensuing silence you could hear a pin drop, so there was nothing to cover the sound of feet stomping out of the shop and up the stairs.

A door slammed somewhere else in the house.

“Imelda,” Felipe said.

“I know,” she whispered.

She sat back down, eyes still glued to the radio, and her heart pounding in her ears.

“Oscar, Felipe, I… I need you to run an errand for me,” Imelda eventually said, “the last of the money came from Mexico City, I need you two to go, take Hector’s picture and-. I-if the police there don’t recognize him, he was in Santiago de Queretaro before that.”

“Si Imelda,” they said as one.

“We’ll go pack,” Oscar said.

“We’ll leave on the first train tomorrow morning,” Felipe added.

“Bien,” she heard herself say, slowly nodding.

They left her alone and she sat there holding a half finished shoe for who knows how long before she eventually got back to work. Nothing was confirmed. It could have been… a power surge, perhaps the radio was broken. And the stomping was the pipes banging around. And the hand that stroked her hair every night was her imagination. And the guitar was a music box.

Hector… Hector was probably fine.

Except he wasn’t. A week later she met Oscar and Felipe at the station, they looked at her with mournful eyes and handed her a copy of her husband’s death certificate. The cause of death was listed as curare poisoning. Three days after the toy guitar arrived, Hector was found dead in the street with his suitcase and wallet, but no guitar.

“He… he had a train ticket home,” Oscar said, voice choked up.

Felipe nodded, “He would have been back in time for Coco’s birthday.”

Imelda stared at the sheet of paper and wondered how in the world she was going to explain to Coco that her father was dead.

“They’re going to send us his personal effects.”

“And somebody to… arrange for the b-body to be moved here. If that’s what we want-?”

“It is.”

“Imelda…”

“We are so sorry.”

She nodded, still staring at the death certificate, “Curare poisoning.”

Her brothers didn’t respond, when she looked up at them they were avoiding her gaze.

“How does somebody… is it a kind of food poisoning?”

“It… no. It’s not something that…”

“They said it doesn’t happen… naturally.”

Something cold settled in her gut. Her husband was poisoned, and left for dead with his wallet but not his guitar.

And now Ernesto was singing her song on the radio.

“Let’s go home,” Imelda said, she could feel steel crawling up her spine, coating her bones. Her mind whirled with thoughts of violence and grief. She went straight to her workshop and made shoes until it was time to pick Coco up from school. Dinner was thrown together, then eaten, and before she knew it, it was 8:15.

“Coco, mi corazon,” Imelda put a hand on her daughter’s wrist to forestall the inevitable song, “we… need to talk. I need to tell you something, about your father.”

Coco’s face fell. She had stopped asking when her Papá would be home four months after the guitar started playing her song. Imelda hadn’t dared to ask where Coco thought Hector was, Imelda hadn’t dared asking herself where Hector was.

“Where’s Papá?” Coco asked, for what would be the last time.

Imelda swallowed past the lump in her throat, but there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from forming in her eyes, “He… He is not coming home, mija. Your father loved us very much, and he wanted to be here with us, but he… he is with abuelo and abuela now.”

“Are we going to have a funeral for him too?” Coco asked, beginning to sniffle.

“Sí,” Imelda nodded, she would have said more but Coco began sobbing, all Imelda could do was hold her.

Hesitantly at first, then somewhat desperately, the little toy guitar began playing Coco’s lullaby. It didn’t stop there this time, it played every soft song Hector had ever known, one right after another. Coco cried herself to sleep in Imelda’s arms after an hour, but the guitar kept playing until the break of dawn, when it played “Remember Me” one last time, then finally went silent.

Imelda listened to each song, held her daughter, and slowly accepted that her husband was haunting their home.

“Hector, if I can find some way to kill you for dying, I will do so,” she whispered to the room, then when there was no response she continued, “do you have any idea how much we’ve missed you? How much we’re going to-. Hector, you are the love of my life, you can’t just, just-, if you think I’m letting you out of this marriage that easy you have another thing coming!”

She almost, almost heard a chuckle. But it could have been the wind, or an echo from outside.

“Hector, what am I supposed to do?” Imelda squeezed her daughter a little closer, “How am I supposed to raise Coco without a father?”

The rocking chair rocked without anyone touching it.

“Sí, sí, you’re here, but you’re not here Hector,” she frowned at the toy guitar firmly, “you can’t help her with her homework, or run errands while I make dinner. You won’t be there to dance with her at her quinceanera, or walk her down the aisle. You… you’ll be a face on the ofrenda, a hole in the family photo, and a lullaby on a toy guitar. That is not the same thing as being here.”

There was once again, no response, but she didn’t need to see or hear her husband to know he was wearing the same kicked-puppy look he’d worn the first time Coco had gotten sick.

“You never should have left, we could have made do without the money,” Imelda sighed, then said, “I love you Hector, I always will.”

A hand began stroking her hair and she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the tears that fell anyways.

Imelda wasn’t surprised when she got Hector’s things back and his songbook was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t surprised when rumors spread about his fate, and soon the whole town knew he’d been murdered. She wasn’t even surprised when the sheriff showed up at her door and asked if she wanted him to investigate Ernesto.

“I am gathering evidence, anything you can add will be most appreciated,” she’d said, chin raised high.

“What you planning to do?”

“I simply wish to ensure that my husband is remembered well.”

Imelda was surprised by how many people showed up for Hector’s funeral, although she probably shouldn’t have been. Hector was a kind man, a charming one, she was far from the only person who loved him. Still, the crowd that gathered for the modest service was almost overwhelming in its size. The amount of well wishes and offers of help was enough to almost break through her defenses and pull the tears from her eyes.

“The only assistance I require is in gathering proof,” Imelda said, to each person that offered their help, “If you could write down any memory you have of Hector and that man you think may be relevant, I would like to collect them.”

The memories came, and they kept coming. When they could afford to do so, Oscar or Felipe would travel to the towns Hector had played in, and ask around at the venues Hector had written to her about.

Before Imelda knew it, another year had passed, and the guitar still played Coco’s song every night.

Ernesto’s voice was almost inescapable, it seemed that every other song on the radio was written by Imelda’s late husband.

The radio in the workshop would change channels the minute Ernesto started singing. It freaked Oscar and Felipe out at first, but they got used to it, at one point Oscar had even asked for a song to be turned up. The radio had obliged, even as Oscar had frozen solid, staring into the distance as he realized what he’d done.

One night, Imelda sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair out before bed, and when she looked at the window in the mirror, she could see Hector’s silhouette. She couldn’t see his face, but he was turned towards her, doubtlessly staring at her with a soft smile on his face, like he’d done so many nights before.

There was something about it, about this ghost of her husband sitting in the window, likely giving her the same love sick look he always had, that broke her. As she started sobbing the silhouette came closer, then disappeared. A hand stroked her hair until her tears dried.

She drifted towards her bed and curled up in a little ball under her covers, holding herself as tightly as she could. Arms wrapped themselves around her and out of habit she went to place her hand over his, but there was nothing there for her to hold.

Imelda didn’t sleep that night.

By the third anniversary of his death, she had collected every story of her husband there was to collect. Whenever she wasn’t in her workshop, or taking care of Coco, Imelda was putting the stories in order.

A poster of Ernesto reached Santa Cecilia. He had Hector’s guitar.

Imelda had to stop the musicos in the square from burning the poster, “I can prove that guitar is Hector’s, let me have this. And if you find any other pictures of Ernesto with my husband’s guitar, send them to me.”

The pictures soon came flooding in as well.

With the evidence compiled, Imelda began checking out law books from the library. The librarian ordered books on copyright law and intellectual property.

One night, at 8:15, Coco sang her lullaby along with the guitar, then stared at the toy.

“Mamá, when you said Pá was with abuelo and abuela… are you sure?”

Imelda hesitated, but eventually said, “Your father loves us very much.”

“He’s not stuck, is he?” Coco asked, brow crinkling in concern.

Imelda hadn’t known for sure how to answer that, but she shook her head and simply said, “No mi corazon, he’s just not ready to leave us.”

Coco accepted this with a little nod, “Good night Mamá, good night Papá.”

Imelda pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair, stood and walked to her own room, doing her best to keep her steps calm and even. As soon as the door to her bedroom was closed she hissed, “You’re not stuck, right? You’ll be there to meet us when it’s our time, right Hector?”

The room was silent. Imelda waited for something, a sign, a whisper, a miracle, but there was only the faint sound of music coming from outside. She sighed and got ready for bed.

As she drifted off she heard a voice, an achingly familiar voice say, “I will never leave you again.”

It took until a little after the fifth anniversary of her husband’s death for Imelda to feel sure that she had all the evidence she needed, and a thorough enough understanding of the law to keep from getting steamrolled over by Ernesto’s lawyers. Now she just needed to figure out the best way to come forward.

Her confidence flagged. She was just one woman and she had no proof that Ernesto had killed Hector, just that Hector had written all of Ernesto’s songs. And that he wasn’t receiving any credit.

She could surely sue and receive enough money to set her family up for generations to come, but she didn’t want money.

Imelda had never cared about the money her husband’s songs brought in.

Then, it happened. It was a normal day, she was making shoes with her brothers, listening to the radio and keeping half an eye on the clock. Coco would come home from school soon, and Imelda would have to get started on dinner. The radio jumped around, avoiding Ernesto as it always did.

And then, “Remember me…”

It was like the first time the radio had played one of Hector’s songs, but somehow ten times worse. Oscar and Felípe froze, and so did their breath as it hit the air and turned to mist. The only movement Imelda could muster were a few shivers as the temperature in the room plummeted.

She smelled Hector’s cologne, just a quick whiff of it, and she heard a guitar. Not a stolen guitar playing a stolen lullaby over the radio, but one that floated invisible through the house, echoing and rageful and drowning out all other sound.

The radio lifted itself into the air, and then slammed onto the ground, it cracked but played on. So the radio slammed into the ground again and again until it was nothing more than a pile of broken pieces.

The guitar settled, then disappeared, the temperature returned to normal.

Oscar and Felípe gulped in unison, each as white as a sheet. Imelda, took a few deep breaths, she put down the shoe she had just started and stood.

“Oscar, Felípe, will you go wait for Coco? Take her for ice cream,” Imelda said, and they were nodding, racing for the door before she’d even finished talking.

When they were gone, the room was briefly still, Imelda fought hard to keep her eyes from drifting down to the pile of rubble that had once been her radio.

Invisible arms wrapped around her legs, then she heard Hector weeping.

If she could have touched him, she would have bent down and pulled him into her arms. She would have rubbed his back and kissed his face and told him she loved him. If she could touch him she would have dragged him up to their room and held him until he fell asleep.

But if she could touch him, he wouldn’t be dead, would he?

So all she did was wait. The weeping went on for what felt like hours, and her feet ached by the time the arms wrapped around her legs released her. But she didn’t dare move, standing there and waiting was the only thing she could offer her husband.

When she looked down at her skirt, the lack of tear stains made her want to hit something.

“Hector, go upstairs, go rest. Or whatever it is ghosts do when they’re tired, I will clean up the radio.”

The broom in the corner fell over, Hector had always hated it when Imelda cleaned up after him. It didn’t happen often, if he made a mess he was always sure to clean it up before she got to it, but sometimes even the best of men get sick. Rather pathetically, the broom started trying to drag itself over to the destroyed radio.

It barely moved, Imelda wondered if Hector had tired himself out with all the theatrics.

“Go,” she said firmly, “I will handle this.”

The broom gave up, a kiss lingered against her cheek for a second or two, then she was alone.

Imelda frowned as she realized she could feel the difference between Hector being in the room and him not being there. The startling thing was that she hadn’t felt the absence of his presence since… well, for a long time. Was he always watching her?

It wouldn’t be too out of character for Hector to spend all day staring at her, grinning like a damn fool, the thought that he was doing that even now made her heart ache. But he had been such a vibrant man, a man who so enjoyed life and all it had to offer. He hadn’t spent all of his time staring at her, there’d been too much else to hold his interest.

There had been food to eat, and by extension recipes to learn, songs to write, guitar strings to pluck, a daughter to play with, and an endless list of random hobbies to try.

Now, what did her husband have? A wife to watch, a toy guitar to play for the daughter he loved, and a best friend to hate.

When Imelda was done cleaning up the shop, she went upstairs and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Hector, mi amor, are you happy here?”

There was, of course, nothing but silence.

“We love you, we miss you, a-and I wish-, I do not want to let you go. But I love you Hector,” her voice broke and she stared down at her lap, “I-I can’t-. It’s bad enough knowing what was done to you, what was taken, seeing you suffer like this? Por favor, if there is somewhere you can go, if there is an afterlife that will hold some peace for you-.”

The bed shook, and she heard that guitar again. It wasn’t quite as angry as before, rather it strummed out a tango much like the ones they used to dance to.

Next to her ear, rougher than she’d ever heard it in life, her husband’s voice growled, “I will never leave you again.”

Imelda stopped breathing.

The bed stilled. The guitar faded. She took in a shaking breath.

When Coco got home, Imelda sat with her and explained that Ernesto had started singing Coco’s lullaby. Imelda told her that she didn’t want to hear that man singing Hector’s songs anymore, so she would no longer be allowing a radio into the house.

“From here on out if you want to hear music, you will have to rely on a record player,” Imelda said, sternly.

Coco nodded, “I understand, I don’t want to hear that murderer sing Pá’s songs either.”

“You-, who told you that Ernesto was a murderer?”

“I don’t know,” Coco shrugged, looking up at Imelda with a confused pout, “everybody I guess. Everyone in town knows what happened to Papá, was I not supposed to?”

Imelda sighed, “No, I just- I suppose I wanted to protect you from all that.”

Coco didn’t say anything, she just stared down at the table in between them.

A few months later, word reached their little corner of the world that Ernesto would be starring in a movie. A plan started forming in Imelda’s mind.

She kept up with his interviews as he promoted his movie, taking notes. She also started searching for a lawyer.

