#But just mariachi for now(mm

[appatary8523]

Here is it, Seize the Chance is real, baby! Of course it had to be with Ernesto alive because Nolan isn't into skeletons, and everything's good on Ernesto's side, he likes twinks either way (?)

OK yes I get it I'll go to sleep now (?)

[nightingaelic]

FNV Companions react to being re-united with the Courier after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam (NCR Best Ending)

TW: Blood, gore

As the screams of men, metal and guns petered out, movement on the Hoover Dam slowed. The sun was low, red as the ground beneath it, and the heat rising from the concrete and hundreds of gun barrels gave the area a faint shimmer. Most of the Legion lay dead or dying, their last gasps covered by the sounds of NCR soldiers calling to each other, looking for friends or officers or just reassurance that what had happened was true.

Victory.

Arcade Gannon: Though plenty of the NCR heavy troopers were popping off their helmets as the battle came to a close, Arcade kept his on out of fear someone would recognize him. The Brotherhood of Steel attendees appeared to be of the same mind, so he did his best to linger between the two groups and hoped both would assume he had arrived with the other.

Someone slapped the side of his metal-encased arm, and he looked down to find the courier beaming up at him, gasping like they had just run a marathon. "Hey, Six," Arcade said, surprised. "I thought General Oliver would've packed you on a flight to Shady Sands by now."

"Not yet. How're you holding up in there?" the courier asked breathlessly. "Looks like it'd be an oven under the sun."

"Oh, it is," Arcade assured them. "But it also stopped a few bullets and a machete or two, so no complaints here."

The courier bent over and put their hands on their knees. "I saw Daisy... saw her chopper off with the others after the fighting stopped. Oliver's confused as all hell, he doesn't know who they are, where they came from or where they went, but he's got bigger problems to deal with right now than chasing them down."

They looked up with a grin. "Thanks. Tell them all I said hi."

Arcade laughed. "Will do. And thank you."

"For what, dragging you and your only surviving family into this?"

"Well, yeah." Arcade looked down sheepishly. "Fortune favors the bold."

The courier nodded. "Fortis fortuna adiuvat."

"You remembered?"

"Of course I did." They gestured at the broken and scattered weapons and men of Caesar's Legion that lay around them. "After today, we're running low on people who know how to speak Latin."

Craig Boone: Though the other NCR snipers around him packed up their gear and headed toward the dam, Boone stayed put with his rifle until the courier made their way up the rocks to his position. They waved when they spotted him, and he put up a hand of greeting as well.

"And it's over," they said, plopping down to take a seat next to him and dangle their legs over the drop-off.

"Yep."

"Was that you who got that shot in and made Lanius drop his sword?"

Boone smiled. "Mm-hmm."

They smiled back. "Thanks."

The two of them sat together in silence, watching the activity below. Boone's smile grew and grew, wider than it had in years.

"Do you want to go down and join in?" the courier asked, when a group of NCR soldiers started putting broken defenses and wooden Legion weapons into a pile to burn.

Boone straightened his sunglasses and looked toward the horizon. "Yeah. I do."

Lily Bowen: "Pumpkin!" Lily bellowed when she spotted the courier across the dam, leaning on the concrete barrier next to the edge. She pushed her way past several surprised NCR troops, who yelped and jumped out of her path. "Pumpkin, are you alright?"

"Lily." The courier was pale, nursing a jagged wound on their arm. "I'm okay, Lily. I just need..."

Lily barred anyone else from approaching them as they rooted around in their pack. Finally, they extracted a stimpak and jabbed it into their arm, hissing as the medicine found its way into their bloodstream.

Lily inspected the cut carefully. Aside from its ragged appearance and the blood surrounding it, the wound was clean. The stimpak was working its magic, and the redness seeping out was already slowing. "Is that better, dearie?" she asked.

"Much." The courier sighed and leaned back against the concrete. "Legate Lanius had a sword. Not as... as big as yours, but big enough to slice me up when I got too close."

"You rest, pumpkin." Lily sat down on the barrier next to them, careful to hold her hat on in the breeze. "The fight is over now. Leo is quiet again."

"Mmmm-hm." The courier nodded sagely, before turning to face the steep drop below to the bottom of the dam. "We did it."

"How do you feel?"

The courier opened their mouth to answer, but instead threw up over the barrier and into the crevasse below. Lily carefully patted them on the back and produced a box of gum drops from her overalls pocket. "Here. For your breath, dearie."

Raul Alfonso Tejada: "Courier!" Raul pushed his sombrero back with the tip of his revolver, scanning the battlefield atop the dam. "Six, dónde estás?"

An injured NCR soldier looked up from the curb he was sitting on. "What's a ghoul doing here? He's not with us, is he?"

"Chinga tu madre," Raul swore, pausing his search. "You see the courier anywhere around here?"

"Raul!"

He turned back to the devastated landscape and there they were, jogging through the mess of bodies, shell casings and busted concrete. Raul laughed and spread his arms in relief, in welcome. The courier dropped their gun and threw themselves into his embrace, ignoring the blood and dust that covered his costume. Truthfully, they were just as covered in the battle's detritus as he was.

"I lost you so quickly," they breathed hard in his ear. "No wonder... no wonder they call you the ghost vaquero."

"Mij@." Raul embraced them tightly, then held them at arm's length to inspect them. "You had me worried. I thought I was the one who was going to have to track down twelve mariachi bands to play at your funeral."

The courier grinned. "Still want your medal?"

"Think the NCR'll give me one?"

They made a face at that. "If they wanna give me one, they'll have to give you one, too. Come on. I want to see the look on General Oliver's face when I tell him that you did just as much work here as me."

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: A lone NCR trooper stood by the nearest flag pole, hoisting a scrap of fabric high above the scene. Cass could make out the two-headed bear emblazoned upon it, and something in her heart rose. She was still standing there, watching the red star whip in the breeze atop the dam, when the courier made their way over to her.

"Cap for your thoughts?" they asked.

For a moment, Cass tried to find the words for that feeling inside her. When she failed, she turned away from the flag. "Nah. Nothing you don't already know. What next, Six?"

The courier scratched their head and looked around. "Clean-up. Round up the Legion boys who are still kicking, grab everything that isn't nailed down before anyone else does, and pull this place back into some kinda shape."

"And then?"

"And then we drink." The courier pulled out their canteen and offered it to Cass. "But here's a little something for right now. Go on, keep it."

Cass drank deeply. Whiskey, just the way she liked it. "The NCR did good today."

Her traveling companion smiled. "We did good today."

"Mmm, not yet." Cass waved them off. "Don't lump me in with the bear before the work's all done. Ask me later, we'll see how I feel."

"Way I see it, if you had any actual qualms about this, you wouldn't have come," the courier replied with a chuckle. "But I'm damn glad you did."

They'd walked off toward the NCR top brass before Cass could answer, but she let the wind take the words anyway, small as they were. "Me too."

Veronica Santangelo: As soon as the courier was finished speaking to General Oliver, Veronica pulled them away and unearthed a handkerchief from inside her robes to wipe away the worst of the gore from their face. "Eugh. Is this... did somebody explode on you?"

"Hard to say." The courier pulled out their own bandanna and began wiping Veronica's face down in return. "How do you feel?"

Veronica laughed and accepted the help. "Honestly? I'm not sure what my parents would think of me fighting for the NCR, but for New Vegas it seemed like this was the best chance at stability. I don't regret it, if that's what you're asking."

The courier gestured at the Brotherhood of Steel Knights and Paladins that were milling about next to and among the NCR soldiers. "Your family doesn't seem to regret it either."

"Yeah." Veronica brightened somewhat. "They actually came. That ought to show both the Elders and the NCR that this, this is possible."

She watched her brothers and sisters from afar, making awkward introductions and conversation with the defenders of the dam and even comparing power armor pieces with the NCR heavy troopers. She smiled faintly.

The courier followed her gaze. "Did you want to join them?"

"No." Veronica looked down at her power glove, flexing the joints as if lost in thought. "No, that's okay."

ED-E: The courier found ED-E stuck beneath a collapsed barricade, where it had been knocked during the fighting by a lucky Legion swipe. They pulled the eyebot out and dusted it off. "You okay, buddy?"

ED-E beeped its reassurance and pulled itself from the courier's grasp, shaking in midair to dislodge any remaining debris. It did one final loop-de-loop to lose a large splinter before blasting its triumphant music at top volume.

Surprised, the courier laughed. "That's right. We did it. We won."

Rex: The chaos around Rex began to fade into the background, overwhelmed by the scent that clung to the courier at his side. A rush of endorphins, dopamine, a whiff of serotonin- Rex didn't know the words, but he knew what they meant when mixed together in that way. Relief. Happy relief.

The cyberdog yawned, signaling his own stress, and looked up at the courier. They noticed his movement and dropped down to his level immediately, running their hands through the ruff of fur around his neck and inspecting his mechanical parts carefully. "Good dog. Good boy. We did good today, you and me."

Under their touch, Rex relaxed. He opened his mouth to pant. It had been a long, hot day.

[need-a-fugue]

Centennial Man

Summary: Bucky may not want to celebrate his birthday, but you’ll be damned if you let his 100th go by as just another day.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Cavity-inducing fluff.

You’re gone when he wakes, that side of the bed cold and empty.

He twists around, fingers idly gripping the crumpled sheets where your body should be, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth as he blinks the room into focus. It’s dim but not dark, a sliver of early morning light spilling in through the crack in the curtains, still drawn – unlike how he leaves them when he gets out of bed in the morning, tearing them open to bathe you in the offending light, forcing you to writhe and moan and finally get up.

But today… you’re already up.

He slowly turns back around, rubbing his stubbled face into the million thread count sheets you insisted on buying a few months back – new sheets for a new home! – before landing his eyes on the bedside clock. His brows pull tightly together, confusion tugging his frown even further. Nine o’clock? He lets out a groan and rolls onto his back, a knowing, “Damnit,” flowing languidly out of him as he rubs at his eyes.

You turned off the alarm. Of course you did. You turned off the alarm to keep him in bed and then you disappeared to go do… something. Even though he told you – repeatedly – to treat this just like any other damn day.

He hears the front door open, the crinkle of a paper sack, a sharp, “Ooop,” in your voice to likely mark a near trip or spill. And he pulls himself up and out of bed.

“What are you doing?” he asks, stepping out into the hallway, tugging a T-shirt over his head, not even bothering to do up the jeans he pulls on. He peers into the kitchen, parking it at the breakfast bar to watch as you merrily pluck item after item out of a large paper bag.

“I went to our corner bakery,” you state, not even turning to look at him, so intent on unpacking the goodies. “I got croissants,” you spin then, just long enough to offer a quick raised brow, “obviously,” and turn back to the counter. “A blueberry muffin. A lemon poppyseed. A bran muffin,” you intone slyly, whipping back around to face him. “Because old men like you need their fiber.”

“Ha, ha,” he spouts, grumpy frown still painted on his face.

You reach behind and grab a single plate from the counter, pluck a paper coffee cup with the other hand, and step over to the breakfast bar. “And,” you announce with a flair, setting the plate down in front of him, “pain au chocolate. Because it’s my baby’s birthday. And he deserves it.” You wiggle your brows playfully, getting met with little more than a dramatic eyeroll from Bucky.

He points to your other hand. “That coffee for me?”

“Of course,” you state, setting it down in front of him before rocking back on your heels, crossing your arms over your chest, and offering an almost chiding glare. “Black. Plain. Boring. Just like you.”

He plucks the plastic top, tosses it to the side. “I told you… I don’t do birthdays.”

“You did my birthday,” you say with a shrug.

“Yeah,” he says after downing a long, hot sip. “You would’ve thrown me out if I hadn’t.”

Your face twists with admonishment. “No,” you intone, narrowing your eyes severely. “You just like being the gift giver, the one who celebrates other people. The hero.”

“Making you dinner for your birthday makes me a hero?” he asks, lips finally quirking into a small, crooked smile, a hint of mirth twinkling in his eyes as you roll yours in annoyance. He plucks a pain au chocolate from the plate, takes a giant bite, devouring almost half the pastry at once. “This is it, right?” comes out of him amid buttery crumbs as he speaks around the food in his mouth. “No party… no nothing, right?”

Another eyeroll, this one so deep it almost hurts. “Really, I should just count my gift to you as talking Tony out of that damn party.”

He swallows thickly, takes another quick sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “I don’t get it. He hates me. Why would he want to throw me a party anyway? Unless it’s because he hates me… and he knows I’d hate it.”

“First of all,” you mutter spinning back around to grab your own coffee off the counter, “He doesn’t hate you.” You shrug. “He just doesn’t like you. And yeah, you being annoyed by even just the thought of a birthday gathering probably gives him a monstrous hard on.”

“Could do without that image,” he mutters before shoving the rest of the croissant into his mouth.

“But really, that man will take any opportunity to throw a party. Don’t make this all about you.”

“My birthday,” he states simply. “Not about me. Got it.”

You sweep out of the kitchen, rounding the breakfast bar to pull up next to him. “Nat’s covering for you this morning – ”

“You could’ve just said that instead of turning off my alarm,” he interjects, a bit of an edge to his voice.

You give him a get real stare. “You still would’ve gotten up by six… still would’ve gone down to the gym. It’s your birthday, you can sleep in one damn day a year.”

“Mm-hmm,” he mutters, reaching out for the remaining chocolate pastry.

“Anyway,” you intone, swiftly plucking the treat from him and tearing it in half, returning only a portion to his waiting, open hand. “As I was saying… Natasha’s covering for you, so no work today. Steve wants to hang out, so I said I’d send you his way for a bit. But I need you back here by six.”

“Why?” he asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Because it would be rude to keep the mariachi band waiting,” you snipe. “Why do you think? We’re having dinner.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

“Good, ‘cause we’re staying in.”

His eyes widen, brow arching into an utterly incredulous expression. “Don’t take this the wrong way, doll, but I don’t want you to cook either. I might not want to celebrate my birthday, but that doesn’t mean I want to get food poisoning for it.”

“I’m not going to…” You let out a low, annoyed growl. “You’re the worst. Just go… do whatever you want to do for a few hours.”

He reaches out and captures you with his metal arm as you try to scurry off beyond him, back to the bedroom. “What if what I want to do is right here?”

You swat him away, aiming a pointed finger as you take a single, wide step back. “No,” you declare, trying – and failing – to keep your lips from curing into a devilish smile. “Not now. Not yet.”

He turns back to the breakfast bar with a grunt. A scoff. A bitter huff. “I gave you two orgasms before the sun even came up on your birthday.”

“Psht,” you scoff. “I was barely awake. Probably dream faking.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Nope. I rocked your world.”

Your eyes roll back so hard that this time it definitely does physically hurt. “You are such an old man.”

                                                               000

“You should have a little more faith in her,” Steve says with a chuckle as he swipes at his hair in the locker room mirror, pinching a chunk between his fingers and twisting.

Bucky snorts in reply, rolling his eyes at his friend’s – frankly alarming – love affair with 21st century hair products as he does little more than viciously rub a towel through his own just washed hair. A two-hour run. Some light sparring followed by heavy lifting. A long ass shower. And he’s finally ready to face whatever you have cooked up for him. Mostly.

“You’re acting like she’s gonna throw you a surprise party,” the still-preening super soldier says, barking out a quick laugh when Bucky turns on him with a raised, wary brow. “She’s not going to do something we all know you’d hate.”

“I hate celebrating my birthday,” he mutters vaguely as he tosses the towel into a hamper by the door and roughly pulls on a sweatshirt.

“You didn’t used to,” Steve says, finally turning away from the mirror and locking onto Bucky’s eyes with a rather gloomy cast. “Hell, you used to drag me around to every soda shop and dance hall in the city. Kept me out all night just because it was your birthday and you damn well had the right.”

Bucky shifts his eyes away, unable to see such memories – vague, unattainable recollections of his past life, an utterly other life – through the simple, reminiscent lens of his friend. “Yeah, well. That was a long time ago.”

“Alright,” he sighs out, an almost disappointed edge to his voice. “Well, for what it’s worth… happy birthday, Buck.” He whips on a stiff button down – ever the dapper fella – and begins to do it up, keeping the sour-looking man in his periphery. “And just… be nice.” He heads for the door, dropping a hand to Bucky’s shoulder as he goes, giving him a swift jostle as he states, “She’s trying to do something nice for you. Don’t be a jerk about it.”

He does little more than mutter in response – something bleak and unintelligible that comes out like a lazy grunt – and turns to follow him out of the locker room, out of the sprawling gym. Each reluctant step towards the elevator, then down the hall to your newly shared apartment, seems to stutter and slow, his entire body prickling in a heated hesitation.

Why is it so different now? he muses dimly. Why does celebrating feel so… wrong?

Because it shouldn’t be happening, that’s why. Because he never should’ve lived to be 100 to begin with. And the only reason he did is because he was transformed into some sort of ageless monster, designed to kill. To end life. There’s no reason why anyone should be celebrating the beginning of his.

But of course, he’d never say that to you, would never tell you that he was undeserving of kindness or love or even just a birthday dinner. He’d tried that once already, and it ended with him donning a split lip. Tough love, apparently, was a phrase to live by where you came from.

“Ah,” you squeak out, an animated leap accompanying the all too excited utterance as you flash a wide, bright smile the moment he steps through the door. “You’re back! Perfect timing!”

His eyes blow wide as he looks just past you, cocking his head to peer at the fully made table to your left. “What is all this?” he asks with a laugh, sauntering over to the pristine settings and pulling in a long breath through his nose, taking in the strong aroma of… “Steak?”

You nod. “But don’t worry. I didn’t make it. I promise.”

Another laugh, and the accompanying smile lingers easily on his face, strain lifting from his shoulders as he watches you slip over to the counter to pour a couple fingers of what looks to be damn fine whiskey into a crystal tumbler.

“Sit,” you demand, dangling the glass dangerously between thumb and forefinger, waving it slowly back and forth in front of his face.

He does as requested, dropping into the chair, and reaching up for the glass only to have you flop heavily into his lap instead. A surprised oof blows out of him, followed by an amused, “Hey,” as you settle in and take a single, slow sip. Your eyes close, the softest hum of pleasure slipping from your lips as he slides the whiskey from your hand. “Good?” he asks before taking a long pull himself. “Mm, yeah,” he mutters, swiping his tongue languidly over his lips. “That is good.”