One night after everybody else was asleep, she set the law books down on her desk, and set her notes aside. Imelda stood, stretched, and walked to her dresser to pull out her nightgown. As she unbuttoned her dress, the room grew warmer.

Imelda frowned when that guitar came back, she hadn’t heard it in months, and she had assumed it only happened when Hector was feeling emotionally charged.

She shucked the dress and the guitar got louder, she glanced at the mirror and jumped when she saw her husband’s silhouette standing right beside her. Invisible hands began pushing her slip’s straps off her shoulders.

“Ay for god’s sake, you’re dead Hector, I can’t even begin to describe how inappropriate-,” she started to say, but cut off when he kissed her neck.

She had missed her husband, in many, many, ways.

Imelda sighed, “Why now? It’s been almost six years?”

Her slip fell to the ground and her corset opened by itself. Kisses and love bites continued to make their way up and down her neck. Her linen chemise started opening button by button.

“You’ve figured out how to touch me, have you figured out how to let me touch you?”

The mouth on her neck paused, then grinned, it kept going and the guitar sounded almost teasing. She could just see Hector’s eyes sparking with mischief, and she felt a reflexive smile spread across her face.

The chemise joined her slip and corset on the floor, as did her bloomers. The knee high socks were allowed to stay, she noticed.

Hands gripped her hips and began directing her to the bench at her amour, and she gasped. Hector always had her sit there when there was something very specific he wanted to do to her.

“Hector,” she whispered, “this-. We shouldn’t. None of this should-.”

The back of her knees hit the bench and she sat, invisible hands spread her legs wide and she could almost feel him pressing against her as his mouth reappeared on the tops of her breasts. Her knickers started creeping down her hip and she instinctively lifted herself off the bench long enough for them to be pulled off completely.

She closed her eyes, and let herself forget that her husband was dead. His hands caressed her softly and his mouth sucked on her sweetly, as a guitar plucked out an impassioned love song.

After that night she barely went a day without her husband's caress.

He was becoming stronger, she realized, he touched her more, interacted with the house more, his silhouette appeared in the mirror more. Another month, and she stopped bothering with the record player, whenever she was home the invisible guitar followed her from room to room.

Ernesto’s movie came out, two weeks later the lawyer she had chosen knocked on their door. She invited him in, and swallowed back her amusement as he tried in vain to find the source of the playful song Hector was strumming.

“I can not prove any violent crime, but I can prove that my husband’s songs and guitar were stolen,” Imelda said, after briefly bothering with pleasantries.

“Stolen by who?” the lawyer, Señor Bererra asked.

In answer, Imelda placed the family photo of her husband holding what was at the time a brand new guitar down on the table, followed by some of the letters Hector had sent with song lyrics and dates.

Señor Bererra picked up the photo and stared at it, jaw slowly growing slack, “Is that…?”

“That bastard was my husband’s best friend,” Imelda all but growled, and Hector began playing a war march, “he was at our wedding, he was my daughter’s godfather! Then my husband showed up dead in the street with no guitar, no song book, and all of his valuables. And now, he’s playing my daughter’s lullaby as a tawdry love song!”

Bererra gaped, “I-I think I need further proof. What you’re implying is that-.”

“I know what I’m implying, and I’d be happy to provide whatever proof you need,” Imelda pulled out a folder, “here are the receipts from when we bought that guitar, and correspondents between Hector and the guitar’s maker discussing the design. Oh, did I mention it was custom made for him? Here is a signed letter from the guitar’s maker verifying that he made the guitar for Hector, not Ernesto. Here is a wedding photo with Ernesto, myself, and Hector, here is a photo of Hector and Ernesto preparing for a performance in Mexico City two days before my husband was poisoned. Ah, speaking of which, here is my husband’s death certificate and a signed letter from the coroner verifying he most likely died of curare poison. Anything else?”

Instead of responding, he shuffled through everything, shock giving way to grief. Eventually he put everything down, and sat back in his chair.

“I have all of his albums,” he said, in a quiet voice.

“I would thank you to keep them far away from this house. None of us wish to hear Hector’s songs being sung by that scum.”

He didn’t show any sign of having heard her and for a minute she worried she had chosen poorly. He shook his head, sighed, then started nodding instead. With a resigned look he held his hand out for her file, when she handed it to him he immediately began flipping through it.

Imelda waited. Before long, Hector began playing random melodies, and plucking out experimental new songs.

Finally, Señor Bererra put everything back, closed the file, and pushed it back towards her, “You are right, you won’t be able to prove Ernesto de La Cruz killed your husband, not with his team of lawyers. However, you have enough here to end his career if it were to come to light, you and your daughter will be set for life.”

“We are already taken care of,” Imelda waved his words off, “I want my husband to be remembered as the artist he was, I want the entire world to know that he wrote those songs, that he was the genius behind Ernesto’s success. And if I have to burn everything Ernesto has built for himself to the ground in order to make that happen, well! I will consider that a perk.”

He pursed his lips, “Coming forward with this information would be extremely risky, for you and your daughter.”

The guitar music abruptly stopped.

“I am not afraid of Ernesto. That vapid-.”

“It is not Ernesto de la Cruz I am speaking of, although I think it bears mentioning that we have reason to believe he has already killed once for success. It is his fans. They will not accept this easily, some will accuse you of lying, they may come after you and your family in a misguided attempt to protect their idol.”

Imelda drummed her fingers on the table. She hadn’t considered that.

Hector plucked out a nervous melody, he had never been one for caution, not until Coco was born. Even then, while he had staunchly guarded their daughter from every swinging cabinet door and potentially dirty fly, he hadn’t bothered exercising the same care when she was out of his arms. But Imelda recognized his plea for caution in the song.

“I will talk to the sheriff,” she decided, “see what protections he can offer us.”

And she would abandon some of the flashier plans she had made. Much as she would love to grind Ernesto under her heel, she would not allow any harm to come to her little girl. As long as people knew the truth about Ernesto and Hector, that would be enough.

“Ah, sí, that is an excellent idea,” Señor Bererra agreed, “in the meantime, we should have copies made of all this. And I will begin drafting some letters for some friends of mine. This will be quite the undertaking, I will most likely need help.”

“Very well,” she nodded, “is there anything else you need from me?”

The meeting went by swiftly after that, Señor Bererra explained what she might expect to happen next, what letters he would be writing, what judges and agencies he would be contacting. All that. She offered him one of the guest rooms, since he had come all the way from the city, and he accepted.

At dinner that night he seemed quite charmed by Coco’s questions about his job, and increasingly confused by the guitar music that followed Imelda in and out of the room.

He didn’t ask, not at dinner, and not in the morning on his way to the train station.

Imelda spoke to the sheriff and he offered to round up volunteers to guard her house when the news broke, she accepted, despite her pride. She had her daughter to think of, after all.

By the time Señor Bererra returned with his secretary to make copies and take pictures of the evidence, the towns’ musicos had formed a militia they were calling the Hector Riveria Revenge Patrol. Hector was quite touched.

Then, things started happening very quickly.

Señor Bererra got in touch with somebody in the government who did something concerning copyright.

News broke two weeks later that Ernesto was being investigated for multiple copyright violations.

A reporter came to town and asked around the square about Ernesto, and Hector. Somebody, Imelda didn’t know who, spilled the whole story, suspected murder and all.

The story hit the front page of multiple newspapers, mere days after it became known that Ernesto had another movie in the works.

More reporters came.

Then the fanatics arrived. Imelda had expected yelling, anger, even violence. She hadn’t expected a group of fans to camp out in the streets outside their home with a record player and every single one of Ernesto’s albums. Señor Bererra advised her that throwing shoes at them might hurt her case.

Hector did his best to drown them out, but the anger and pain in his songs hurt just a little more than the sound of Ernesto singing Hector’s wedding vows.

After two weeks of those bastards camping outside, Imelda stepped out of the house to do the grocery shopping, only to be met by wolf whistles and drunken offers.

“Oh terrific,” she grumbled, eyeing the pile of yelling morons leaning on the house across the street, “somebody gave them tequila.”

“Ay mamacita,” a red faced man hollered, trying and failing to get to his feet, “how’s about you let me give you a reason to remeeeemmmber meeeee.”

A barrage of drunken giggles and guffaws followed his attempts to sing Coco’s lullaby, and they only grew louder when the man finally got to his feet, managing to dance with all the grace of a lame rocking horse.

Hector started playing louder, and the wind picked up.

When the man was swaying in front of the record player, he let out a startled shout, then fell onto the table holding the record player, smashing it.

The guffaws turned to angry shouts.

“Who pushed me?!” The man shouted.

“My record player!” One of his compatriots, presumably the one who owned the now obliterated record player, gasped.

“Hey! That record was limited edition," yelled another.

“Aw the music,” the fourth man lamented, then took another swig from the bottle in his hand.

“I mean it, which one of you assholes pushed me?”

“Nobody pushed you, you moron, you fell and smashed my record player!”

“No, no, somebody pushed me! I felt it.”

“Do you have any idea how much that record cost me?”

“That record-?! Do you have any idea how much the record player cost me?!”

“I know one of you assholes pushed me, now fess up or I’ll-.”

“Or you’ll what?! Break my record player?”

“And my record!”

“Hey lady, do you have a record player we can borrow,” the fourth man called out to her, over the arguing.

“Would you forget about your damn record for a second?!”

“It was limited edition!”

“You know what?!” the first man pushed both of his companions, “There! See how you fucking like- oof.”

Predictably, the three men stumbled their way through a drunken brawl, while the fourth grumbled and scooted away from them. Meanwhile, one by one, all of the records they brought started floating up and smashing themselves against the side of the building they’d been sitting against. By the time the sheriff arrived to break up the fighting, there was only one album still intact.

The sheriff “accidentally” stomped on it as he dragged one of the men off the others.

Hector’s chuckle echoed down the street.

Imelda spent her time in the market racking her brain for a single instance where Hector had followed her out of the house. She had only ever felt his presence in their home, she had assumed he couldn’t leave it. But now the faint sound of Hector’s guitar followed her as she ran her errands.

There were more fanatics, most weren’t calculating enough to actually reach Imelda, usually she only found out about these fans when she had company over and the men would boast about how they’d ran this fan or that out of town. One memorable exception was a young woman with a sweet smile, and a mean right hook. She managed to sneak past the musicos and the Hector Riviera Revenge Patrol to knock on Imelda’s door.

As soon as Imelda opened the door the young woman attacked her, fortunately, Imelda had been holding a shoe at the time and had no qualms with using it.

She’d sported a shiner for the next week, anyone who saw it reacted with either sympathy or awe.

Mostly awe.

Things only got worse after Imelda traveled to the city to tell a judge her story. The courthouse had been surrounded by reporters and fans alike, and she was encouraged to play up her grief for her husband as the cameras flashed. The courtroom itself was empty with the exception of her, the judge, the stenographer, and the lawyers. She was offered a truly obscene amount of money to drop the case.

“Exactly how much money do you think I’d need to convince death to give my husband back?” she had asked the opposing lawyers with narrowed eyes, “I will accept no less.”

They hadn’t responded, and she had turned away from them in disgust.

The judge accidentally let slip to the press that after hearing her testimony he felt the case was all but over. The fans who rolled into town started seeming a bit desperate. Somebody painted threats on the side of her house. A few rocks were thrown through her window. A young couple were caught in the act of trying to burn down the house.

A few months into this pandemonium, Imelda stepped out of her house to head to a meeting with the sheriff and almost tripped over a young man holding a guitar. The boy had been lying on her stoop but immediately got to his feet, stuttering apologies as he did. Imelda examined him closely.

He didn’t look like any of the musicos from town.

“Who are you? What do you want? If this is about de La Cruz my lawyer has advised me-.”

“No! Well, yes, but also no-. I uh, I don’t really,” he shrugged, “I-I guess I just want to um p-pay respects? Or um apologize? I don’t know. I just um wanted to acknowledge, you know, how not great what you’ve been through is?”

Imelda frowned at him suspiciously.

He shuffled his feet and shrugged again, “I know you’ve probably had a lot of Ernesto fans knocking at your door, I read about that stuff in the news sometimes, b-but-. Well, maybe somebody else has come to offer their condolences, I mean, I hope other people have. B-but as an ex Ernesto fan, I-I feel like I should be one of them?”

“Ah,” Imelda said, not sure how to take this, “I am headed to the sheriff, do you know your way to the cemetery?”

“No?”

“Come, I will give you directions, you can pay your respects there,” she started walking, not bothering to check if he kept up with her. After a few beats he appeared in her preferary, so she launched into her explanation on how to get to Hector’s grave.

The boy hared off as soon as she was done, but reappeared outside her door as the sun fell, nervously strumming on his guitar.

“You’re back,” she informed him, through the window above his head.

He glanced up at her, then nodded, “I’ve been a traveling musician for a while, I don’t really know where else to go.”

“The inn.”

He grimaced sheepishly, “I’d need money for that.”

“Then take your guitar to the town square and make some.”

“I uh I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well… the only songs I know are- are your husbands.”

“Ah.” Imelda opened the window so she could stare at him.

“It doesn’t feel right, y’know? Singing his songs,” the boy told her, “not after what happened to him.”

Imelda sighed, leaning crossed arms on the window sill and staring up at the stars, “What do you want? My permission?”

The boy took a couple beats to think about it, “No, I think even if he came back from the dead and gave me permission it still wouldn’t feel right. It- I- His ability to sing his own songs was stolen from him, I-I could never-.”

He cut himself off and sighed, heavily.

Hector played a sad melody that echoed into the street. After a few beats, the boy strummed along, then trailed off.

“I don’t know what to do now,” he whispered.

“I know the feeling,” Imelda quietly admitted. It was easier, somehow, to be honest with this stranger than it was to be honest with her well-wishing neighbors.

The boy looked up at her, eyes shining with sympathy.

“My husband and I used to sing and dance together on nights like this,” she closed her eyes and listened to her husband’s ghost play a song of tragedy, “I still love music, I still love dancing, but to do it without him? What would be the point? It would never hold the same joy as it did when he was alive.”