You nod and lean over to hack away at the giant, bloody steak on the table. “This,” you say with a flourish as you spear a bite with the fork and bring it up to Bucky’s mouth, “is from Donovan’s. One of Tony’s favorite places.” You wait until he accepts the bite, his lips still curling into a sly grin, before you raise a brow and further explain, “He claims it’ll melt in your mouth.”

Bucky chews slowly, relishing the perfectly rare-cooked meat before swallowing it down and offering a pleased nod. You dive back in and steal a bite for yourself, agreeing with Tony’s assessment wholeheartedly as you leisurely chew before moving your fork over to pick at the massive baked potato. Bucky lets out an airy chuckle in your ear, leaning forward to drop a swift, whiskey-laden kiss at your temple. “Is this my birthday dinner or yours?” he asks as he slowly lifts the hem of your shirt and sneaks his cool metal digits beneath.

You jolt in his lap as he splays his icy palm over your ribs and lets out another light laugh. “Fine. Fine,” you mutter, feigning annoyance as you rise and hand over the fork. “I’ll just sit over here… all alone.” You lower yourself into the chair across from him, bottom lip pulling into an overdone pout, all in the hopes of getting even just one more precious, sunny laugh out of him.

It works too. One laugh, one smile, each bleeding easily into the next as you sit across from your 100-year-old counterpart. Your – sometimes better, sometimes worse – other half.

The two of you slip easily into the moment, enjoying a calm and leisurely – and delicious – dinner together. The few words that fall from either of your lips – all too often busy with the succulent steak, dripping-with-butter potato, oddly amazing brussels sprouts – are truly unneeded, talking feeling wholly underrated when you can simply bask in the presence of one another. And play a dangerously distracting game of footsie beneath the table.

Once the meal is over, both plates practically licked clean, you jump up to clear the dishes, eager to get at them before he tries to take over. You drop everything into the sink with a clank and a thud – wince when you hear him hiss out a disgruntled, “Easy, baby.” – and pour him another drink before turning to slowly back out of the kitchen, holding the whiskey up like a carrot as you beckon him into the other room.

“Where are we going?” he asks, wily expression on his face, his hands dropping down to your hips as he backs you into the hall.

He begins to turn, not-so-subtly angling towards the bedroom. But you shuffle your feet to a halt. “Uh, uh,” you intone with a shake of the head. “You still have to open your present.”

His fingers trail up your sides, even as his head drops, lips lowering to your exposed collarbone where he sucks a small, sweet, red blossom into your skin. “Yeah,” he mutters into you, flesh hand ducking beneath your shirt, pressing a hot palm to the small of your back. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“No,” you laugh out, stepping out of his loose grip and giving him a small shove. You tug his hand out from beneath your shirt, wrap his fingers around the whiskey glass, and saunter off to the other side of the room to dig out a small, wrapped package. “I just ate a potato that weighed like four pounds,” you say as you slump heavily onto the couch, neatly wrapped gift in hand. “I need some time before… that.”

He rolls his eyes, takes a long sip of sweet, brown liquor, and sets the tumbler down on the side table before sitting beside you. “Okay,” he mutters vaguely, that unsure look returning to his face. “How much time do you need to digest?”

You laugh, the bright and tinkling sound swiftly bringing back his delicate, crooked smile. “Shame we can’t all have a super soldier’s metabolism, huh?”

He cocks his head playfully. “Am I not being patient enough? I thought I was being very patient.”

You let out a rather indignant snort and toss the gift haphazardly into his lap. “Yeah, sure. Patient. Also grateful. And kind…”

He leans forward then, curling into the bend of your neck and peppering your skin with swift kisses. “I am grateful, baby,” he murmurs into you. “Always grateful for you.”

Your hand slinks up into his hair, fingertips dancing lightly along his scalp. “Well… as for the patience part… we still have cake to get to too.”

“Thought you were full,” he whispers softly, his lips, tongue, now tracing the line of your jaw.

“But it’s your favorite,” you state, craning your head to give him better access.

“You’re my favorite,” he mutters into you. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Well,” you intone thickly, pulling away just a bit, knowing full well that if you don’t manage to duck out of this now, you certainly won’t be able to later. “That is good to hear. But I have it on good authority that devil’s food cake is your favorite.”

“Really?” he asks, voice sounding utterly disinterested as he tugs you closer.

You nod. “Steve gave me your mom’s recipe.”

His lips still on your neck, body stiffening beside you. He pulls away with a start, confused look on his face. “My mom’s recipe?” You nod again, raising a questioning brow. “You made… my mom’s cake? For me?”

Your hand slowly slides down to cup his cheek, eyes shining brightly as you say simply, “Sure did, baby.”

He looks almost… lost. For a long moment, he does nothing but stare at you, seemingly assessing everything about you. His hand rises to your face, fingertips brushing lightly along your cheek, thumb dropping low to gently press into the center of your bottom lip. “You’re amazing. You know that?”

“I do,” you say, tone straight and serious, teasing quality playing only in your sparkling eyes. You give him a wide smile and a little shove, gaze dropping down to the package in his lap. “Now, open your present.”

That crooked smile returns, not quite a smirk, certainly not a leer. You’ve come to know it as one of his most sincere expressions, even if it isn’t quite as bright and broad as that ever-elusive beam that only occasionally breaks across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It sets off butterflies in your stomach just the same. Because both of those smiles are seemingly only ever directed at you.

He looks down at the gift with a sigh and gingerly tears into the wrapping, pulling it apart to reveal deep brown leather, thick and supple. He slides his fingers delicately over it, over the flat, soft surface, before pulling it out of the wrapping entirely and flipping it over in his hands.

“It’s a new journal,” you mutter, tone suddenly peppered with apprehension. He looks up, expression unreadable, and you give a short shrug. “You only ever write in those notebooks and… important things… like your memories? Those should have a nicer place to live.”

His eyes lighten to a luminous, icy blue as he continues to stare over at you, into you. “That’s really nice, baby,” he says softly. “I love it.” His gaze drops back down to the book in his hand, brow furrowing as he traces a finger over the sharp, ridged pattern running along the edges of the cover. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” you start, a hint of hesitation working into your tone. “Yeah. That.” You reach over and pick up the journal, flip it over to show him that the same etching stretches along the back as well. “It’s my heartbeat.”

His eyes fly up to meet yours, a quick chortle pulling from his chest. “What?” he barks out, glancing back at the design and noting now that, yes, it does appear to resemble an EKG readout.

“Yeah, I had someone in medical record it for me. And then I sent it off to some… leather smith or whatever they’re called to emboss it… or… whatever.” You shake your head dismissively. “Anyway, it’s 101 beats of my heart. One for every year you’ve been alive. Plus one to grow on.”

“You…” He sputters for a moment, still staring down at the journal, staring down at the very rhythm of your heart sitting in his hands. And then his face splits wide, that big, bright beam you’d been waiting for – hoping for – taking over as he raises his head and locks onto your eyes. “You crazy girl,” he laughs out, shaking his head fondly.

“Crazy?” you bleat out, only barely able to maintain the faux vexation. “I just gave you my heart… almost literally!”

“Still figuratively,” he states with a raised brow. “But I damn sure love it even more now.”

“Well, good,” you breathe out, reaching over and tugging back the cover. “Then hopefully you’ll forgive the fact that I took the liberty of filling in the first entry for you. Go on,” you prod as soon as you see his eyes drop to take in your sloppily scrawled words. “Read it.”

He settles back into the couch with a grin, holding the journal open with one hand as he clears his throat dramatically and begins. “Dear diary,” he reads aloud, choking suddenly on a laugh as he shakes his head lazily back and forth. “You think that’s how I start a journal entry?”

You shrug. “I don’t make it a habit of reading other people’s diaries, so I really wouldn’t know.”

“It’s a journal,” he corrects, both brows cocked high as he leans back to peer down at you.

You merely roll your eyes in response, tapping the open book impatiently in a swift and silent order for him to continue.

He returns to the page, corner of his mouth quirking into a crooked grin as you press yourself into his side, laying your head atop his shoulder. “Today is my 100th birthday,” he goes on coolly. “My wonderful, brilliant, patient, funny, charismatic, beautiful, delightful, best damn girl,” he breathes out with a snicker, “treated me to breakfast in bed.”

“You were supposed to still be in bed,” you gripe from his side.

He goes on, gentle amusement and utter adoration blooming in his gut, as he reads aloud, “She’s really the best.”

You snake even closer, wrapping your arms around his bicep and singing out, “It’s true.”

He gives a slight nod and returns to the entry. “She ordered steak from the best place in town. Diary, you do not want to know how much that cow cost.” His head cocks towards you, single brow raising in an almost admonishing way. Again, you shrug and tick your eyes back to the page, encouraging him to go on. He does so, uttering, “Then she gave me her heart,” with a gentle fondness.

“I really am a peach,” you mutter, turning your face just a bit and pressing a lingering kiss onto his shoulder.

“You are, baby,” he agrees, dropping his lips to your hair for a moment before returning to finish the entry. He clears his throat again and continues with, “It was simply the best birthday I’ve had in all my hundred years. And the best part of all was the homemade cake, which my girl made with equal parts chocolate and love.” Another snicker escapes him, though it chokes and sputters in his throat as he reads the next sentence, uttering slowly, “and then wore like a nighty so I could lick icing off her thighs all night long.”

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 16

Previous: How Cricket Got Her Name 

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook X Reader/OFC/You

Genre: Secret AgentAU, AgentAU, Government Agent AU

Rating: PG15

Word Count: 3.04K

Warnings: Swearing 

Summary: Our lovely P.I. goes on the search for Min Yoongi, and stumbles into the identity of the mystery man with Taehyung. 

(this is... rough? did not expect it to be so long...) 

Missing Min Yoongi

Present Day

           My sister always tells me she’s given me all she can, that she can’t help me past my one favor a year. It’s a ploy, a deception, a boldfaced lie she tells at work or anytime we’re in earshot of anyone else. Does she misuse her government clearance? Yes. Does she defy laws and challenge the ethical code? Yes. Has she ever gotten caught? No. You’d think the government would put more tabs on her, considering her sister is a registered and licensed PI, but no, no one seems to bat an eye.

           Min Yoongi, Park Yoongi, Yoongi, is nonexistent. I barely understand what he did at Lee Enterprises, let alone how he ended up bedding Euna. He supposedly comes from no money, no name to build off of, nothing. His grades were fine, his college experience came and went with nary a note of youthful rebellion. Now, now that he’s no longer at Enterprises, I cannot fucking find him. Nothing on the web, nothing in the statewide system, nothing in the national system. No death certificates, no marriage licenses, nothing.

           All I’ve got are his charges, well, Euna’s charges against him.

           Cheating in the 1st degree, no proof, no photos or receipts or basic evidence of his behavior. She had nothing but her recollection of the fight they had, and minimal information on what led to the break up. From her manifesto, it seems that Yoongi was pulling away and she clung to him, claws drawing blood, trying to get him to stay. He didn’t, clearly. With only that to go off of, it’s no wonder I can’t find Min Yoongi, and I’m beginning to think that just maybe, Min Yoongi doesn’t exist. He’s her Snuffleupagus, and I’m starting to not believe.

           While I’m unsure if Yoongi exists, I do know a person who does.

           The man with Taehyung.

           Spectacled and broad shouldered, quaffed hair and arms the size of tree trunks, this man exists. He goes to the gym regularly, religiously, makes his coffee at home, and frequents his local nursery. The man is obsessed with plants, it seems unhealthy. Multiple days a week he’s carrying one, or more, I have photos of him watering them, speaking to them… He tends to them with such care, such love, it’s mesmerizing. He goes to work, some corporation, and once a week meets Taehyung. They’re clearly pals, best friends, brothers. They laugh and eat and enjoy one another. It’s cute, their friendship date. Once in a while, Jimin joins them. The three laugh uproariously and often draw attention for their volume. The unidentified man doesn’t seem to understand how loud he is, his baritone resonating enough for me to hear.

           I haven’t intentionally bumped into the three of them, yet, but I’ve stationed myself near enough to hear bits and pieces of their conversations. They never discuss work, only music they’re listening to, books they’re reading, podcasts, plants, general culture. Have I written down a few of the artists and podcasts they listen to? Yes. Do I feel dirty about it? Yes.

           But it’s the job, and I tail them for a month before a package arrives. A package with my name on it, waiting outside my apartment door. It’s not addressed, no stamps or packing label. It’s new, not reused as a shipping box or gifted for the umpteenth time, no dingy tape sticking to its brown coating. The box is sitting, like it’s appeared out of thin air. A secure building is only as secure as the tenants make it, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the owner snuck in behind some dummy who didn’t see the harm in letting a potential rapist, stalker, murder, into the building. Taking the package inside, and as my blood continues to cool and chills run down my spine, I delicately open it.

           I know, it could be a bomb. However, the only thought calming me down is the knowledge that my life has never once been a Shonda Rhimes production and thus, I’m not really worried this package is a bomb. Frankly, that’s far more sophisticated than any of the people I’ve worked for and gives them too much credit.

           Inside, there are copious amounts of surveillance photos and a note, written in a script that I’ve seen before.

           “That was your last warning / The line has been drawn and you’re bleeding / Next time, face to face is how we’ll be meeting”  

           Whoever heard of a stalker rhyming?

           I bag the evidence to toss under my bed so Jungkook won’t find it and pull out my list of potential threats.

Check It Once, Check It Twice

William Daniels

Cheated on his wife of 5 years with a stewardess who flew almost exclusively on his flights (big shock)

Threatened to ban me from American Airlines -  Jokes on him, I don’t fly American

Photos in the act & audio recordings

Wife divorced him immediately

He has to pay alimony out the nose

Lives in the area

Allanah McMahon

Arrested and tried for insider trading and embezzlement

Discovered who I was when I was subpoenaed to testify

Still in jail

My testimony added a few years to her sentence … oops

Cassie Harrington

Set up a Multi-Level Marketing scheme

Tried to hide out in Hawaii – but changed her Instagram to private after I’d already followed her

Ordered to pay back all the money she stole

On parole

Adam Gregory

Tried to run an illegal adoption agency for homosexual, non binary couples

Paid a fine and on parole – forbidden from creating any LLC’s or Incorporating

Brian Welch

Pissed that I found evidence of his partner cheating but turned him in on charges of possession of child pornography

In jail for kiddy porn and for threatening my life

His husband got everything despite the infidelity

           You acquire quite detailed list of people who want to threaten your life on the daily, but then again, wasn’t it Audre Lorde who said “I’m deliberate and afraid of nothing?” I can’t be afraid. If I’m afraid, they have the power. They have the power to intimidate me, to run my life for me, to make my decisions. I will not back down because they got caught. But I will protect myself, I will keep my license for my gun up and go to the shooting range often. I will strengthen the locks and security of my apartment, and I will ask Jungkook to stay over more, or sleep at his.

           I will not back down, not when Lee Euna has paid me what seems like the cost of tuition at Princeton for a year and wants answers. We signed a contract, didn’t we?

           And who am I if my word is no longer worth anything?

           Instead of harping on the sickening feeling that I’m being watched 24/7, I run through my plans for bumping into Taehyung and his friends. In the weeks that I’ve continued to follow him, he’s solidified Wednesday’s as his night for dinner with friends, and Thursdays as his cultural exploration. He goes to museum openings, concerts, movies, plays, clubs, all on Thursdays. While those nights are fun for me to watch and put on my expense account, it’s Wednesdays that I adore. I love following him from his house to the restaurants and am excited each week to see what he and his friends have chosen.

          This week, it’s an authentic Mexican restaurant. Slipping my coat on, I give them a few minutes before following in.

           The sound of mariachi welcomes me into the yellow painted restaurant. The furniture, dark mahogany against the vibrant walls, is full of people. I note the variety of sombreros, the different colors and patterns, the meanings hidden within the stitchwork. It’s not a large restaurant, but big enough to fit a few large groups of 7-10 people, and plenty of space for smaller groups such as the three men. The hostess asks if I want to sit at the bar, and I request a table near the men. Sitting a few feet away, I’m able to pick up their conversation easily. Instead of jotting it down, I hit record and let the metaphorical tape play.

           “Oh, it wasn’t that bad!” The mystery man says.

           “It was awful, Taehyungie couldn’t stop laughing, every time he hit the ball it went flying in the wrong direction,” Jimin says.

           “I was trying so hard!” Taehyung laughed.

           “That’s the problem, you were trying too hard,” The man tells him. “You’re too pure of heart.”

           “I am not,” Taehyung shook his head.

           “I know, you’ve experienced a lot, Tae,” Jimin says.

           “Joon, here’s the question,” Taehyung says, and I’m momentarily distracted by the utterance of the name, Joon. “You get to pick next week, we heading back to that barbeque place?”

           Jimin erupts in another fit of laughter, Taehyung following suit. It’s cute, watching them interact. I wonder if Jungkook has friends he does things like this with… those nights we aren’t together, if he has friends to spend his time with.

           I wait until they’ve left to take a glance at the signed bill on their table, Taehyung Kim is scribbled, no evidence of the other men, and I’m about to bag evidence when I hear my name.

           “Y/N?” Taehyung asks.

           “Taehyung! That was you!” I smile.

           “Have you been here the whole time?” Taehyung’s eyebrows express more than anyone’s I’ve ever seen.

           “I, yeah. I wasn’t sure it was you and Jimin. I didn’t want to interrupt,” I tell him.

           “Oh, you could’ve! Don’t worry about them, we’ve been friends a long time,” Taehyung smiles, it’s boxy and wide, the edges curling as his eyes soften.

           I’ve already started my dance, a waltz to an even tempo and I’ve got the next five paces planned. “Who was that new guy?”

           “Why, you single?” Taehyung smirks, his lips no longer joyful but devious.

           “I just was curious,” I reply, “And no, I’m not single, remember?”

           “Oh yes, yes, Jungkook,” Taehyung recalls with a nod.

           “You, Jimin and that other guy, go way back?” I lead him, it’s easy to lead Taehyung, he’s pure of heart, the most honest intentions in his eyes.