“So you’ve just stopped dancing?”

“I… I have found other sources of joy,” she said, “other things that keep me going. Like my daughter, or the shoes I make, even the fight to ensure my husband is given the credit he is due. I do not dance any more, but then again, I didn’t use to know the pride to be found in a well made pair of shoes.”

The boy nodded, slowly, eyes growing distant. He looked down at the guitar in his hands, strummed out a few chords, then sighed and leaned his head back against the wall of her house.

“Your husband was a genius-,” he started to say, but was cut off when Imelda broke out laughing.

Hector briefly stopped playing, then when he started again the song was at once playful and angry.

“Sorry, sorry, I-, sí, of course he was incredibly talented, he had a real gift,” she got herself under control, “b-but he also was an idiot. A complete fool.”

“What? Really?”

“Sí, first and foremost, he could have had any woman in town, but he chose the most difficult one he could find,” Imelda said, with a wry smile, “then there was his complete inability to make breakfast, he could make lunch and dinner just fine, but breakfast? If it was before that first cup of coffee it was beyond him. He was terrible at mopping, somehow, but always insisted that if he tried one more time he’d get the hang of it. And he always had way too much faith in people, the poor fool thought everybody in the world was as good hearted as he was.”

The boy gave her a few beats of silence, a chance to say more, then said, “He sounds pretty great.”

She took a deep breath to keep from crying, “I could talk about him all day, and only ever cover half of what made that idiot the love of my life.”

“I’m sorry he’s gone.”

Imelda didn’t respond, all too aware of the love song Hector had started playing.

Eventually, she gave the boy some food, and enough money to pay for a night at the inn. The kid hung around a month or two, joining the musicos in the square, only ever playing accompaniment. He helped to run a few of the more stubborn fans out of town, and last Imelda saw of him he was following some doe eyed girl to the train station, carrying both of their suitcases.

He was not the last of Ernesto’s ex fans to come give their condolences. Soon, there were as many well wishers running around town as there were enraged fanatics. Imelda never let any of them into her home, but she did agree to a memorial being set up for Hector in the town square.

Hector’s songs stopped sounding so sad.

Finally, there came the vultures in their fine suits. Lawyers who promised to get her three times the cash el Señor Bererra could, talent agents offering up a career with the stars if she sang Hector’s songs, even a few fellows with cameras who wanted to make a documentary about her situation.

After consulting her lawyer, Imelda sent each of them packing, but kept the contact information of the most earnest seeming documentarian.

“My only wish is for my husband to be remembered, for him to have the credit he is due,” she told him as she accepted his business card, “I don’t want any of this attention, but perhaps, when the court case is over, you might tell his story.”

“I would be honored,” the starry eyed young man had said, almost breathlessly.

When he was gone and the door was closed, Imelda remarked to Hector, “Hope that boy was just playing innocent, they’ll tear him to shreds in that business if he’s actually that naive.”

Hector chuckled, playing something light.

“Would you want your story told? They’d put it on the silver screen, you’d be even more famous than you are now,” she asked, walking towards the kitchen.

The guitar trailed off and she felt a sigh brush the back of her neck, a ragged voice next to her ear said, “I only want to come home.”

She stopped walking, staring straight ahead. She tried to swallow the emotion rising in her throat, then took a deep breath and continued on with her chores. The guitar picked back up, playing a song of longing.

Slowly, things started to wind down. The money from the various lawsuits started to trickle in, and just to make a point, Imelda donated most of it. As far as she cared, the day was won as soon as the world learned the truth, she never wanted the money. She wanted her husband, alive and whole, and if she couldn’t have him, she wasn’t about to accept Ernesto’s blood money as a substitute.

The well wishers and mourners now outnumbered the enraged fans.

Hector followed her wherever she went.

Coco started trying to learn how to play the guitar.

And somehow, Imelda felt that things weren’t quite over, that it wasn’t safe to let her guard down. So, she always answered the door with a shoe in hand, even though every time she opened it she was met with a friendly face.

Imelda thought perhaps she would finally have closure when she got Hector’s guitar back. Yet, even once it was sitting on their family’s ofrenda, surrounded by wedding and family portraits, there was still this nagging feeling that things weren’t over.

She wasn’t done, there was still more to do.

One night, a week after the last of Ernesto’s blood money had been donated, Imelda sat at her kitchen table. Her hands were cupped around some cinnamon tea that had long since gone cold. She was still, but her thoughts raced.

When they reached the finish line, she all but deflated.

“You need to move on,” she told the gently strumming guitar that had been trying to soothe her all night, “please Hector, I need to know you’ve found peace.”

His voice was quiet, but the kitchen shook from the emotion it held, “I will never leave you again.”

“Trust me, I am aware,” she huffed, being very careful not to shout and wake the whole house, “there will never be a day that goes by where I won’t miss you. But I’m not asking you to leave, not forever. I am asking you to move on, to go… I don’t know, wait for us at the pearly gates. Visit us on the day of the dead, and play Coco’s lullaby in heaven every night, but stop-. Hector, please, stop punishing yourself.”

As soon as those words were out of her mouth, Imelda knew what was left to do.

The air was still, the guitar silent. She could feel him, however, like a thick blanket on her shoulders, like a warm hand in hers, like a vow on their wedding day. She could feel him standing taut, every intangible muscle in his body tensed for action.

Imelda closed her eyes and prepared herself to lose him, to truly be without him.

“I forgive you, Hector,” she whispered, “I forgive you for leaving, I forgive you for dying, I forgive you for not being here. You can stop atoning now. You can rest.”

Like a cut guitar spring, the tension snapped and the heavy warmth lifted from her shoulders. She held her breath, waiting for the guitar to pick back up.

It didn’t.

“Hector?”

There wasn’t so much as a single note.

Imelda’s breaths sounded like thunder in the empty kitchen. One of them shook, then the next one came out sounding like a whimper. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. No invisible hand stroked her hair, there was no mournful melody to assure her she wasn’t grieving alone, it was just her, crying as quietly as she could in the empty room.

When she heard the creak of a floor board, she cut herself off mid sob. Holding her breath, she listened as quiet footsteps approached the kitchen, coming from the foyer where the stairs up to the bedrooms were. Swallowing a curse she took out her handkerchief and did her best to clean her face.

The footsteps were too heavy to be Coco’s and the only other people in the house were Imelda’s brothers, so when somebody pushed the kitchen door open behind her, she said, “Sorry hermano, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

But it wasn’t one of her brothers who responded.

“Oh no Imelda, you didn’t wake me,” a deep, smooth voice replied, “I’ve been up for hours. Drove all through the night to get here, in fact.”

Imelda gasped, standing from her chair and turning, “Ernesto?!”

He closed the door behind him, and smiled at her cooly, simmering rage lighting his bloodshot eyes. Ernesto’s hair was not quite perfect, his suit almost wrinkled, his stubble just a tiny bit more visible than was considered decent. By his standards, he was an absolute mess.

“Hola Imelda, how have you been,” he said, as casual as you please, despite the revolver held in his right hand, “I myself, I haven’t been well. You see, I’ve lost everything thanks to-.”

It took a few seconds for her brain to register what she was seeing, who was in her kitchen, then it clicked and without thinking, she took the chair and hit him with it.

“You’ve lost everything?!” She yelled as he staggered back, no longer caring if she woke the rest of the house, “You’ve lost everything? Hector has lost his life! I have lost my husband! My daughter has lost her father! All because you couldn’t write your own damn songs.”

He tried to speak, but she hit him with the chair again.

“Was it worth it? Was all the fortune and fame worth killing your best friend?!”

“It was,” he raised the revolver before she could hit him again, and although she snarled, still enraged, she stopped.

The last thing she wanted was for Coco to lose both of her parents.

“Well, good for you then,” she sneered, “so glad my husband’s death was so profitable for you.”

Ernesto glared, cocking the gun, “I worked hard to get where I was-.”

“Worked hard! Hah! Oh what?! Did your hand get tired stirring the poison in Hector’s drink?”

“Shut up,” he hissed.

But Imelda shook her head, “This isn’t one of your movies Ernesto, I’m not following your script. You killed my husband-.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t have to,” she smirked, “you wouldn’t be here threatening me if I did.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, “you didn’t need to prove it to ruin my life, which is why I’m not here to threaten you.”

“Then what do you want?” she snapped, putting the chair down so she could put her hands on her hips.

“You know what the most painful part has been?”

“The feeling of the devil clawing at your soul?”

“What all this has done to my legacy,” he ignored her, apparently determined to get through whatever monologue he’d prepared for her, “I was going to be remembered as one of the greatest artists who ever lived, people would have worshiped me for the next hundred years, I was going to go down in history. But now? Now you have taken my legacy and turned it into ash to spread on Hector’s grave.”

“Hector shouldn’t even be in a grave,” Imelda said, through gritted teeth. If she wasn’t a mother, if she didn’t have Coco to think of, she would hit him with the chair again.

“And yet, he is. What good does it do to take my success and give it to him? He has no use for fame and fortune,” Ernesto chuckled a little and she snarled almost against her will, “even when he was alive, all this meant nothing to him. For whatever reason, all he wanted was you.”

“Did you ever stop to think that he would have let you sing his songs if you gave proper credit? That you could have had your fame and fortune, and he could have come home safe and sound?” Imelda interjected, she didn’t want to listen to this monster’s practiced speech, she wanted to know how he lived with himself, “Did you even try to negotiate, or did you skip straight to murder?”

Ernesto sighed, “I wanted to sing to the world, he wanted you. Since you have taken my dream from me, it is only fair that I take his.”

“You’ve already taken his dream, you killed him, remember?” she shook her head, making a sound of disgust, “All he wanted was to come home and you stabbed him in the back for it. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Imelda, do you understand I am pointing a loaded gun at you?”

“Sí, it’s the only thing stopping me from beating you to death with a chair.”

“I’m here to kill you Imelda,” he took a step towards her, “you have killed my dream for Hector’s sake, so now I am killing Hector’s dream.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“Sì.”

“No matter what I do?”

He nodded, and started to speak, but didn’t get the words out before she had raised the chair once more and knocked him back a few steps. The anger was still there, but now she was fueled just as much by fear, fear that if she hesitated Coco would be left an orphan by the night’s end.

Ernesto tried to point the gun at her, but she knocked his arm away even as he pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet leaving the chamber was deafening, but Imelda didn’t dare let it cow her. She swung the chair again, forcing him to jump back in order to avoid it.

He raised the revolver again, and pulled back the hammer. She raised the chair for another blow, stepping towards him, but knew there was no way she’d beat his trigger finger.

The kitchen started to shake just as the second bullet whistled past her ear.

Imelda almost didn’t hear the guitar music over the sound of her own heartbeat. She had to put the chair down again so she could use it to steady herself as Ernesto was thrown to the floor.

The revolver flew out of his hand and across the room.

“What in the-?!” he started to say, then cut off when he apparently recognized the melody playing.

Imelda had never thought Coco’s lullaby could sound so haunting.

“Remember me,” Hector’s voice echoed low, multiplied and layered on top of itself, at once a guttural growl and a choir of hissed whispers, “and prepare to say goodbye.”

“H-Hector?” Ernesto tried to right himself, only to get slammed back onto the floor.

“Remember me. You owe me for your life.”

Ernesto struggled against whatever force was holding him down as the shaking settled and the air froze, “Hector, what-?.”

“You tried to send me to heaven,” Hector sang, “but now you’ll burn in hell.”

Ernesto was lifted from the floor and pinned to the cabinets instead.

“You killed me for my daughter’s song,” slowly, Hector appeared above Ernesto, face colder than it had ever been in life, his feet didn’t quite touch the floor, “I hope it served you well.”

The gun dragged itself back into Ernesto’s hand and he struggled against it as it raised itself to his temple, “How-?! What-?! No. No!”

“Remember me. The blood you spilt got you far,” Hector sneered, “Remember me. My stopped heart got you where you are.”

“Hector, I’m-. Please, I’m sorry, Hector please!”

“No, don’t try to beg! When you took everything from me,” Hector shook his head, fists clenched, “I’ll let you have one last breath to…”

Hector trailed off, the guitar plucking out a crescendo while a mismatched beat underscored the whispered echoes of his latest refrain.

“Remember me,” Hector commanded, disappearing from sight even as the hammer pulled itself away from the barrel.

As the guitar finished with an angry flourish, Imelda realized that mismatched beat was not accompinate like she’d assumed, but footsteps. The kitchen door slammed open and people spilled into the room.

Imelda didn’t look at them, she couldn’t take her eyes off Ernesto as tears spilled down his cheeks. With the gun still jammed between his hand and his temple, the trigger twitched away from the barrel.

“No!” It wasn’t just one voice, but several. All combined the shouts were almost enough. But they couldn’t quite drown out the gunshot.

Ernesto’s body collapsed back onto the kitchen floor.

Imelda felt Hector’s presence slip away.

“Imelda,” one of her brothers, she didn’t bother to check which one, shouted as they pulled her into an embrace, “thank god, when we heard the gunshots-. The door, it wouldn’t open and-, and-, oh thank god you’re ok.”

“Señora Riviera,” the sheriff put a hand on her shoulder, “are you alright, did he hurt you?”

“He tried to kill me,” she said, faintly.

Several people gasped, and there was a great deal of shouting. A few people surrounded the body, blocking it from her view. She blinked, the world suddenly coming back into focus.

“Coco? Where is she, is she ok?” Imelda asked, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.

“She’s with Oscar,” Felípe told her, only half letting her go, “come on, I’ll take you to her, before she comes racing in here and sees-. I’ll take you to her.”

Imelda allowed herself to be led away, the last thing she wanted now was for Coco to see a dead body in their kitchen. The sheriff called out a promise to take care of things behind her, and she turned to give him a polite thank you, but he was already bent over Ernesto’s body.

Felípe took her to the workshop, where she could hear a soothing melody playing on an invisible guitar. Inwardly, she sighed and wondered if she would ever convince Hector to move on after this.

When she stepped through the workshop door, Coco looked up and shouted, “Má!”

“Mija!”

They ran into each other’s arms and squeezed tight, Coco started crying. Imelda did her best to soothe her even as it started to sink in that she almost lost her life. Her daughter was almost orphaned. Then what would have happened to her?

Imelda shoved those thoughts away and focused on her little girl. She let the sheriff do as he promised and spent what was left of the night hugging Coco close.

When Coco was eventually asleep, and Imelda was alone with an invisible guitar, she drifted off. The transition from waking to dreaming was almost seamless. Almost.

“Ah, you’ve learned a new trick,” she remarked hollowly, even in her dream, she felt boneless, exhausted. She couldn’t stop picturing Coco in her funeral garb.

They were dancing, her in her wedding dress, him in his musico suit. He’d saved up and got a real suit for the wedding, a modest suit, but one meant for formal occasions rather than preforming; it had met an unfortunate accident shortly after arriving from the tailors. In hindsight, Imelda wondered if the accident had anything to do with the fact that Hector had lived with Ernesto at the time, Ernesto had never wanted Hector to settle down.

In real life, her family’s courtyard had been full to the brim with people. Here in her dream, it was just them. Cheek to cheek.

“Sorry I wasn’t there,” Hector’s voice only sounded a little muffled, a little distant, “I-I was saying goodbye to Coco.”

Imelda blinked a few times, before the words made sense, “So, you’re moving on?”

“Uh, sí, eventually. I uh, I have to wait until the day of the dead,” he smiled sheepishly, she couldn’t see the smile, but she felt it pressed against her face and knew exactly what it looked like, “it-. I will need-. Leaving won’t be easy.”

Imelda nodded, then pulled back so she could see him, she drank his face in but couldn’t manage anything else, it took almost everything she had in her just to whisper, “I will miss you.”

“I will visit, every year, I promise,” he held her tighter, but the sensation was muffled, “although not like this. I-I don’t have any unfinished business anymore. Once I move on-.”

He cut himself off, but Imelda’s tired mind eventually churned out what he’d left unsaid. Hector would be at peace, but that meant she would lose him. For real this time. She swallowed back the urge to rescind her forgiveness, to come up with some other reason why he should keep haunting them. He could touch her sometimes, and talk to her in her dreams, and play his guitar. It was almost, almost, like he was alive.

But she loved him too much to keep him, “Promise me you’ll be happy. Wherever you go when…”

“I will be as happy as a man can be when he is separated from the love of his life, and his daughter.”

Imelda nodded, closing her eyes, resting her chin back on his shoulder, “Good enough.”

“And I will wait for you,” Hector said, “at the gates. However long you take, however long we are apart, I will wait for you, mí amor.”

They spent the rest of her dream dancing in silence, tears mingling on their joined cheeks.

The last month didn’t last near long enough. Hector managed to appear to her four more times, but never as solidly as he had on that night; he appeared to Coco once, to give his final goodbye, but Imelda didn’t find out about that until days after it happened.

It ended on the Day of the Dead. Imelda allowed Coco to stay up all night, and they danced along to the invisible guitar that followed Imelda wherever she went. Eventually, Coco could barely keep her eyes open, but stubbornly persevered through the night. Finally the toy guitar Hector had gifted Coco plucked out Coco’s lullaby, the last few notes seeming to echo through the room as the sun rose.

Then it fell silent.

#Coco #Hector Coco #Imelda Coco #ernesto de la cruz #Coco AU #ghost Hector #sadly the internet did not want to tell me the secrets of Mexican copyright laws in the days of bw film #so I had to make guesses based off of American copyright laws in the days of bw film #tragic #Coco fanfic #Hector x Imelda

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theesirenteller · 5 months

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Nurtured

𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫𝔫𝔶 " ℭ𝔬𝔠𝔬" ℭ𝔯𝔲𝔷 𝔉𝔞𝔫𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫.

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝙈𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧 : Coco Cruz & OFC

𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝙍𝙪𝙞𝙯

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: In Which Coco finds solace within the thighs of a nerdy panadería assistant. Both indulge in their desperate need to be loved.

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔏𝔦𝔰𝔱

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

#theesirenteller fanfic #theesirentellerstories #johnny coco cruz #coco cruz #coco cruz mayans #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfic #mayans fanfiction #coco cruz x chubby!oc #mayans fx #mayans x reader

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broiderie · 2 months

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Lost Princessa: Meet the Reaper 26

Well don't kill me. Here's part 26. It's a bit of lead up.

Personal note - I'm now on some serious heart medication due to reoccurring heart issues, so I'm a little foggy. Things may be a bit slower than they used to be even though I hoped to stick to my previous posting of about a chapter a week. That's not working out very well. It's taking me longer to get my ideas on paper and then even longer to get them typed. Please be patient with me.

Warnings: cursing (maybe), show level casual illegal activity, Angel being a menace.

Also - don't steal my shit. This is the only place this is posted.

Taza, Hank, Megan and Rex quickly joined the rest of the club inside. “Morning, Poquito, Hank, Taza. You look like you’re going somewhere important,” Bishop greeted them as he claimed a morning hug from Megan. “What’s the plan today?”

Hank smiled ruefully. “Ask la princessa. She’s the one that’s insistent about it.”

Megan, who had moved on to giving Marcus his morning greeting, shot him a look over her good shoulder.

“Really now, Bebita? What’s he mean?” Marcus asked, looking down at her as he hugged her close.

Megan sighed. “We’re going to see the doctor in Santa Madre for an x-ray. I want this sling off so I can have my life back.”

Creeper frowned from the bar stool where he was perched. “Didn’t the rez doctor say no?”

Megan grimaced. “He said not quite, but that was with the plaster cast. The soft cast and the immobilizing sling mean it’s been resting more than it had been. Some progress has to have been made.”

Bishop nodded and sat down at one of the tables with a cup of coffee. “How’s the pain?”

“Honestly - so much better. I haven’t had so much as an aspirin and it just feels achey and stiff,” she assured him.

“How achey?” Bishop asked again.

“More than a post workout ache but less than a set dislocated shoulder ache. I honestly think I’d be fine without the sling for the most part. I can always put it back on if it hurts.” She shrugged her good shoulder.

There was a collective wince from the elders at her description.

“What the hell, Shorty. How’d you know what a dislocated shoulder feels like, huh?” Angel asked, giving her a skeptical look.

“Angel - I rode in rodeos. Not a rider I know who hasn’t dislocated at least one shoulder once. In my event - that was the price of a mistake,” she smiled. “And a small price to pay rather than a broken leg or back.”

“Shit, Ma. And you did that shit for fun?” Coco added, puffing on his cigarette.

“Well, the money was nice too.”

“Holy shit. No wonder you didn’t freak out about the pain.” Coco ashed the cigarette in his hand. “Y’all need someone to ride along?”

“Nah. Thanks, Coco. We’re good, I think. Just a quick run for an x-ray,” Hank assured him as he settled into a chair across the table from Taza.

“Besides- like Creep said - the rez doc didn’t think she was healed enough yet. Good possibility it’s still too early but la princessa is impatient,” Taza said with a grin in Megan’s direction. SHe stuck her tongue out at him.

“Well, we have Angel and EZ doing the Adelita meet today. They’re going South anyway. Might as well go along with you so they don’t have to walk from the desert,” Bishop said. He turned to look at EZ where he was polishing glasses. “Prospect, you better do your memory shit. Poquito could only arrange for the two of you. We’ll hold Templo tonight so everyone gets read in at once.”

EZ nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“And don’t fuck it up,” Hank added.

Taza agreed. “You two fuck up this gun deal… Neither of you can afford it. The club can’t afford it.”

Both brothers nodded solemnly.

It wasn’t even an hour laters that they met at the dress warehouse hatch. By now they had this to a science. EZ carried Rex. The ladder was difficult for Megan on handed, so Hank went first so he could catch her if she slipped. Taza stayed at the top guiding her down as far as he could maintain his balance.

The tunnel itself wasn’t too bad. The terrain was a bit rough, but nothing Megan couldn’t handle with the help of the lights and either Taza or Hank’s guiding hand on her good arm.

THe hatch on the other end, however, was the bane of her existence. The ladder was built for much taller men so the rungs were further apart and roughly built. They weren’t evenly spaced either. When they reached it Megan sighed. She had slipped every time at this end.

“What’s wrong, Princessa?” EZ asked. “Need a break?” He handed her a bottle of water from the backpack he was carrying.

Megan shot him a rueful smile and sipped it. “More like an elevator. I hate this ladder.”

Taza grimaced. “We’ll get a new one soon, Chica. Just gotta deal until then.”

Angel eyed the ladder. “Bet me and the boyscout could get you up it easier.”

Hank frowned a bit and tugged Megan to rest against his chest a moment. “What do you mean, Angel?”

“We got Creep up it pretty easy when he needed the doc. Megan’s a lot smaller.” Angel shrugged. “Same way we used to get shit into the attic for Pops.”

EZ broke into a wide grin. “You might be right.”

Taza shrugged a bit as he glanced at Megan. “What do you say, Chica? Want to let them try it?”

Megan eyed the hated ladder, before turning to eye the brothers. “Promise not to drop me?”

Angel gave a sardonic laugh. “And risk getting shot? We won’t drop you, Shorty.”

“Alright then. How’re we doing this?” she asked.

Angel grinned. “Taza, you and EZ go first. Once you’re up, EZ lays on the floor to lift la princessa with Taza to anchor him. Megan gets on my shoulder an’ EZ pulls her out. Simple. Reyes Brothers Elevator.”

Hank chuckled and shook his head, amazed at the simplicity of it. “I’ll help steady you, mi amore. This way you don’t risk falling like yesterday.” The day before, Megan had been lucky Hank was behind her for the ladder. He’d had to catch her twice.

Just like Angel outlined, Taza and EZ went first with EZ carrying Rex. Taza paid the toll while the prospect laid down and hung his top half through the hatch. Taza anchored his legs as Hank helped Angel get Megan onto his shoulders and steadied her as he stood. Then EZ locked his arm and pulled Megan up until Taza could help her out of the hatch. In the end, EZ was breathing a little heavy, but the near disaster of the day before had been averted. Angel and Hank then climbed up to join them.

“Thanks Angel and EZ. That was much easier on my end,” Megan said, smiling at the brothers.

Angel gave a slightly cocky grin. “Anything for la princessa de los Mayas, right Prospect?”

EZ laughed a little and straightened his kutte. “Right.”

Once they reached the town, Angel and EZ dropped them off at the storefront where the doctor kept an office upstairs and headed out to the coordinates Luisa had sent to the burner phone in Angel’s pocket.

“Alright, Chica. Let’s go get this x-ray and find out how you’re doing. After, we can go find something to do until Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum get back,” Taza said with a grin.

Hank led the way up the narrow stairs and paused at the top to smile back at Megan. “You ready, mi amore?”

Megan smiled a little nervously. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course, Princessa.” He chuckled a little. “We’d have to anyway - Doc doesn’t speak English.”

Inside, Taza spoke with a man quietly in Spanish as Megan leaned into Hank’s side. The conversation wasn’t very long before the man smiled at Megan and waved her forward.

Megan turned to look at Taza.

“He just wants to take the sling off and feel for the break before he x-rays you, Chica,” Taza assured her.

Hank guided her forward and worked the sling straps on her back to release them. Once the sling was off, he sat her on the narrow wooden table while holding her good hand.

The doctor approached with his hands held calmingly out in front of him. He gently pressed along her collarbone. He looked at Hank and asked something.

“Mi reina, he wants to know if it hurts when he touches it,” Hank translated.

“No. It’s a little achey, but that’s just the stiffness I think,” Megan said.

The doctor nodded as Taza translated what was said. He gestured for Hank to step away from Megan and rolled a camera looking machine in front of her before holding a metal panel behind her shoulder. Megan fought the urge to giggle as she realized that the x-ray machine was a portable vet tool.

The doctor took the shots that he needed before indicating that he’d be back in a moment.

As soon as he was out of the room, Megan lost the battle with her giggles. Both men grinned at her.

“What’s so funny, Chica?” Taza asked, amused at her reaction to this doctor. He had expected nerves or even some defiance like he’d seen the other times doctors had looked at her.

“Papa, he’s not a doctor, is he? He’s a vet,” Megan bit her lip to stifle her laugh.

Hank burst out laughing while Taza stared at her for a moment before joining in.

“How’d you know, Princessa?” Hank asked as he moved to support her still splinted arm through her laughing fit.

“The x-ray machine gave it away. And he wasn’t exactly concerned that he couldn’t talk to me directly. Plus - he came at me like I was going to cow kick him if he surprised me.”

Taza laughed again. “You’re right. He’s a farm vet. We didn’t want to scare you with him not being a ‘real’ doctor, so we just didn’t say anything.”

Megan smiled mischievously. “Well - for future reference - I’d much rather the vet than the hospital any day.”

An hour or so later they were walking down the narrow steps to the street level again with Megan’s sling tucked into a bag. The doctor had given the go ahead to remove the sling as long as she wasn’t using her arm too much and there wasn’t a lot of pain. He’s also provided Hank with a refill of the ibuprofen - just in case.

Once on the street, they decided to head to a small restaurant down the street to wait for the Reyes brothers and have lunch.

Taza ordered for them at the counter while Hank and Megan found a table in a spot where they could see the door. Megan kept rolling her right shoulder until Hank gently rubbed his hand down her spine and across her shoulders. “Are you alright, mi reina?” he asked her as he did it.

Megan gave a soft groan of relief as Hank rubbed. Hank chuckled at the noise as she answered. “I’m fine. Just stiff.” She paused, arching her back into his rubbing hand. “That feels so good.”

Hank laughed again and scooted his chair back from the table. “Come ‘ere, Princessa. Let me help.” He tugged her to sit in his lap facing him and leaned her forward against his chest so he could gently rub the knots from her back that the sling caused.