           “Mm, yes,” He continues smiling at me.

           “Your dinner looked fun, I’ll definitely be coming back to this place,” I tell him. It’s true, maybe I will bring Jungkook by one night when I know these three men won’t be around.

           “Yeah, we like it. We try a new restaurant every week. It’s a fun no work zone,” His arms are relaxed at his sides, one hand slipping slowly into his pocket, his cardigan open and glasses pressed close to his ebony eyes.

           “I like that, no work zone,” I agree, I wish I had one of those.

           “Yes, it helps clear the mind,” Taehyung tells me.

           “Do the three of you work together?” I inquire.

           “Kind of, we have a lot of the same shared interests,” he sidesteps.

           I nod, the final step in our dance presenting itself. “Very cool, well I don’t want to keep you from Jimin and –

           “Joon, yeah, very considerate of you. Maybe I’ll see you at the dog park again?” He asks.

           “Oh god, I hope not, Maisie is a nightmare,” I laugh.

           “Well have a good night, Y/N, take care!” He says as he walks out the door. I stand, watching, pretending to not notice how he gets in the car swiftly, not looking back.

           Joon.

           Joon.

           Joon.

           What kind of a name is Joon? If Taehyung and Jimin, and Jungkook, and Seokjin… and Yoongi, are all Korean, must Joon be short for something Korean?

           Glancing at my phone, it’s only 8:30PM, if I hurry, I can get in another few hours of work before I’m overcome with exhaustion and anxiety. But what will I find?

Oh Joon

Kim Joon

Lee Joon

Joon-Ho

Joon-Hee

Joon-Hyuk

Joon-Ki

Joon-Tae

Joon-Young

Byung-Joon

Ha-Joon

Hee-Joon

Hyung-Joon

Jae-Joon

Kyung-Joon

Jae-Joon

Kyung-Joon

Yong-Joon

Nam-Joon

Joon-Su

Ye-Joon

           Not to mention add in the top 5 Korean last names, and I’ve got hundreds of possibilities. Luckily, I can run the name against the address of the apartment building Taehyung picked Joon up from. Being a PI means I have access to the state databases, which gives me names and addresses. In the building, there’s one Joon, a Namjoon, Kim Namjoon. I pull the information before digging into my search.

           Unlike the seemingly nonexistence of Min Yoongi, Kim Namjoon is present. Every search result yields a perfectly manicured article dating anywhere from the year of his birth to age sixteen, and then, much like everyone else on this case, the trail begins to run cold. Whatever happened to him during high school, still radiates through his file. Whether he’s shaken it or not, that’s the question.

           No known career or job at all, his status as a prodigy in math, linguistics and rhetoric is astonishing. One of the highest IQ’s of recent memory, he’d mastered calculus by the time he was 8, besting PhD’s by 13, and then in a blaze of glory, disappearing by 16. He was studied, written about, documented, photographed, and somehow managed to be nominated for a Nobel Prize… how he accomplished all of that during puberty is beyond me. Not only does he accomplish that, but then, disappears completely, without a trace. How?

I’m ready to pack it in when someone steps into my office.

           “I saw the light on,” She says.

           “Ms. Lee, what do I owe this surprise visit?” I ask. This is the exact opposite of what I wanted to do tonight.

           “I wanted to, to talk to you,” She takes a few steps forward, pausing to ask for unspoken permission.

           “Please, sit. What did you want to talk to me about?” I lean back, hoping she can’t see the bags forming under my eyes or the tears from the yawn I’m stifling.

           “I wanted to tell you about, about why I need you to find Min Yoongi,” Euna informs me. She’s dressed in what can only be described as winter white, and only as a cashmere sweatsuit. Never have I ever seen such glamor in my dingy office. I feel bad that she’s risking the integrity of her outfit by being here.

           “Oh, okay,” I sit up and reach for a notebook. “Do you want me to write this down?”

           “No, you don’t need to. We can just talk between women, between friends,” Euna’s voice is soft. The slack in her jaw, the demur manner in which her hands are placed on her lap, it’s evident she doesn’t know how to be girlfriends. Raised by her family, groomed to take over, friends was never a word in her vocabulary.

           “I wanted you to know that I really saw a future with Yoongi,” She starts. “You know that place in your heart where you hold all your hopes?”

           “Yes,” I say hesitantly.

           Her eyes narrow in warning, “Do you have someone, someone who’s beginning to fill that space?”

           “Um, yeah,” I reply.

           “I thought that’s what Yoongi was. I thought we were, we were building something. Jun-Seo had Jimin, they thought they were building an illustrious future together, but one day he disappeared too.” She pinches the slight bridge of her nose, inhaling slowly to steady her nerves. “I don’t know what changed in our relationship. Yoongi didn’t want me anymore, he didn’t want to be around me, or with me at all. A switch flipped, like one day he realized he didn’t love me in the first place. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know why, but when your entire future is destroyed, do you stand back and watch it burn?”

           “Do you want me to answer that?” I ask.

           “Sure, what I did after that was terrible, but it was within reason. Everything I did was within reason. I tried to hold onto him, I did what I thought was right to get him to stay and he just, ran. Bolted, broke up with me on the phone like I’m Taylor Swift in 2012. Maybe I am,” Euna rolls her eyes, the comparison both too true and too terrifying. “At least Seokjin had the kindness to break up with me in person. But Yoongi? The coward! He knew I loved him. He knew I would carry his child, would marry him, would love him eternally and then some. I would’ve done anything for him. Even after he refused to go family dinners or go on trips with Seo and Jimin, after he started lying and cheating and stealing. He broke my heart, shattered it. If anyone is to blame for what happened after our relationship, it’s him.”

           Interested peaked, I inquire “What happened?”

           “It’s in my document,” She snaps.

           “The handwritten one?” I clarify.

           Rolling her delicate ebony irises, “Yes, of course.”

           “The abortion, the embezzlement, insider trading?” I try to rattle off the accusations she’d detailed. Somewhere I had a list and had sorted them by man, but damn, there were a lot of them.

           “Yes,” She snips.

           “That’s all true?” I ask again. The look she gives me is unwarranted, this is the first time in months, nearly a year, that she has sat down with me and discussed the charges. I am well within my right as her Private Investigator to ask clarifying questions.

           “Do you make a conscious decision to not believe your clients? Am I not paying you enough Y/N?” Euna snaps.

           “I’m sorry,” I respond.

           “I should go, I expect next week at our meeting you will have an update on the mystery man,” She stands.

           “Yes, yes, I will,”

           “Good, oh, there was a note under your door. I didn’t pick it up,” She turns and walks, stepping gingerly over the note. Scrambling behind her, I pick up the folded paper, and scrawled in crystal clear letters it reads:

           Cricket, was driving past when I saw the light on. Why are you working? Come to mine when you’re done, it’s been three restless nights without you.

          XO – Bunny 

           Fuck me, I love him.

Next: Cricket & Bunny Pt. 1 

[upperstories]

IT'S STILL YOUR BIRTHDAY OVER ON MY COAST SO IT STILL COUNTS

SO I HEARD YOU LIKE PRIMO BONDING AND I ALSO HEARD IT WAS YOUR BIRTHDAY SO HERE’S MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT FOR YOU AND I HOPE YOU LIKE IT WHEN YOU WAKE UP TOMORROW. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!

~

                “Be very careful with this, Teto, okay? If you don’t hold it properly, you could get really hurt.”

                Enrique watched as Héctor nodded, face as serious as a five-year-old could manage, before his eyes widened as Mamá lit his candle. Really, he was supposed to get picked up a week ago by Tía Mariana, but Mamá was dead-set on little Teto not noticing that he’d been left behind (again) and Enrique was determined to help. So, since Mamá had to finish an order tonight—even though it was the first night of Las Posadas—he’d volunteered to stay with Héctor throughout the procession, to make sure he didn’t get burned by his candle or lost on the way to that night’s Posada house. After all, as Héctor had cheerfully pointed out earlier, he’d never gotten to join in Las Posadas before; they didn’t have that in the hotels he and Tía Mari stayed in.

                So, once everyone’s candle was lit, the big group made their way from Mariachi Plaza through the streets of Santa Cecilia, a long trail of golden flames following behind Mary and Joseph (who were played tonight by Quique’s friend, Andres, and Juana, who hated Andres with a passion). Enrique glanced down at Héctor, making sure he was holding his candle right.

                “If you get too nervous holding it, you can blow it out,” he whispered. Héctor shook his head firmly, eyes focused on the candle for a moment before he looked up at Enrique.

                “Where are we going again, Quique?” he whispered.

                “It’s Las Posadas, so we’re looking for in inn for Mary and Joseph. You know, Jesus’ parents.”

                “Why do they need to stay in Santa Cecilia?”

                “Well, they’re not really staying here. We’re just acting out the Bible story.”

                “Oh.” Héctor fell silent, and Quique looked up to see where they were heading to. Looked like they were heading to the Ramos’ house tonight—oh, Teto would love that. They always got the best piñatas. He looked down as Héctor tugged at his jacket.

                “Use both hands to hold your candle, Teto.”

                “Sorry. Why are we acting it out? Is someone gonna have a baby?”