Megan melted against him as the firm pressure released her muscles even through her kutte and holster.

Hank grinned as Taza came to the table with two trays of food and drinks. His smile assured Taza that nothing was seriously wrong.

Taza placed the trays on the table and took his seat across from her. “Everything alright?” he asked quietly.

Megan nodded from where her face was buried in between Hank’s neck and shoulder but made no move to get up. She let out another quiet moan that only Hank could hear as he hit a particularly nice spot.

Hank chuckled again and tried not to think about it too much. He liked that noise. He met Taza’s eyes. “Yeah. She’s just stiff and her back muscles are in knots from the sling.

Taza laughed a little. “So that’s why she’s practically purring.”

Hank grinned. He tilted his chin to kiss Megan’s hair. “Your papa brought lunch. You ready to eat?” he asked her.

Megan whined a little, but nodded before lifting her head. Hank helped her to settle back into her chair with a laugh. “A hot shower when we get home will help, mi amore.”f

As they ate, they made plans for the rest of the day. They had Templo when they got back to discuss the deal with the L.O. but after that no plans had been made.

“Well, your tíos and I need to meet after Templo to do some book work, so I’ll be tied up for the night. What are your plans, Chica?” Taza asked as he discreetly added more rice to Megan’s plate while she was distracted.

“Don’t know. I need to let Riz know to put me back on the schedule since the sling is off, but I also know that he’s already got this week’s schedule posted. I looked this morning,” Megan said as she ate the taco she'd fixed from the communal plates Taza had ordered them. “Will you be in meetings too, Hank?”

Hank sipped his soda and shook his head. “Nah. All my book stuff is done for the next two weeks.” He leaned back in his chair and slid his arm along the back of Megan’s. “Now that your sling’s off - would you want to do something tonight?”

Megan’s eyes sparkled. “Like a date?”

Hank laughed. “Yes. Like an actual date, mi princessa. Nothing too fancy, but a date.”

Megan bounced a little in her chair. “Yes!”

Taza grinned at her enthusiasm. “There we go. I’ll be home late too, so don’t wait up for me.”

“Would you keep Rex for the night?” Hank asked, petting the big dog’s ears under the table. “I thought we might take the bike.”

Megan lit up further “Really?”

“If your papa doesn’t mind.”

Megan turned to him with her big, brown eyes pleading.

“Yes. I’ll keep the pooch - if you promise to stay with Hank, Chica. I like you having him as an extra line of defense when you’re out, so you have to promise not to do anything stupid,” Taza stipulated.

“I promise, Papa.”

“Alright then. You two will have date night while the pooch and I work late.”

Hank’s burner beeped from his kutte pocket. He pulled it out and checked it without removing his arm from Megan’s chair. “Angel and the Prospect are back in town.”

“Perfect timing. Let’s go home.”

They met the brothers back where they’d split up. Angel quickly abandoned the driver's seat to Taza and Megan got shotgun with Hank behind her.

At the hatch, this time Taza went first followed by Megan. It was much easier without the sling. She managed to slip once, but caught herself. Once they were at the bottom, EZ frowned at the ladder. “That thing really does need fixed. La Princessa shouldn’t have to struggle with it every time. Especially since she’s going to be dealing with this trip a lot as the armorer,” he said.

“Glad you volunteer, Prospect,” Hank agreed. “You can start on it tomorrow.”

Megan giggled a little as she caught her breath in the close confines of the tunnel but petting Rex.

“You good, Shorty? Didn’t bust nothin’ when you slipped, did ya?” Angel asked.

Megan stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m fine. Just missed a rung.”

“Alright. Just checkin’. No harm in that,” Angel grinned a bit. “Hey Boyscout - maybe you need to use that big brain of yours to figure out a lift, huh? That way la princessa doesn’t break a nail.”

Megan smacked Angel in the chest with the back of her good hand and laughed. “You suck, Angel.”

“That’s why the women love me.”

Megan wrinkled her nose. “Eeewwww. TMI.”

Angel cracked up. “You asked for it.”

Taza shook his head with an exasperated chuckle and shoved Angel forward along the tunnel. “Get going before you scar my daughter for life.”

They made their way back to the Northern hatch where they all climbed out into the dress warehouse with EZ helping to lift Rex through the door. They were all a little dusty, but none the worse for wear.

Back at the clubhouse, Megan proudly walked in without her sling to find Bishop and Marcus relaxing at a table with a few beers.

“Well look at you, Poquito. Doctor freed you?” Bishop asked, standing to claim a hug.

Megan stepped into his embrace with a smile. “Still gotta wear the soft cast and be easy with it, but he cleared me to lose the sling.”

“Good. That’ll make dance lessons easier,” Marcus said as he got his own hug,

“Among other things,” Megan agreed.

“Is everyone here?” Hank asked.

“Waiting on Riz. He went to help Vickie with something,” Bishop said, taking his seat back.

Taza and Hank joined them as Angel split off to the bar where Coco and Gilly were waiting. EZ went to fetch drinks automatically as Hank pulled Megan onto his knee.

“He needs to hurry up. La Princessa and her caballero have a date tonight,” Taza said, accepting the beer from EZ.

Marcus grinned. “Finally going to take Poquito somewhere, Tranq?”

Hank grinned. “That’s the plan if nothing fucking it up this time.”

Bishop looked over his shoulder at where Angel was sipping on his own beer. “We’ll be fine for one night, brother. Take Poquito out tonight. If shit hits the fan - it can wait until tomorrow for you.” He grinned. “Now, that being said - you have planning to do. So get to it. Poquito - did the doctor say when the soft cast can come off?”

Hank chuckled and pressed a kiss to the place where Megan’s neck met her shoulder before sliding out from in under her. He watched as Megan settled into his seat and got distracted by her tío’s question before slipping out to the front porch.

Megan smiled at Bishop. “Tío, why’re you asking me? You know very well the doctor doesn’t speak English.”

Bishop laughed and nodded. “You’re right. You’re right. So what did your papa tell you he said?”

“Still another three weeks or so - as long as I don’t do anything stupid. I kind of think Papa added that part on though,” Megan teased.

Taza laughed. “I paraphrased. That’s all Chica.”

They chatted amicably for a bit before Angel came over to ask to speak to Bishop and Taza alone for a minute in Templo. That left Megan with Marcus.

“Have you heard anything from Tía Diana and Tessa?” Megan asked. “I haven’t heard much since they left.”

Marcus sat forward at the table to smile at her. He leaned his forearms there and smiled. “Yeah. I heard from them at about lunch time. They’re probably still on the road though. Tessa doesn’t have much patience for car rides, so Diana will stop often to let her stretch.” He fiddled with his beer bottle a bit. “I talked to your tía about the move. She agrees that it’s probably best for everyone if I pause my patch for a bit.”

Megan reached across the table to squeeze his fingers. “And you? What do you think?”

He squeezed back before meeting her eyes. “I think she’s right. It makes the most sense, Bebita.”

“Then why the hesitation?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know who I am without this kutte, Poquito. I’ve been wearing it so long it’s practically my skin at this point.” He sighed. “I’m struggling with letting go.”

“I understand. It’s like leaving rodeo was for me.” She fiddled with his signet ring, “But Tío, you aren’t leaving for good. It’s just like recon.”

He chuckled. “You’re right. We’ll make the call at the Templo after this one. I want to be sure the gun deal is solid first. Besides - this way nothing is on Hank’s mind tonight except you. Finally getting a real date night, huh? You gonna let him show out?”

Megan laughed and sat back. “You mean I could stop him?”

“Good point.”

Bishop and Taza returned with very serious faces. Megan sat up straight in alarm. “Papa? Everything alright?”

“Sí, Chica. Angel just had some information for us.” He pressed a reassuring kiss to the top of her head before resuming his seat. “Your tío is going to take care of it before Templo.”

Bishop nodded and gathered Gilly and Creeper before riding out.

“Anything I need to know, Hermano?” Marcus asked.

Taza shook his head. “Nah. Charter issue.”

Marcus nodded.

When Bishop and the others returned, Bishop’s face was like a thundercloud and Riz was with them. Hank followed them in from the front porch too. Bishop didn’t even have to say anything. He just grabbed the whiskey bottle and a glass and headed for Templo. Everyone followed.

taglist:

@jemmakates

@msjava1972

@drabbles-mc

@delightfulheroshoeflap

@iamthegraham

@oureternalbond

@camelia35

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@tallrock35

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kikijackson-blog · 2 months

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Blame It On The Moon

Coco x Reader

Summary: You finally formally meet your new neighbor who always made you nervous. A little bit of fluff here.

WARNINGS: Readers 18+ only. Light language.

************************************************************************

It’s a quiet night. You stand outside looking up at the stars. Lost in deep thought. You and your husband had just moved into your first home just a couple of months ago. You hear the scurrying of chubby little paws headed straight for you. Your pudgy short legged dog Oliver is a sweet boy but mischievous. He playfully nips at your ankle wagging his little nub of a tail. He was your husband’s dog but you both knew he loved you more. Oliver being the carefree pup he was made no attempt to hide his preference for you. It was you after all who feeds him and gives him the most excellent belly rubs. Just like the one you’re giving him now. The chubster was in heaven enjoying every moment of it until something caught his attention.

Immediately he rolls over and is up on his four little feet, you try to hold him back but he shot up like lighting running to the edge of your property.

“Ollie no! Get back here!” You try your best to get his attention in a whispering shout as you hear before you see what had gotten his attention. “Ollie!” you continue your quiet shouting. It was Ollie’s attention you were trying to get not his. Not the man riding in on his bike. You had noticed him the day you were moving in. He had made you a little nervous the way he stared you up and down as took a puff of his cigarette. His dark hair hung just above his shoulders and he was covered in tattoos. You immediately got prison vibes from him. As you went back and forth from the car to your new home carrying boxes, you found yourself sneaking little peaks at him convincing yourself that it was just in case he ever tried anything you could give an accurate description of him to the police.

He had never taken his eyes off you.

“Ollie! Get over her now!” you desperately pleaded with him, not daring to leave the safety of the dark little spot where you like to hide out when you smoke your cigs.

Ollie starts barking as your neighbor parks. Ollie dares to get closer and barks even more.

“Get away you little shit!” He says to the little fur monster that was once your sweet boy. You see your neighbor trying to shoo your dog. “Get back the fuck where you belong.”

You sigh knowing you had to go get your boy before he takes a bite out of this man and really pisses him off. “I’m so sorry. Ollie come here, leave him alone.” you apologize.

He looks almost surprised to see you. Since moving in you’d done your best to avoid having to see the man. Peeking out the window like a nosy neighbor and waiting until he wasn't around just so you could go to work.

“He’s a sweet boy, really he is.” you explain, hoping to convince the unnerving man.

“Yeah, yeah, I see that.” He said sarcastically., clearly not buying a word of it.

“No really,” you let a weak laugh. “I promise you he is. He just gets triggered by loud noises. See.” You point to Oliver who is now wagging his nub again and looking up at your neighbor with the most derpiest face ever.

He looks down and busts out laughing when he sees Ollie’s face. Ollie responds with an adorable little howl.

And just like that the two of them became best buds.Who would have thought a rough around the edges looking man would have a soft spot for furballs. Maybe it was seeing this man now giving Ollie head pats and belly rubs and how it made him look less threatening or maybe it was the moon but before you could stop yourself you held your hand out to him. “I’m sorry I’ve not had the chance to introduce myself, I’m y/n”

He takes your hand in his and looks at you. “Coco. And it’s cool. You have now.” He looks down at your pup. “And you’re Ollie, huh.” You nod all too aware of the fact that he hasn’t let go of your hand and the look on his face tells you that he’s aware that you haven’t tried to pull your hand away.

He flashes you a crooked smile and you blush. Which only makes him widen his smile more. He shows mercy and lets your hand go, takes a step back to give you both space. You appreciated his kindness but the truth is he needed a little space too. He pulls his box of cigarettes and lights one up.

He looks at the box in your hand. “Menthol's?” and rolls his eyes, “of course.”

“What?”

He shrugs, “nothing it’s just that you know, girls like menthol’s”

You laugh. “Not all girls. A lot of girls don’t like them.” You had plenty of girl friends who couldn’t stand them and knew of a few guys who loved them.

“The girlies ones do.” He states as a matter of fact.

‘Whatever. Some guys like them too. Have you ever tried one?” You ask him.

“No! And I don’t wanna.”

“Oh come on, try it.” You hand him your cigarette. “You might like it.” Daring the tough looking man to take it.

“Nah, I’m good.” He waves his hand trying to shoo it away.

“Aw. Come on, you know you want to try it.” You insist.

Coco eyes your cigarette for a moment and you can tell he’s thinking about it. He hesitates but then curiosity gets the better of him, he reaches for it and chuckles, “You’re a bad influence.”

He takes a puff and nearly chokes on it. “Ugh, that’s disgusting. You tryna kill me. Fuck. Ima hafta call the police on you. Officer, I swear this cute girl tryna murder me with her fuckin’ poison menthols.” He’s looks at you like you’re a strange creature he’s never encountered before, “You’re a fuckin’ weirdo. Seriously, that shit’s gross.”

You both laugh and Ollie looks at you two like both of you are weirdos but he sees you and his new best bud getting along and that makes him happy.

He grows silent studying your features in the moonlight while you hold at your sides unable to control your fit of laughter, he was positive that your ribs would be sore tomorrow. He's no longer laughing with you but his warm eyes are now filled with amusement. He can’t recall a time in which he made a woman laugh like that before. It was both mesmerizing and intoxicating to him.

You giggling ebbs slowly until it comes to a full halt.

You stare in each other's eyes, neither of you saying a thing to each other but you smile at him and he returns the smile. It was in that moment that you knew your brown eyed neighbor and Ollie weren’t the only ones who had just become best friends.

#mayans x reader #coco cruz #coco cruz fanfic #coco x reader #coco cruz x reader #johnny coco cruz #johnny coco Cruz x reader

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 1 year

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A Gentle Kind Of Love Masterlist

Comment if you want to be tagged or follow #a gentle kind of love.