                “It’s…well, it’s a tradition. You know, to tell everyone how Jesus was born.”

                Héctor’s eyes widened. “So Jesus is coming?”

                Enrique laughed and shook his head. “Sure, yeah. We’re helping Jesus tonight. Ah! Mira, mira, Héctor! We’re at the house!”

                As they approached the Ramos’ house, the group began to sing to the closed door.

En el nombre del cielo

os pido posada,

pues no puede andar

mi esposa amada”

                There was a short pause before Señor y Señora Ramos sang back:

“Aquí no es mesón

sigan adelante,

yo no puedo abrir,

no sea algún tunante.”

                “What? They can’t do that!”

                Enrique glanced down at Héctor’s exclamation, eyebrows raising as Héctor looked up at him with a hard frown.

                “It’s Jesus! You can’t say go away to Jesus!” he protested.

                “Shh, está bien, Teto. Just wait,” Enrique assured before the group sang back:

“No seas inhumano,

tenos caridad,

que el Dios de los cielos

te lo premiará.”

                Another pause. Enrique kept his eyes on Héctor as the Ramos’ sang:

“Ya se pueden ir

y no molestar

porque si me enfado

los voy a apalear.”

                Héctor puffed out his cheeks. “That’s not how they should talk to a baby.”

                “They’re not talking to a baby, Teto, they’re…”

                “It’s not how they should talk to anyone! It’s mean!”

                “Héctor, it’s fine, just wait, okay?”

“Venimos rendidos

desde Nazaret,

yo soy carpintero

de nombre José.”

                Enrique grimaced as he waited for the Ramos’ to sing back.

“No me importa el nombre,

déjenme dormir,

pues ya les digo

que no hemos de abrir.”

                This time, Héctor didn’t say anything. Enrique sighed in relief. He must have figured out that it was just pretend. He looked down at his primo just in time to see his brow furrow before he blew out his candle.

                “Teto? Are you…” The question was lost in the strangled noise he made as Héctor started pushing his way through the crowd. “Héctor! Stop!”

                Héctor didn’t stop. He used his small size to his advantage, dodging and ducking through the other peregrinos too quickly for Enrique to easily catch up to him. He’d only gotten halfway through the crowd when, with wide, horrified eyes, he saw Héctor knock hard on the door.

                “Oye! Stop being mean!” he called through the door. “You can’t leave a baby outside! Especially not when it’s Jesus!”

                Enrique finally managed to throw himself to the front of the crowd, grabbing Héctor’s hand as the door opened. He gave an awkward smile as Señor y Señora Ramos looked at them curiously. “Sorry, sorry, perdónanos. It’s his first time doing Las Posadas and…” He looked down as Héctor, peeking around Señor Ramos’ legs, let out a loud gasp before sending him a hard glare.

                “You have plenty of room for a baby! You shouldn’t lie like that!”

                “Héctor, shush.”

                “But they do!”

                “Shush.”

                The couple looked at each other for a moment, then glanced at a few of the parents in the procession before Señora Ramos elbowed her husband with an exaggerated gasp.

                “Mi vida, look who it is! It’s the Virgin Mary!”

                Señor Ramos matched her gasp. “Ay, you’re right, Ramona!” He grinned down at Héctor. “It’s such a lucky thing you told us, niño, or we might have turned the holy family away!”

                They opened the door and gestured for the peregrinos to come inside, singing,

“Dichosa la casa

que abriga este día

a la Virgen Pura

la hermosa María.”

                Enrique pulled Héctor aside to let Andres and Juana go in first, noting his primo’s proud look at having done right by baby Jesus. As the procession went inside singing the final verse, Enrique let out a long sigh, then smiled at Héctor.

                “Well, for helping out Mary and Joseph, I bet you’ll get the first whack at the piñata.”

                Héctor’s face immediately lit up. “We get a piñata?!”

                “Por supuesto! How else are we supposed to celebrate? Come on, Teto.”

                The rest of the Posada party was relatively normal. Héctor had the time of his life with the piñata and the music, and at one point, Enrique caught sight Señora Ramos showing him their little nacimiento display, patiently explaining that they did have plenty of room for baby Jesus, they were just pretending to be mean earlier. Héctor seemed to accept that before going off to play with a few of the other younger kids.

                By the time Berto had announced it was time to head back home, Héctor was dozing against Enrique’s side, evidently worn out from the party. Enrique had coaxed him to climb up on his back, easily carrying him as everyone began heading back to their homes. He was fairly certain little Teto was asleep, so it was a surprise when he felt him shift.

                “Quique?”

                “Sí, Teto?”

                “Was I bad earlier?”

                Enrique glanced back, then shook his head. “No, you weren’t bad. You just wanted to help Jesus out like I said we would.” He smiled. “But now that you know it’s pretend, why don’t you just follow my lead tomorrow, okay?”

                Héctor lifted his head to look at Enrique, eyes wide. “We get to do this again?”

                “Mm-hm. All the way up to Noche Buena. And I promise, Mary and Joseph will be let in every time.” He laughed. “Maybe you can even be Joseph one night.”

                “En serio?!”

                “I’ll talk to Mamá about it.”

                He felt Héctor grin as he settled his face against Enrique’s shoulder again. “This is the best first Posadas ever!” His arms squeezed around his primo just a touch tighter. “Gracias, Quique.”

                “Aw, Teto, don’t even mention it. This is what primos are for.“

[slusheeduck]

Hope you wanted some Ernesto headcanons

These are extensive because I can’t write a whole fic right now because I’m STILL AGONIZING OVER THE OTHER ONE (and also I still have sick-brain, so let’s see if this stays coherent.) (Also worth mentioning: this is all in context of my fic, so yanno, YMMV)

Ernesto was a very careful child who dreamed about being like the heroes he would read/hear about but was always too scared to actually DO the things he wanted to. 

Sees his chance to be the hero with Héctor--he may only be seven years old, but he’s an easy target for just about anyone, what with being so small and the whole of Santa Cecilia knowing (by way of a very angry tía) how his papá was a worthless travelling musician who left his poor, now-departed mamá to have their child alone. So when he catches a group of kids jeering at him, he starts to step in. But then they start jeering at him, and he crumbles under the pressure. That’s when Héctor surprises him by jumping in and yelling back at them. (”Doesn’t that bother you? When they say mean things right to your face?” Ernesto asks afterward, to which Héctor just shrugs and gives a big, gappy-toothed grin as he replies, “They’re the ones actually looking for me. I think that makes me pretty popular.”)

Even though his attempt to “save” Héctor didn’t work out, Ernesto still decides it’s his duty to take care of the younger boy. Héctor is over the moon that someone as old as Ernesto wants to hang out with him, and they’re practically attached at the hip from that point on. They compliment each other perfectly: Ernesto is the one who has grand ideas for adventures, and Héctor’s the one crazy enough to actually go on them. This gets them into a lot of trouble--they’ve almost died at least three times by the time Héctor’s 12--but the more time Ernesto spends with the other boy, the more confident he becomes. 

Until they get it in their head to be musicians.

Ernesto’s the one to suggest it when he’s thirteen and Héctor’s nine. His mother gives him a beautiful guitar for his birthday, and he’s lousy at playing it. Héctor, on the other hand, can figure out the songs they hear in the plaza without any music. They both learn how to read and write music from the mariachis that come through; Ernesto practices and practices and practices--he keeps sheets and sheets of music with him, learning and relearning them over and over until he memorizes them--but Héctor can make up a tune at literally any moment. (It’s not fair, Ernesto thinks to himself more than once. He’s still a kid, he never practices, but he’s so much better than me. Why can’t I be like that?) As much as he loves his hermanito (because what else could Héctor be after being inseparable for so long?), there’s a little seed of resentment that starts to grow in him.

Ernesto has the awkwardness of hitting puberty early, but he grows into himself fairly young. By the time he’s fifteen, girls are looking at him. He’s not interested, but musicians need to flirt. He starts perfecting his de la Cruz smile and finds that suddenly people like him quite a lot. His confidence goes through the roof.

When Ernesto’s sixteen, he begins an apprenticeship with his father in woodworking. He hates it, but there’s no way for him and Héctor to be discovered in Santa Cecilia. He grudgingly accepts his fate, still dreaming of fame but utterly discouraged. He and Héctor still play together and talk about what they’d do if they were famous, but he doesn’t have the same joy as his friend.

When Héctor’s fifteen, his tía finds the notebook with all his songs and wastes no time in throwing him out. (“So what happened?” Ernesto asks when Héctor climbs into his window.  “Oh, what I was expecting. ‘You’re just like your worthless father, I knew it’d come to this, to think my sister died for an ungrateful cabrón like you.’ It’s nothing she hasn’t said before, but this time I don’t have a bed. Can I stay with you for a couple days?”)  

Enough’s enough, Ernesto decides. They’re young, there’s still plenty of time for them to become the famous musicians they dreamed of being. It’s time for them to grab their future seize their moment. After a lot of fighting and being more or less disowned, he leaves the family business, and he and Héctor scrounge up enough money to buy the tiniest shack in Santa Cecilia.   (“You really think we can survive on our own?” Héctor asks the first night they spend in their Casita de la Música. “I can’t even cook rice.” “Of course we can.” Ernesto leans over to muss up Héctor’s hair exactly the way he hates. “Haven’t you heard everyone in town? ‘Ay, Dios, Ernesto y Héctor! There’s never been two more unstoppable boys!” “I think they say ‘insufferable,’ amigo.” “Well, either way, they’re not getting rid of us so easily.”)

The first year they live together is a dream. They’re hungry and their clothes are badly patched, but they’ve never been happier. Ernesto uses the little bit of woodworking he remembers to salvage a broken guitar. He gives it to Héctor, and from that point on, there’s music at all hours from the two of them, whether they’re in the plaza or in their shack. They start actually performing, playing off of each other and dancing with their guitars and flirting with the girls who are in the plaza. And they start getting noticed.

Things get a little sour for Ernesto, though, when Héctor turns sixteen. Overnight, it seems, he shoots up a whole foot, and it’s hard to be the big, protective figure when the little chamaco is now a solid two inches taller than him. 

Worse than that, though, is that--around the time of his growth spurt--Héctor becomes a romantic. While three months ago he’d been just as disinterested in the girls that flocked to them as Ernesto was, now he has a new “soulmate” every week. He tries to woo each one with a song; it’s not always successful, and more than once he gets into scuffles with the fathers, brothers, and suitors of this week’s object of affection. It’s an unnecessary distraction from their important work. (A few times, though, Ernesto can see that it works--even with his gangly limbs and still-cracking voice, Héctor is charming with his wide grins and beautiful playing, and he catches a few girls looking at him and quietly swooning to the songs written for them. In those cases, Ernesto has to take things into his own hands to keep Héctor from straying too far. With Sofia, a wink and smile from himself dashes away all thoughts of Héctor--If she’s really so fickle as that, she doesn’t deserve him anyhow.   With Carmen, he may have mentioned in passing that she had so many admirers, and did she ever see the way the herrero’s son looked at her? And then ah! Qué pena! The herrero’s son proposed to her not long after, effectively pulling her out of Héctor’s range.   Luciana’s a little harder. She actively flirts back with Héctor, giggling and coyly glancing at him from behind her fan. He catches the two of them talking a few times, both mooning over the other one. At home, Héctor dreamily talks about running away with her, and that’s when Ernesto decides that things need to come to an end.  Word travels fast in Santa Cecilia, and somehow it gets out that Luciana Sanchez was planning to elope with that Rivera boy. So during their daily performance, Señor Sanchez personally comes out to the plaza and gives   Héctor a black eye before announcing that his daughter would NEVER marry some musician’s bastard son. Luciana, whether due to pressure from her family or her own feelings, is horrified that Héctor would think that she’d elope with him. She leaves soon after to Oaxaca, apparently to marry some wealthy farmer.)  While Ernesto hated to see his hermanito wounded--emotionally and physically--it quelled Héctor’s passions. Now he could focus on the music and, more importantly, not leave. At times, Ernesto is painfully aware that he’s being selfish. But his career depends on Héctor. Sure, he can sing, and he can play the classic songs he’d been practicing since he was a boy, but Héctor makes the most beautiful new songs. Those songs are what make people listen to them. Without that, he has no chance at becoming a star. But it’s more than that. Héctor, he knows, is a gift--performing with him is one of the most joyous things imaginable, and his never-ending optimism keeps Ernesto focused on their future. He should want to share that with other people, but he doesn’t. It’s always been Ernesto y Héctor. He rarely says it, but he adores him. The very idea of losing him is terrifying; after so long together, he’d be tossed into some dark unknown if Héctor wasn’t at his side. (”I’d move heaven and earth for you, you know,” he says one night after too many drinks at the cantina they’d played at. Héctor snorts as he slumps against his shoulder, shaggy hair tickling Ernesto’s cheek. “I know you’re the strong one, but let’s not push it, amigo,” he says, voice frustratingly light compared to how serious Ernesto is. “I mean it.” It’s the only way he can think of to convey how he feels for the boy--the man, now--beside him. He rests a hand on Héctor’s head, for once not mussing his hair. He stays put for a moment, then asks quietly, “Wouldn’t it be great if it were just the two of us forever? Just Ernesto y Héctor and no one else.” “Mm. It’d get lonely, hermano. Neither of us wants that,” Héctor mumbles, pressing his face against Ernesto’s shoulder before going limp and breathing softly. He never could hold his alcohol. He’s wrong, but there’s no way for Ernesto to tell him that. So he doesn’t.)  

He thinks Imelda is a safe focus for Héctor. He’s still irritated that his amigo can’t focus on their careers, especially when things are finally picking up for them. But Imelda clearly doesn’t want anything to do with him; he’d get discouraged soon enough, and then it’d be off to a life of fame and fortune, and Héctor could flirt with any girl he liked--they’d be too busy for him to spend too long with any of them, but he’d still be romantic enough to write those love songs that the crowds loved so much.

He panics when Héctor shows him the ring, that’s why he calls Imelda a cabrona. He panics even more when Héctor starts to fight him--he’s not a fighter, he never has been, and he’s terrified of getting hurt. But more than that, he’s hurt that Héctor--Héctor, who’d been by his side for over half their lives now--would turn on him like this for some woman.  (He’s not sure if punching Héctor’s mouth was an accident or not, but he’s sick when he realizes he’s ruined Héctor’s wonderful smile, and sicker still when he finds himself thinking, Now she won’t love him anymore. He has to stay.)

Eventually, it’s clear that it’s gone from Ernesto y Héctor to Imelda y Héctor. Ernesto wants to cut things off, to save himself the anger and frustration of hearing about how wonderful Imelda is and how beautiful Coco is and she really ought to meet her Tío Ernesto. Héctor wants to give up on their dream--he doesn’t say it, but it’s still loud and clear. He makes beautiful songs he doesn’t want to share. He stays in and writes letters instead of schmoozing and making connections. He’s not at all the Héctor he’d been a year ago--that one is dead, as far as Ernesto’s concerned. Maybe that’s why he tries to steal the songbook. It’s self-sabotage, he knows--but they’ll fight and it’ll be easier for them both to close the book on their friendship. (That’s what he tells himself later, to make himself seem like the selfless hero. In the moment, he wants to learn the music to “Remember Me”. He’s a half-second from ripping the page out to memorize it when Héctor comes back into the room.)

He’s not entirely sure where the poisoning plan comes from. It wasn’t as spur of the moment as he told himself it was later. Maybe it was to take revenge on Héctor for leaving him for Imelda. Maybe it was to ensure that he was the one that ended things between them. Maybe it really was just to get that songbook. What he did know was that poison was the coward’s way out; there’d be no way for Héctor to fight back, and that’s how he wants it to be. An easy, painless way to end things between them. There really wasn’t an alternative; he couldn’t seize his moment if Héctor kept getting swayed by family, and he couldn’t become the star he wanted to be if he didn’t have Héctor’s music. There wouldn’t be any fighting, just his success. (It’s not as easy or painless as Ernesto thinks it’ll be. He imagined Héctor would look like he was sleeping; he’s not prepared for empty brown eyes and twisted gangly limbs. He tells himself later that he was cool and composed as he dug a shallow grave and threw Héctor in, because he was doing what had to be done to succeed. He ends up believing most of the lies he tells himself, but that one never sticks. On his worst nights, both in the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead, he remembers with absolute clarity the way he mussed Héctor’s hair and hysterically made a few jokes as he dug the grave, as if Héctor were tricking him like he always had. But he wasn’t, not this time.)

Ernesto is never quite the same after that. Because now, there’s no “Ernesto y Héctor”. It’s just Ernesto de la Cruz, Mexico’s most famous musician. Because with Héctor, he could never truly seize his moment. With Héctor, he realized now, he was still that cowardly little boy who couldn’t even defend a seven-year-old. He was still the teenager who could never be as good as the little chamaco that hung around him. Now, he was free from all of that. So, no matter how he’d felt about Héctor before, there was just resentment now. He had been just another barrier to Ernesto’s quest for fame. Now Ernesto could be the hero he had always wanted to be. Now, he knew, he was better off with Héctor dead.  (Funnily enough, that lie never stuck, either.)

[rebustein94-blog]

Wanting to Believe

You know, nobody can really explain the Marfa lights. Nobody can tell for sure why they appear on the horizon almost every night or what they are. They remain, in fact, one of America’s last great unsolved mysteries. These flickering bursts of color against the dark. Orange, green, white, red. Just there, against the hills. And they’re so simple, you’d think somebody would have gotten it by now. But no. Quite the opposite, actually. Marfa revels in how vast and unexplained their night sky is.

Which maybe they should.

See, one night in 1883, a man was riding along outside what is now Marfa, Texas. He saw, up on the hill, strange lights flickering. He figured they were campfires, and when he later found out they weren’t, it blew his mind. He told someone else, and it blew their mind, too, I guess. That second guy told someone else, I assume, and on and on and now we’ve got this entire viewing platform a few miles outside Marfa, built exclusively for tourists to stand and watch the skies after the sun has set. In the hopes that they, too, will experience the unexplained. 

And people have. People do. Thousands of people have reported seeing these lights.