Mayans MC Masterlist

Contains: Fluff, angst, longing, pining and yearning, Angel being a shit-stirrer, Manny being dumb, cats, violence, mentions of drugs and drug addiction, shooting and death, Canche, smut. There will be more, and I'll do my best to tag chapter by chapter, please don't hesitate to tell me if I've missed something.

Any mature chapters will be marked per Tumblr's community labels, you will need them turned to show to see them.

More than one emoji dictates how graphic it is. Smut💦 Angst😨 Fluff ❤ Violence🔪 Gore🤢 Medical/forensic💉 Triggering material🚩

You and Coco meet overseas when you are doing aid work. When you move to Santo Padre to settle down, your life changes forever when you and Manny strike up a friendship.

Part One - Oh Hello❤❤😨

Part Two - There's Gotta Be Some Butterflies Somewhere.😨❤❤

Part Three - Been Known in is Aching😨❤😨❤

Part Four - On Yearning❤😨😨

Part Five - Like Real People Do😨❤😨❤

Part Six - I Adore You😨❤💦

Epilogue - Fell in Love with the Fire Long Ago❤💦❤💦

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drabbles-mc · 1 year

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The Worst Of It

Coco Cruz x OC Daniela Reyes

Angel Reyes & EZ Reyes & OC Daniela Reyes

For Day 28 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: bed ridden / semiconscious

Warnings: 18+, angst, mentions of drugs/detox, language

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: I've been dyinggggg to write more for the whole Daniela/Coco universe. This is a nice little angsty fic, technically a flashback compared to all fo the other stuff that I've written for them. I just love all of the tension between her and Coco, all of the hurt there. I love all the complications it causes with EZ and Angel. Idk. I just. I have so many feelings about all of them.

If you want to read more Dani Reyes fics, check these out: X X X X

General Mayans Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink @thesandbeneathmytoes @paintballkid711 @queenbeered @kelpies-shed @gemini0410 @mijagif @amorestevens @garbinge @justreblogginfics @rosieposie0624 @choochoo284 @littlekittymeow @artemiseamoon @nessamc @withmyteeth @crowfootwrites @beardburnsupersoldiers @winchestershiresauce @frattsparty @fanfic-n-tabulous @justazzi @proceduralpassion @narcolini @darqchilddaydreamz (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Daniela was just putting the dishes left over from lunch in the sink when she heard the tell-tale rumble of a motorcycle getting louder as it approached her house. The list of people who it might be was getting shorter and shorter by the day, and at this point she would’ve been shocked if someone besides Angel or EZ showed up on her doorstep. Taking a deep breath, she shut off the faucet, knowing that she wasn’t going to be able to get any cleaning done until whoever it was had come and gone, said whatever it was they had to say to her.

She could tell when they’d rolled into her driveway. She held her breath for a moment, praying that the noise wouldn’t wake up her daughter that she’d finally just gotten down for a nap. Ana was no stranger to the sounds of motorcycles, even though she was hardly a toddler. But that didn’t mean that she was always able to sleep through it. When the engine died and it wasn’t followed by the sound of cries coming down the hall or through the baby monitor, Daniela let out a sigh of relief and finally started making her way towards the front door.

Just as she was about to reach for the doorknob, someone knocked on the other side of it. She didn’t hesitate as she undid the locks and pulled the door open. She also didn’t make any effort to hide the exhaustion and annoyance on her face, because no matter who it was, they were just going to have to deal.

Angel’s eyes widened in surprise, not thinking that she was going to materialize so quickly. “Shit, hey, Dani.”

She took a deep breath, leaning against the doorframe, blocking him from entering in the process. “Hey, Angel.” She paused, and when he didn’t have an immediate response, she shrugged and said, “What’s up?”

He cleared his throat, nerves crossing over his features for a moment as he asked, “You got a minute?”

“Depends.”

He sighed, wanting to be annoyed with how short she was being with him, but he knew that if anyone had the right to be carrying that sort of frustration around, it was her. He didn’t want to admit that, wouldn’t out loud, but underneath it all he knew it was the truth.

“Please.”

Sighing, she shook her head but stepped out of the doorway to let him in. “Fine. But I just put Ana down for a nap, so don’t wake her up.”

“Good. That mean you can’t yell at me?”

She shot him a brief glare. “Why would I be yelling at you, Angel?”

He followed her into the kitchen, spotting the baby monitor that was resting on the table, the high chair that still had a few stray pieces of rice on the tray of it. He already regretted showing up, knowing what he was going to ask of her, but there was no going back now. “Gotta ask a favor.”

She couldn’t hide the look on her face—disappointed but not surprised. “You serious, Angel?” She shook her head. “What kind of favor?” She looked at him expectantly, his silence not providing her with any comfort. Her brows knit together, knot forming in her stomach that was battling it out with the burning anger that was building. “What kind of favor, Angel?”

Scratching at the back of his neck, he couldn’t look her in the eyes as he said, “Coco.”

The laugh she barked out was a cruel one, one that made Angel wish that he hadn’t decided to show up. “Are you kidding me right now? You,” she shook her head, raking her hands back through her hair as she leaned back against the counter, “you can’t be serious.”

“I know, I know, but—”

“No,” she cut him off, using all the self-restraint she had to not raise her voice, “you clearly don’t know if you came here to ask me to do anything for him right now.”

“You think I’d be here if I had another choice?”

She scoffed. “Honestly? Yea, I do.”

He should’ve seen that coming. He deserved that one. Taking a deep breath, he tried to figure out the best way to ask her for what he needed, what Coco needed, in a way that would actually get her to say yes. He didn’t know if there really was any way to do that.

“He’s detoxing,” Angel finally spit out.

Daniela stopped, freezing for a moment. It wasn’t what she had been expecting him to say. It was good news, in a way, but she still wasn’t in a place where she was going to be outwardly excited about it. “Good.”

“Yea, but,” he shook his head, “he’s in rough fuckin’ shape, Dani.”

She shrugged. “I’m sure he fucking is. Coming down off all the shit he’s been doing isn’t going to be pretty.”

“He needs help.”

“He needs help?!” she snapped, just barely managing to rein her tone back in. “I’ve been raising my daughter, his daughter, completely by myself. I haven’t gotten a damn thing from him, haven’t gotten a thing from his fucking club, either,” she spat.

Angel flinched at that. It wasn’t really the club she was mad at, but it was easier to just blame all of them in one fell swoop. “Dani—”

“If you can’t be here for me, the least you could do is go and be there for him. There’s only,” tears stung at her eyes, the sadness underneath all of her anger, “there’s only so much I can fucking do.”

Angel frowned, knowing that he should let it lie, take his loss on the chin and move along. He couldn’t, though. Like a dog with a bone he just couldn’t manage to let it go.

“C'mon, Dani—he needs you.”

“What about all the times I needed him? When Ana needed him? What about that?” she shot back, voice growing heavier with each word.

“He’s not ever gonna be able to be there for you or her if he doesn’t fucking make it through this.”

“Don’t fucking put that on me, Angel.” Her voice was low, harsh. “You have no right. You don’t get to make it seem like I’m just a bitch who doesn’t want to help him through this. I did that. I tried, for months, and I got met with resistance at every turn. While all you motherfuckers were running around ignoring it, he was coming home to me and his kid and I was trying to clean up the mess. I,” she shook her head, “I did my time with that. He had his chance to get his help from me and he didn’t take it. And someone’s gotta worry about our daughter, put her first, and it’s clearly not gonna be him.”

“Daniela—”

“And,” she cut him off, “all that aside, there’s nothing that I bring to the table that you guys can’t do yourselves.”

“You’re a nurse.”

“It’s not gonna take a fucking medical professional to keep him alive, Angel. It’s just gonna take someone who can focus and stay awake—I know that’s a lot to ask of most of you.”

Neither of them said anything after that. Neither of them moved, either. Angel was half-expecting Daniela to kick him out of her house, and he honestly wouldn’t have been able to blame her for it. He was waiting for another scathing monolog from her, all the words that she had been keeping to herself and stuffing down deeper and deeper in her chest because she knew if she allowed herself the time to dwell on them, there wouldn’t be time for anything else.

She shook her head. “This isn’t fair. You know that, right? Coming here and putting this on me? That’s fucked up. You, you know I left because I needed to take care of my fucking kid. How can you ask me for this?”

“’Cause you’re family, and so is he.”

She sniffled, letting her chin drop towards her chest as she looked down at the floor. “When does that stop being enough?”

He gnawed at the inside of his lip as he tried to come up with something new to say. But there was nothing that he could tell her that she wouldn’t have an argument for. He was behind the eight ball before he’d even crossed the threshold into her house.

“He needs someone who can take care of him. Just, just till this shit stops looking like it’s gonna kill him.”

She sniffled, trying to blink back her tears as she lifted her head, gaze finding Angel’s eyes all over again. “And in this scenario you have in your head where I go over there and magically nurse him back to health, fix all the broken shit in him, and between us, who is taking care of my daughter? Because there’s no fucking way I’m bringing Ana around that.”

“I’ll watch her,” Angel answered immediately, feeling like even Daniela talking about it hypothetically was a win.

She scoffed, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “You? Really?”

“Don’t fuckin’ say it like that.”

“How should I say it then, hm? You, you haven’t watched Ana by yourself since…pretty much ever.”

He sucked his teeth. “You never let anyone besides Pops ever—”

“EZ’s watched her a bunch of times when I’ve gotten called into work,” she cut him off, knowing exactly what his argument was going to be. “All the shit you guys say about the club being a family, and the only one who’s showed up for me is your goddamn prospect.”

“This shit isn’t on the club,” Angel said with a shake of his head, knowing it was only partially true. Daniela and Ana may not have been the club’s responsibility, but Coco definitely was.

“No, but it is on you. Besides, do you, do you realize that it’s not like this is just going to be a twenty-four-hour thing? Detox, real detox takes days, weeks. You want me to just pack up my life and move into his spot for this?”

“No, no.” Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about the fact that it was probably going to take so long. “I’m not asking you to stay there forever. Just, just a day or two until he gets through the worst of it.”

“It’s all the worst of it, Angel!” she snapped, tears welling back in her eyes.

Angel shrunk back at that. She didn’t have to explain what she meant by that—he already knew. His shoulders sagged, accepting the defeat that had seemed inevitable going into this entire conversation. “Look, I’m just gonna—”

“Two days.”

“What?”

“I’ll give him two days. I’ll keep him alive and get him through this shit because he’s still,” she dragged her hands down her face, “he’s still Ana’s dad. And I don’t want it on my conscience if he—”

“Thank you,” he cut her off, crossing the expanse of her kitchen in two long strides as he pulled her into a hug.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The next day, Daniela found herself sitting in her car in Coco’s driveway, not feeling at all ready to get out and go inside. It’d been so long since the last time she saw him—she couldn’t even try to fathom how he was going to react to her being there. It crossed her mind in that moment that she had no idea if Angel even told him that she was showing up. The entire situation was a fucking mess. She knew it had to be bad when Angel showed up to her house walking on eggshells just before she left. The man didn’t have a cautious bone in his body, but he managed it with this, as he should’ve.

She looked down at the screen of her phone, looking at the picture of Ana that she had set as her background. She tried to take a deep breath, tried even harder to ignore how shaky it was. The number of times that she’d told Angel to call or text or videochat her if anything happened or if he had any questions was too high to count. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve given her shit for it, but he had no right to now. Underneath it all, there was a part of Daniela that knew Angel would be fine. Ana was still so small, so young. And Angel was better with kids than she was inclined to give him credit for. The entire situation made it tough for her to allow him any kind of praise, though.

After another minute ticked by, she knew that she couldn’t keep putting it off. Cutting the ignition on her car, she grabbed her medical bag, and her bag of clothes, and started to make her way up towards the door.

She let herself in using the key that Angel had given her. She wanted to announce herself on entry, but she couldn’t force the words out. It was the first time she’d been to Coco’s new place, and it was exactly what she had been expecting given how dire the situation apparently was.

She slowly made her way through, trying to get a decent lay of the land. She was just walking through the living room when she heard a shuffling noise coming from another room, followed by Coco’s voice. “Angel, I swear to god,” he sounded like he’d been to hell and back—Daniela knew that he was probably still there, hadn’t made it to the back part yet, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you if—”

“It’s not Angel,” Daniela managed to force out as she walked towards the sound of his voice, exhausted as it was. She gave the door a light knock before walking in. “But it seems like we both feel the same about him right now.”

Coco’s eyes went wide as she stepped into the room. He coughed, trying to prop himself upright at least a little. “D-Dani?”

She couldn’t even try to force a smile, so she just nodded as she set her medical bag down. “Angel said things were pretty rough.”

Coco shook his head, trying to deny it even though everything about his appearance said otherwise. He looked like he’d been knocking on death’s door for the last few days, eyes bloodshot, a sheen of sweat over his skin and in his hair. His hands were trembling even as he tried to hide them beneath the blanket that he had wrapped around him.

“You don’t gotta stay.”

Daniela laughed but there was no humor in it. “Yea, I do.” Leaning down, she gently pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, lips dipping into a frown as she did. “When was the last time you ate something? Drank some water?”

There was an emotional lilt to his voice as he said, “Dani—”

“Coco,” she cut him off, her voice firm but not quite angry, “Angel said he wanted me here because you needed a nurse or someone with more brainpower than the rest of your club. So that’s what I’m doing—I’m keeping you alive through the next few days of horrendous shit you’re going to be going through. That’s all this is. I’m not,” she shook her head, “I’m not here to talk about us, or Ana, or any of that. It’s not the fucking time, okay?”

“But—”

“Okay?”

He was too exhausted to fight her on it, so he gave a small nod before letting his head rest back against the pillow again. “Alright.”

She nodded. “Good.” Dropping the bag that had her clothes and other items, she made her way back towards the bedroom door. “I’ll get you some water, and try to pull something together for you to eat.”