When I walked up onto the platform last night, the thing was packed with people. The sun had just tucked itself under the horizon, leaving behind bright pink streaks above us. I was there for over an hour, and by the time I left, the pink had curled away into the night. A spiderweb of clouds remained, and large patches of stars blazed through them.

Did you know that all the stars we can see only make up, like, a single percentage of our galaxy? Which in turn only takes up a pinhead-drop amount of space in a wall-less room? Is just one of infinite galaxies, surrounding infinite stars? And that the universe is actually still expanding from the original Big Bang, meaning more pinheads are being created all the time, and that almost none of it has been discovered or explored?

Did you know that?

Anyway, there were the stars and me and a lot of other people, waiting for the UFOs or whatever to appear. A large group of elderly was off to my left, further down the platform. They were led by a hunched and waddling crow of a woman, who squawked and shouted every word she said. 

“There they are!” she hollered, pointing off to our right.

Not about to miss anything, everyone on the platform followed her finger. Whether they were in her crew or not. Sure enough, four orange dots glimmered on the hill. A fifth blinked red next to them.

“Five of ‘em. Ya see?!” She moved between the members of her group, poking them and thrusting her claw at the hills. “Over there! One, two, three, four, five!”

For a minute, I was speechless. I mean, there they were. I’ll be damned.

But the red one blinked on, then off, then on again too regularly. And, kind of all at once, everyone on the platform realized it was just a radio tower. Except the Crow.

“I never in mah life,” she said. “You can’t say that’s not real.” 

“Oh, sure,” said her companions. “I see ‘em. Of course.”

“Unbelievable!”

“Mmhm.”

“Little white and orange ones. Ya see? They ain’t campfires.”

“Wow, yes. Indeed. Mm.”

And, slowly but surely, it dawned on me that the orange and white lights were cars on a highway. 

But the Crow continued to waddle around, shouting about the strange ghosts in the hills. Trying to take everyone’s breath away. After a while, a man who had been standing next to me, wearing a baseball cap and a thick mustache, looked at the ground. He rubbed the toes of his boots into the dirt. Sniffed. Calmly, he strode over to the woman. He approached her, cleared his throat

“Ma’am?” he drawled. “That’s a...highway over there. Those are cars.”

“But there wouldn’t have been a highway there in 1883,” she protested. “The man who saw the lights wouldn’t have seen that.”

“That’s...true.” The man scratched his head. “Um. But there is one now.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said quickly. He gave her a little nod, and sauntered off, head low.

She was quiet for some time. The lights kept dancing, miles away. Just as her group was leaving, she said softly, “But they ain’t moved. Cars’d be movin’. Those lights is still...”

Another group replaced the pack of elderly. They were all Texans except for a couple from Colorado, who had come to visit some relatives. The Colorado couple kept pointing to things and trying to believe them.

“I think I saw a flash of green,” the woman said.

“So hard to tell,” said the man, sounding sad.

By that time, the sun was really gone and everyone had abandoned the right side of the view, where the highway apparently was. Now, all eyes were pointed left where, if you looked fast enough, you could catch glimmers of green. I’ll admit, I saw a streak of white shooting down into the valley that I can’t explain. I’ll carry that with me, silently. But other than that...

“You know me,” some guy in the new group was saying. “I don’t believe in anything. Ghosts, creatures. UFOs. But I like to see ‘em. You know. See if--”

“There!” The Colorado woman shot up a hand. “I saw a little... Did you see it?”

They all leaned forward, hushed. 

“Could have been a satellite,” someone whispered. “But I don’t know...”

“I didn’t see it,” said the guy who didn’t believe in anything. But there was a bend to his voice. Something in him that clearly gave in and made him squint into the darkness just as hard as everyone else.

Nobody said anything for a few moments. Just watching.

The nonbeliever broke the silence. “Y’all ready to go?”

And, with a collective sigh, they left. 

Personally, I didn’t see anything. Except maybe a white streak.

You know, I was thinking about Santa Claus while I was out there on the platform. My mother tells me that, in third grade, I ruined Santa for one of my friends who didn’t Know. Whatever memory I had of this has burnt up and drifted away, so I just have to take her word for it. Third grade was the year I found out, so maybe I needed to shove my anger and betrayal onto someone else. Or maybe I felt superior. Or I just felt bad they didn’t Know.

Either way, even after I Knew, and everybody Knew, it didn’t really seem to matter. Because the next year, they did this complicated calculation on the news on Christmas Eve to figure out how long it takes Santa to travel around the whole world in a single night.

Why would they do that if they knew he wasn’t real?

***

The night after the lights, I was leaving from the train station in Alpine, which is about twenty miles east of Marfa. When I got there, I could hear mariachi music coming from somewhere around the back, by the tracks. As I rounded the corner, I came upon a large cluster of people, all milling about, listening to a three-person band and eating donuts. 

“Well,” I thought, surprised. 

Feeling oddly invisible and out of place, I wove my way through the crowd. I sat on the curb. Plopped my bags down next to me. And that was about the time I realized nobody else there had bags. 

“Well,” I thought. 

A woman standing nearby honed in on me. She leaned over. “Bet you’re glad you’re traveling today, huh?”

“What’s going on?” I asked. I felt like maybe I was about to be sacrificed to the train. Or swept up in a colony of traveling swingers. I don’t know. 

“There’s a gallery inside,” the woman explained vaguely. 

“Oh, cool,” I said, wanting our interaction to be over so that I could be confused by myself.

I didn’t see where the guy came from, which makes this story even better, I think. As far as I’m concerned, he strode up with sure feet and tall pride out of the very dust of the desert and a forgotten time. He was taller than I am. Wore khakis and cowboy boots and a bright blue Amtrak jacket. Brilliant green aviators hid his eyes. And he had this perfect, hypnotic Texas drawl. 

In any case, he appeared next to me. 

“Where you goin’ to?” he asked. 

“El Paso.” I was still squatting on the curb, and staring up at him. 

He nodded solemnly. “Good place.” He looked around at all the people. “I spose you’re wonderin’ what’s goin’ on here today?”

“You know, it crossed my mind.” 

“Well.” He hitched up his pants. “You got three groups of people here. One is travelers. Two is people who work with Amtrak.”

He never explained the third.

“See, we’re trying to expand this line,” he continued. “You can get to anywhere from Alpine. People don’t realize that. It’s an important stop. You got New Orleans. Los Angel-ees. Chicago. We’re petitioning to get the line to come through here more often. So they just refinished the station here. As a kind of incentive. What they’re most proud of is the bathrooms.”

“So today’s the grand opening?”

“In a sense.” He licked his lips. Raised his eyebrows. “We got donuts inside.”

I figured it was probably time to stand up. So I did, and slapped the dust off my thighs. Talking up at him had been staring to make me feel off-balance and small. 

“I heard,” I said, “that this new national budget proposal is getting rid of the long-distance lines. Is that just a whisper on the wind, or...?”

His face went blank. He gazed over my shoulder down the tracks. 

“Yeah,” he said sadly. “They try this every five years or so. But our governor always stops it from happening. We’ve had tons of men from around here--in Alpine-- in DC. And they keep us alive. But...we’re not as strong as we used to be, you know. And now, we’ll be hanging on for dear life for the next few years.” His voice got very low at the end. He shrugged. Stared off into the distance for a moment. Just as I was about to say something, his aviators snapped back to me. “How long were you here for?”

“Just a few days. I saw the Marfa lights last night. Or...didn’t.”

He put his hands behind his back. Nodded thoughtfully. 

“Have you seen them?” I asked.

“I think they’re an optical illusion,” he said confidentially. “I seen green and red flashes. Don’t know what it is. But I don’t think its aliens.”

“No?”

“Well, why the hell would they be hanging around Marfa, Texas for over a hundred years?!”

And he laughed a low, gentle laugh. 

Just then, a new light came from down the tracks. Blinding against the mid-morning sun.

“Ahh,” he breathed. He turned to everyone standing around the station. Cupped his hands and called, “Train’s comin’!”

There was a rush of excitement. Everyone went up to the railing against the tracks and leaned over. I followed their gaze. That bright white spot was coming towards us, moving in quickly from the east.

“This never gets old,” the man murmured to me. His voice was wistful and faraway. “I feel like I’m in an MGM movie. With the music... Just beautiful.” 

As the train thrummed into the station, everyone had their phones out. They snapped pictures and waved to the conductor. In the heat and wind of the engine, the man I had been talking to stood with one boot poised on the curb. His hands folded neatly, elbow resting against the railing. He smiled lightly, and looked, for all the world, filled with the ancient, instinctive grace of the frontier. Which was beautiful, and almost sad.

As I was getting onto the train, I looked for him among the beaming, pride-bursting Amtrak employees. But he was gone. 

As we churned our way out of Alpine, I saw a massive, shining pile of car bumpers in someone’s backyard, right up along the tracks. As I watched, a long, lean man, smoking a cigarette, tossed another bumper onto the pile. A young boy stood next to him. The man clapped his hands together. He took the cigarette from his mouth and, slowly, held it out to the boy. The boy took it. The train moved on, and they vanished. Left behind in the debris and dirt of their life in Alpine. 

I really don’t know why I would have told my friend about Santa Claus before he deserved to Know. 

(El Paso, TX)