“I’m sorry,” he said when her hand was on the door, “’bout everything.”

She tilted her head back, looking up at the ceiling as she tried to keep her composure. “I know.”

By the time that she came back, Coco was asleep again. Daniela took a deep breath as she walked in, setting his water bottle and the soup she’d made off to the side on the nightstand beside his bed. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb him. She watched him for a couple moments, unable to ignore the tightening sensation in her chest, the sting of her eyes as they filled with tears all over again.

There were too many things to think about when she looked at him. As difficult as his complete absence had been for her, it at least spared her having to look at him and think about every single thing that had ever gone wrong, everything that had ever gone right, and all the things in between. But now here they were, and she was trying her best not to drown underneath it all. It was so much easier when she was staying away from him and staying angry.

Reaching out, she rested her hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. As much as she wanted to let him sleep, she also knew that there was no way that he had been drinking enough water. Catching up on sleep would be easy enough to do over the next couple of days—he wasn’t going to have the energy or the ability to do much else. But there was only so long that he was going to be able to go without drinking water before it made everything worse. Coco, Angel, none of the men in the MC ever took good care of themselves even with things were going right, let alone in situations like this.

“Hey,” she said, her voice having lost the edge it had earlier, “c’mon, Coco. You gotta at least drink some water, okay?”

He grumbled something under his breath as he tried to turn and roll away from her. It would’ve been amusing under any other circumstances.

“Drink this,” she took his hand and put the water bottle in it, “and then you can go back to sleep.”

That’s how it went for the next few hours. Coco faded in and out of sleep, and in his brief moments of lucidity Daniela did her best to feed him and keep him hydrated. She kept wiping the sweat off of his forehead and neck. If he’d had more energy, he would’ve fought her on it, but he just didn’t have it in him. It worked both ways, too—if Daniela hadn’t been so drained by all of it, she would’ve been acting different too.

She’d dragged the chair from the living room into his bedroom, wanting something more comfortable than the flimsy chairs in his kitchen. Plus, all things considered, she didn’t think that he was going to have much of a problem with her moving furniture around for a little bit. Even if he did, Daniela was pretty sure that she’d win almost any fight against him at this point.

She was curled up in the chair, trying to distract herself with the book she’d brought with her, anything to keep her from overthinking her situation with Coco, anything to keep her from compulsively texting Angel to make sure that things were going okay with Ana. It felt like there was so much she was supposed to be doing and yet she couldn’t do any of it. There were only so many times that she could check her phone to see if Angel was going to call before she drove herself insane.

There were so many layers to how out of place she felt. Every time she looked at Coco, watched him as he shuffled back and forth from the bathroom, no energy to make any detours, she felt like she just wanted to melt into the floor beneath her. Everything that they’d been through, and they had somehow managed to end up here. They were finally back in the same room and they couldn’t have felt farther apart.

She listened intently, trying to make out what he was grumbling as he ebbed and flowed from consciousness. Shaking her head, she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands. “What am I gonna do with you, Johnny?”

It was getting later into the evening, and Daniela was fairly certain that Coco was going to be out for most of the night going forward. Grabbing her bag of clothes off the floor, she walked out of Coco’s bedroom to go to the bathroom to change. She was halfway there when she heard the sound of a motorcycle getting closer. There was no way that that was a coincidence.

She checked her phone again, already prepared to curse Angel out for not even being able to last the first twenty-four hours unsupervised with his niece. She was already picturing Angel having dropped Ana off at their father’s house before making his way over to the house. She was on the brink of grinding her teeth in frustration as she walked over to the door. The sadness and exhaustion that had been settled so deeply into her bones just a few minutes before seemed to lessen almost instantly as she geared up for whatever altercation she was about to get into with her brother.

Yanking the door open, bag of clothes still slung over her shoulder, Daniela had already taken a deep breath in, ready to start her tirade aimed at Angel. She nearly stumbled back a step when she found herself face-to-face with EZ instead. It took her a few seconds to get herself right, pick her jaw up off the floor. Once the shock wore off, she felt her nerves start to set in.

“What’s up?”

EZ shrugged, hands gripping the edges of his kutte. “Nothin’.”

“If you need Coco for something,” she said, trying to get a read on her brother’s face and failing, “he’s not gonna be useful for anything for…a while.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“He’s knocked right now but,” she opened the door a little wider, allowing space for him to walk inside, “if you need to talk to him you can wait until he wakes up again.”

EZ stepped inside, watching as Daniela shut and locked the door behind him. He looked around the house, noticing that it was a little more straightened-up than the last time he’d been there. He had no doubt that it was Daniela’s doing.

“I got nothing to say to him,” EZ finally said as he looked back at his sister.

Her brows knit together as she tried to figure out what exactly it was he needed. “Okay? So, what, then?”

He shook his head just enough to be noticeable. “What the fuck are you doing here, Dani?” he asked, an edge to his voice that she could hear him trying to get under control.

She gestured to the bedroom door. “Making sure your friend in there doesn’t aspirate.”

“Yea but why are you the one—”

“Ask your fucking brother,” she snapped.

“I did. That’s the only reason I knew you were here.” He paused, and when he saw the confusion on her face he continued, “I stopped by to check on you and Ana. Hadn’t heard from you in a couple days. When I got there I just saw Angel’s bike outside and knew that that couldn’t mean anything good.”

Daniela let out a sad laugh. “Sad state of things, huh?”

EZ offered a brief, half-hearted smile that went away too quickly. “He ask you to do all this shit?”

She sighed, not wanting to respond but finally giving in with a nod. “Yea.” She heard the deep breath that EZ took, and for as much as she didn’t want to be coming to Angel’s or Coco’s defense at the moment, she couldn’t stop herself as she said, “Angel just didn’t know what to do.”

“He never fucking does,” EZ said, exhaustion heavy in his voice and it wasn’t from a lack of sleep.

“Ezekiel…”

“No, Daniela. He shouldn’t be fuckin’ doing that to you. This shit,” he pointed to Coco’s room, “is not your fucking problem anymore.”

“He’s still my kid’s dad.”

“Yea, but you’re the only one who’s been acting like a parent.”

She sighed. “I know. But once Angel asked me I couldn’t just…leave him…”

“I know.” He tried to tone down his annoyance, his anger, not wanting to take it out on the wrong person. He’d already given Angel enough of an earful. “But go home. I’ll stay here.”

“I can’t ask—”

“You’re not asking. Coco is the club’s problem, not yours. Go home, tell Ana she’s only got one cool tío.”

Daniela managed a weak laugh despite the tears in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Positive.” He pulled her into a gentle hug. “I was pre-med, remember? I got this.”

She leaned into him for a moment, thankful that it felt like there was still at least one person in her corner. “Thank you, EZ.” She sniffled, wiping the tears off her cheeks as quickly as she could. “I’m gonna get a fucking earful from Angel when I get home, aren’t I?”

He chuckled, shrugging. “Probably. Tell him to call me about it.”

Her laugh was a tiny bit more genuine. “I’m sure that’ll go over so fucking well.”

EZ nudged her towards the door. “Get outta here, Dani.”

“You’re sure?”

“Stop asking,” he said, flashing her a quick smile for reassurance, “and go home.”

Taking a deep breath, she finally nodded. “Alright. I’ll leave my med bag for you, just in case. Hopefully you won’t need it. And, um,” she pulled the key to Coco’s house out of her pocket and handed it over to him, “house key. I don’t…I don’t want this. Give it to Angel next time you see him.”

EZ nodded as he slipped it into the pocket of his kutte. “Will do.”

She stepped in and hugged him again, tighter this time. “Thank you. And, you know, call me if shit goes down, okay? I’ll come and—”

“I’m not calling you for anything having to do with this,” he cut her off, gently as he could. He kissed the side of her head. “Love you.”

She nodded as she pulled away from him and went towards the door. “Love you too.”

EZ lingered by the door until he heard the sound of her car driving away. Once it was silent again, he made his way towards Coco’s bedroom. He pushed the door open and let himself in, instantly seeing the way that Daniela had gotten herself as comfortable as she really could have in the given scenario.

When he looked over at the bed, EZ saw that Coco was awake, sitting half-upright and staring at him. Even through his exhaustion and sickness, and the myriad of other things he was feeling, it was impossible to miss the fear that was written across Coco’s face. EZ could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that he’d heard the conversation between EZ and Daniela. EZ wasn’t going to be the one to bring that up, though.

Coco tried to clear his throat, only landing himself in a small coughing fit before saying, “What’s up, Boy Scout?”

EZ shrugged, feigning nonchalance over the resentment that was bubbling inside of him. “Stopped by to send Daniela home.”

Coco nodded once. “She good?”

“Yea. She’s got a kid to take care of.”

He flinched at the reply, but he knew better then to dig himself deeper than he already had. “Right.” If he had the energy, he would’ve been much more tense than he was. “Thanks, EZ.”

He shook his head. “Don’t thank me.”

“Nah, I mean—”

“Don’t thank me,” EZ reiterated, “because I’m not doing this for you.” He saw the way Coco shrunk back as he continued, “None of this should’ve been put on her. That’s the only reason I’m here. If it weren’t for her, I’d let you dry out on your own, ship you off to Gracie’s, whatever means you aren’t Daniela’s fucking problem anymore.”

Coco was silent for the longest few seconds of his life before he finally said, “Sorry.”

EZ shook his head as he sat down where Daniela had been only a few minutes before. “I’m not the one who needs an apology.”

There had been a time when EZ would’ve been more positive about all of it. He would’ve given pep talks, done whatever it was that he thought would be the best thing for Coco. He was past all of that now, though. EZ had watched his little sister get put through too much pain to have any sympathy left for the man lying in the bed in front of him. He’d do enough to keep Coco in one piece, help Daniela not lose her entire mind, but that was where it started and ended for him. Whatever friendship, whatever bonds that he and Coco had had before were damaged beyond all recognition now.

Settling back into the chair a little more, EZ said, “Get some rest, man.”

“Yea,” Coco gave a small nod as he laid flat against the mattress again, “right.”

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday28 #mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans mc fanfic #johnny coco cruz #coco cruz #coco cruz x oc #angel reyes #ez reyes #ezekiel reyes #oc daniela #oc daniela reyes #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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ravennaortiz · 5 days

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Summary: Coco prepares for the birth of his and OC Daniela's child. All while enduring hazing from her brothers and trying to cope with his own anxiety about being a good father.

As always my stories are 18+.

Tag List: @keyweegirlie @hatersaremymotivators @meera10 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @kikijackson-blog

"I still can't believe you got my baby sister pregnant" sighed Angel as he dropped onto the couch next to Coco dramatically making him roll his eyes but not looking up from the book in his hands.

"Kind of a shit move. She had her whole life ahead of her" joked EZ as he clapped Coco on his shoulders from behind the couch.

"My bad. Figured after being married for two years this would be fine. Though I am starting to wish I had rethought the relationship after realizing you two idiots were her brothers" snarked Cocoas he shook EZ's hands off him and stood from the couch.

"If I didn't know better I would think he was the one pregnant and hormonal" stated Angel as they watched Coco stalk off and upstairs. EZ simply nodded as he took Coco's vacated seat.

***

Dani was upstairs finishing her makeup when she saw Coco appear in the doorway a frown on his face. "You okay love?"

Coco flopped onto the bed and sighed trying to decide if it was worth stressing her out to tell her his rising anxiety about the birth of their daughter. "I'm good mami" he finally called as he heard her move into the bedroom. "You look stunning" he added as he propped himself up on his elbows taking her in. Lucky, he thought to himself. He got lucky that night all those years ago that she had turned down that alleyway.

Dani put her hands on her hips as she stared him down. "Don't deflect Coco. I know something is bothering you so spill it"

Coco took a deep breath as he met her eyes. There was no use in trying to deny it any longer. "What if I am a bad dad? What do I have to offer? I messed Letty up and I can't stomach the idea of doing that with our little one. I know its too late but I don't think I can do this Dani" explained Coco as he buried his face in his hands as tears spilled down his cheeks.

"Coco, my love" murmured Dani as she moved to the bed and tried to pull him as close as possible with her baby bump. "You are a great man and a great father. I promise you that. Letty has grown into a lovely young lady and you did what you thought was best for her. I know in my heart you will do the same for our little girl. I am honored to get to raise her with such a gentle, kind, hardworking man" soothed Dani as she rubbed his shoulders.

Coco nodded as he listened to Dani speak. He knew she would never lie to him. "Thank you. Sorry for this" mumbled Coco as he sat up and kissed her cheek.

"No apologies needed love. I got you like you got me" replied Dani softly as she caressed his face. A knock at the bedroom door had them both turning.

"Guests are arriving. E is getting everyone settled" stated Angel as he looked at the floor awkwardly.

"You go on mi amor. I'll be down in a couple minutes" stated Coco as he stood up offering his hand out to Dani to help her off the bed. Dani nodded and made her way out of the room, giving Angels arm a squeeze as she passed by.

Once Dani was down the stairs Angel turned to his friend. "Hey man, I hope you know its all just jokes. EZ and I couldn't ask for a better guy for Dani to be with."

Coco nodded as he took a deep breath. "I know man. Just got a lot on my mind. Don't want to fuck this up"

"You won't. You love my sister to much to do that. Besides you got me and EZ to help ya" replied Angel with a grin.

"Thank god I got Boy Scout and Pretty Boy to help me. Whatever would I do without?" replied Coco sarcastically as he chuckled as he stood up making his way out of the room with Angel.

The End

Want to see how Dani and Coco started? Click here

#ravennasmasterlist #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfiction #RaisingGirlsSeries #mayans imagines #mayans imagine #OCDanielaReyes #coco cruz #coco cruz fic #coco cruz imagine #johnny coco cruz #coco x oc #mayans fanfiction #mayans fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic

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myckicade · 9 months

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WARNING: Contains reworked spoilers for Season Four.

Prompt: Can you do a Coco imagine and fix it please????

A/N: Ugggh. I still wish that I could properly fix it. I do. I'm so, so sorry that I can't, loves. All I can offer is this, and a massive hug.

As a further warning, I've played with canon (clearly), in order to fit the wider universe that this story follows. Since the events of Meth Mountain never would have taken place, Oakland wasn't a bitch detail for Coco.

P.S. This is over a year old, but I finally finished the bastard!!!!

Title: Catalyst

Pairing: Coco/Reader (F, Wife)

Teaser: You don't really know the realities of being a biker's wife, a fact that is becoming painfully clear. You can prepare for injuries, for accidents and scrapes and broken bones and concussions and-... Fuck, this? No, no, there's been no preparing for this.

There’s a high-pitched chirping coming from the nightstand, and it’s everything in you not to reach across the bed and fling the source of the noise against the wall. Fucking Club. They always need Coco at the strangest of hours, out to do fuck knows what, only fuck knows where. Under normal circumstances, you would let it slide, even at two in the morning. Unfortunately, normal circumstances are on holiday.

“Coco,” you groan, burying your face futher into your pillow. It muffles your words, but you know he’ll understand you, regardless. “Your phone…” You’re practically whining, but it’s… That sound, it’s grating on your nerves, ringing in the space between your eyes in a way that makes you want to cry. Another complaint is about to meet your pillowcase, when the tone abruptly cuts out. Thank fuck.

And, yes, you’ve counted those stars too soon. Almost as quickly as it stopped, the chirping starts again.

“Coco, what the fuck?” you hiss, pushing yourself up on your arms, to look over at the other pillow… Only to find it empty.

Oh. Oh, right. Coco’s still in Oakland. Sadly, this isn’t the first time you’ve gone to reach for him in the night, only to realize… Well. This is going to do nothing to rescue your mood. Because, for all you’ve been complaining to your husband’s temporary ghost, it’s most decidedly your phone that’s interrupted your sleep. Guilt settles in around the edges of your slowly-forming sense of consciousness. Eh. You’ll apologize to him when he gets back. You’ll say you’re sorry for yelling at him when he wasn’t around to hear it. He’ll laugh, and call you adorably crazy, and that will be that.

One more day, you tell yourself. Just one more day, and he’ll be home.

You stretch your arm toward the nightstand, intent to grab hold of the offending hunk of plastic and metal. Just as your fingers touch the surface, the ringing stops again. Huh. You’re beginning to grow concerned, the more alert you become. Coco wouldn’t call you in the middle of the night, not unless it was an emergency. Letty… Letty is safe in her bed, further shortening your list of potential callers. What if it’s from back home? It can’t be good, no matter who it is. Swallowing down a wave of honest terror, you pick up your phone, and-

Ding-ding.

The display lights up, alerting you to an incoming text message. It’s Gilly. Gilly never messages you. Your heart climbs into your throat, thumb shaking as you swipe up, and tap the icon to open your messages. You don’t want to know, and you can’t wait another second to find out what’s happened-

GET HERE NOW.

Your next breath catches in your chest, as you pull yourself upright in your bed. Get where? What the fuck is-

Ding-ding. Another message. It’s an address. You copy the address, and open it into your web browser, only to freeze up again as you realize... It's an address to a hospital.

A hospital? Oh, no, no, you’re going to be sick. The nausea is creeping up, burning in fear-

Ding-ding.

Tears fill your eyes. No, you can’t look. You just can’t. But…

COCO IN SURGERY. CALL ME.

Eyes frantically scanning the screen before you, you locate the appropriate icon, and smash your thumb against it. Every part of you is shaking, warmth slipping from your eyes, a sob fighting harder and harder to break free with every passing ring.

“Come on, come on, Gilly,” you whimper. The shaking has taken over every limb, so violent your bones are beginning to ache.

Ring…

“(Y/n)?!” It’s Gilly. His voice is such a relief, that sob finally forces its way out in a harsh cough.

“Gilly,” you plead. “What the hell happened?!”

The path before you opens up slowly, accompanied by a too-loud woosh of sound, and a burst of chilled air. You hate that you have to stop, even for the two or three seconds it takes for the glass doors to part far enough that you and Letty can get through them. Side by side, that's been the way since you'd had to wake her up, not an hour prior. Hands clasped together, a lifeline for one another. With a deep breath, you step through a second set of doors, and into the hospital's emergency department.

Six gunshot wounds. Fractured right tibia. Some kind of skull fracture. Gilly hadn't been terribly clear after that. Trying to get hold of a medical professional was a fuck of a struggle the entire way up, a wash of dropped calls, hold music, and after-hours answering services. Still, thanks to what Gilly was able to tell you, you aren't walking into it completely blind. Neither is Leticia, but, feeling the girl's hand tremble in yours, and hearing her half-stifled sniffles, you can't help but wonder which would really be worse.

The check-in desk is only a few steps away, but they seem to drag on for far longer than that. There's someone ahead of you, because, yes, of course, there is. Letty doesn't say a word of it, not right away, doesn't tell anyone to hurry their ass, or get the fuck out of the way, which says enough about how fearful the both of you are, concerning this discussion. The woman behind the desk could say anything, could be forced to direct you anywhere that would shatter the hope that Gilly left you with.

He's alive, though. Those were Gilly's exact words, and that's what you keep telling yourself. That's what got you into your clothes, and your coat, out the door and to the gas station. That's what kept you on the road, and not in a ditch, too blinded by tears and shaken with nausea to keep it between the lines. You're holding onto it now, grasping it with every last shred of your sanity. Coco's alive. He's alive, and he's a fighter, and if you find out who the fuck is responsible for this, you'll-

"Fuck this," Letty grumbles under her breath, taking a single step forward. Her mouth is open, surely ready to spout some obscenity that you can't find it in you to fault her for, when someone shouts from the left.

"(Y/n)!"

You jerk your head up, legs weakening at the sight of Gilly and Bishop hurrying over from the waiting area. They're still here, you tell yourself, as Gilly pulls you and Letty into a tight hold. That has to be a good sign, right? No one is off seeking... Shit, you don't know. Revenge or balance, whatever response the M.C. would typically have in this sort of a situation.

It strikes you suddenly. You don't know what the fallout from this is going to be. You don't really know the realities of being a biker's wife, a fact that is becoming painfully clear. Bits and pieces of conversation overheard during parties, and Coco failing at whispering over the phone, and that's it. He's never let you know, and you've always been fine with that, but now... Now, you'd give your left arm to understand, at the same time that you just don't fucking care. It wouldn't change a fucking thing, either way. You can prepare for injuries, for accidents and scrapes and broken bones and concussions and-... Fuck, this? No, no, there's been no preparing for this.

"What the fuck happened?!" Letty shouts, the second she's able to pull back from Gilly's arm. She looks between both men standing before you, expectant. You can't help but do the same.

Bishop sighs. "We don't know very much-"

"Bullshit," Letty spits. Reaching out, you place your hand on her forearm. She doesn't shrug you off, but it doesn't stop her argument. "You fuckers always know shit."

"Well, in this case," Bishop replies, tone firm, but not entirely unkind, "we weren't given much to go on." He glances your way, expression somber. "We know he's still in surgery. Bullets in his back, and his right leg. Fucked up the bone."

"G-Gilly," you begin, nodding, "Gilly said it was the tibia?"

Bishop nods, and Gilly hangs his head. "Right."

"The skull fracture?" Letty demands, when Bishop doesn't continue. You glance up, and find your daughter blinking back tears. Admirably, you might add.

Gilly shrugs, miserably. "Cracked his head when he fell, maybe. He was near his bike. Mighta' landed on it." Letty reaches out to grab your hand in hers. Good timing. It's all you can do not to bury your face away from the rest of the world. "The doctors've been waitin' on you. Won't give us the full story without family present."

Yeah, that makes sense. You look between the two men apologetically. Poor bastards. They've surely been trying to get every scrap of information they can, and here you two are, grilling them for details they've been prevented from learning.

Shaking your head, you sigh, a fragile, shaky sound. "Where is he?" you ask, glancing down the hallway from which they had emerged. You want to know what waiting room to pace, what nurse's station to post up at. Taking a deep breath, you focus as best you can. This is terrifying, but not all-together unfamiliar territory. "Where were you guys waiting?"

Bishop places a hand at your back, guiding you down the hallway. Gilly swings an arm around Letty's shoulders, leaning in to murmur something you don't bother trying to hear. Now that the fear of the unknown is simmering a little lower, the numbness is beginning to creep in.

Alive.

Surgery.

Shattered.

Christ, Coco, you pray, silently, as you lower yourself into an open waiting room chair. You had better be okay.

There are more tubes and wires attached to your husband than should be possible for one human being. Your cousin hadn't looked this bad after his car accident in '09, you can't help but remember, as your eyes wander across what little of Coco's skin is visible. A bit of forearm, between medical attachments. Shoulders, neck, and chin. Forehead. There are bruises across his face, and it looks as though the doctors have reset his nose. You've seen Coco through scrapes before, from bar fights to dumping his bike while intoxicated. Even then, even with bleeding legs and a bruised tailbone, he hadn't been this beaten up.

It's everything in you not to burst into tears, all over again.

Heaven help you, that you should cry anymore. Your throat is already so dry you're going hoarse. For better or worse, there's no one around to hear your voice, anyhow. Letty wandered off to the cafeteria a while ago, intent to get you something to drink, and a snack. You didn't have the heart to fight her on it. She's every bit as anxious as you are, and she needs something to do, something she can control to keep herself from falling apart. If she can seize the opportunity to keep one of her parents going, and healthy, you won't stand in the way.

A loud tone chimes in from the machine behind you, followed by a series of pulsating beeps. Time for vitals. When the results are displayed, you can't help but glance up. No change. In this instance, it's as good as gold. He's living off of so many aids - breathing tube, I.V. solution, anesthetics - any little change could be explained by just about any detail.

You sigh, low and slow. Fuck. You knew this could happen. You've told yourself as much at least half a dozen times tonight, alone. That doesn't change the reality. And didn't it just figure? It feels like you've been married for five minutes, and everything is going to shit. It had seemed so... Ugh, so fucking perfect, much as you hate to be that doe-eyed, but that's what it's been. Fucking. Perfect.

It's just your luck, Santo Padre doesn't allow for perfect.

Looking back to the bed, to Coco's closed eyes, and his exhausted form... Well, you smirk, just a tad. "Didn't need to go getting shot, just to get a good rest, y'know," you murmur, before blowing out a breath. Levity isn't going to make you feel any better, much as you'd like to try. The nurse said to talk to him, which makes perfect sense, but... You don't have much to go on, besides nervous joking, and desperate pleas.

"Maybe I ought to take a page from Leticia's book, and break something," you continue, now talking to yourself, just as much as to your husband. "You'd be so pleased." You reach out, and slowly slide your fingers into Coco's palm. He's a little chilly, unsurprising between the loss of blood, and the air conditioning blasting down from the ceiling. You grip his fingers as tightly as you dare, and lean in. "Come on, mi rey," you whisper, barely loud enough to reach Coco's ears, even if he was awake. "I have faith in you. You keep fighting. No matter who, or what comes after you, baby, you fight." Your voice catches, as you slide your free hand into your purse. "We need you to be okay, Johnny." It might sound selfish to anyone else's ears, but you know Coco would want to hear it, to hear that he is needed, and loved, and wanted. All the things he knows, but sometimes forgets.

The things you will work even harder to keep him from forgetting.

"We all need you to. Me, and Letty..." Bringing your hand up, you prop a small slip of paper on Coco's chest, tilting it in front of his face. Your jaw trembles, and your voice cracks as tears flood your eyes. "And your son, baby." You pause to get yourself together, which doesn't amount to much. There's more guilt behind this conversation than you wish you felt, the feeling drawing a sob from your throat. "I was gonna' tell you when you got back. I swear, I was." He's waited for this for so long. You both have. "So, you've gotta' fight it, okay? Take whatever time you need, but-..." Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself. "You need to get better," you instruct, in as commanding a voice as you can manage. "I'm not raising this baby without you, you hear me?"

There's no response. You don't expect one. This isn't a sappy romance movie, or the daily soaps. Coco will wake up when he's good and ready. And you'll be here, holding his hand, and chatting about what he's sleeping through all the while. You lean down and press your lips to his fingers, thumb brushing along the back of his hand. "I love you, baby," you murmur, pressing another kiss to his skin before you sit back up. Lean back. Try to relax.

Vitals sound again.

Someone wheels a cart by, just outside the room.

You sniffle. Just once.

"Y'know, I thought I'd be bailing our Princess out of jail, by now," you admit, thoughtfully. "She really kept it together. You'd be proud as hell of her."

Letty stands in front of a cafeteria display case, filled with questionable-looking salads and tempting baked treats in plastic clamshell containers. Each one makes her stomach turn. She's not here for her, though, is she? She's here for you. She's here to make sure her mother, after six straight hours of waiting in a lousy fucking hospital chair, isn't going to drop on her, too, from something as stupid as low blood sugar. If that was to happen? Jesus Christ, she doesn't know what the fuck she'd do. End up in the psych ward, more than likely. Or break someone's worthless neck. Yeah, that sounds more like it.

She's just about to reach for a slice of what she thinks is chocolate cake, when a hand comes to rest on her arm. It startles the living shit out of her, but when she looks up, ready to gouge out a motherfucker's eye with one of the plastic-wrapped sporks within her reach, Letty finds Gilly staring down at her.

Fuck. Yeah, that tracks. She's been in here for a good little while.

"Find anything for your Mom?" he asks quietly, removing his hand from her person to tuck it back in the pocket of his kutte. Letty turns back toward the display case, staring into the middle space for a moment.

"You're gonna' get the motherfucker responsible, right?" Behind her, Gilly sighs. She's expecting a comment about her language, or about how this isn't the time to be worried about something like vengeance. A truly ugly response is on the tip of her tongue, when Gilly surprises her.

"Yeah," he promises, voice quiet, but sure. "Yeah, kid, we're gonna' get 'em."

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