#HOW IS THIS LOW PAIN TOLERANCE FAMILIA

[stananigans]

I hope that if I get horn implants, someone will be there to read poetry to me while it happens.

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Neither Can You Rating: T Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family Characters: Héctor, Ernesto, Imelda, Coco, Julio, Pepita, Dante, Miguel, Óscar, Felipe, Victoria, Rosita… possibly others. Warnings: Violence, broken bones Description: “Do you care about your familia… more than your music?” Héctor didn’t have to think twice to answer yes. But the grin on Ernesto’s face sent a chill down his spine as the man continued, “Are you willing to put that to the test?” View all chapters here! FFN Link | AO3 Link | dA Link

Chapter 13: The House on the Sand Summary: In which Héctor reaches his breaking point.

It wasn’t quite evening yet, but the late afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent on the other side of the house, keeping Héctor’s room peacefully dim. Well… as dim as it could get with a glowing, multicolored dog currently occupying it, anyway.

Dante was snoring softly next to Héctor, the alebrije’s warm body snuggled up near the hollow of his middle. The warmth seeped into Héctor’s sore bones, granting some relief from the pain he was in.

Don’t suppose you can do anything about that police investigation though, eh, pelón? he thought, scratching idly around the stray wisps of hair on the alebrije’s head. In seeming response, the dog’s back leg began to scratch at the air, as though attempting to satisfy an itch it could not find. Probably not.

Fighting the urge to sigh, Héctor re-settled himself into the pillows at his back, gazing out the window. He supposed it was inevitable that Imelda would go to the police—it’s what he would have done, too, had the same happened to her. He wasn’t sure just how Ernesto would know they had gone to the police, especially if Héctor wasn’t the one to go himself, but he hadn’t wanted to risk it. But now… Imelda…

Héctor loved her with all of his heart, but now she was making things so much more difficult by going to the police in the first place, and then telling them that he would give a statement. It wasn’t enough to tell him that she didn’t want him lying to her, or hiding things from her—now she wanted him to talk to the police? He supposed he could lie to them (she hadn’t said anything about lying to other people, after all), but that might cause trouble later.

…Not that he’d never gotten in trouble with the police before.

For a moment he almost laughed at the thought—what would they do if they found out, throw him in jail again? It would probably just be like routine. Hola, Nestór. Yes, sorry, I know it’s not Dia de Muertos but I can’t keep far away from trouble for too long, you know? I think it would miss me. He smiled at the mental image of the security officer rolling his eyes as he hauled him off to the same holding cell he’d been kept in every year or so. And then he’d get let back out, head back to Shantytown, and Cheech would probably grumble something about making him lose a bet, and—

Wait, wait wait, no. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk to the police anyway, Cheech wasn’t there anymore, and it wasn’t Shantytown he’d be returning to.

I can’t believe you would do this to yourself—lying to the police? Serving jail time? What kind of criminal did I marry?! Why would you—

A low whine at his side snapped him out of the thought, and he looked down at Dante again. But the dog was still asleep, possibly dreaming about something. Héctor scratched behind the dog’s ear. I’d say to dream with los angelitos, but you’d probably prefer to dream with the old shoes and turkey legs.

Well, there was no point in stressing about it now. He wasn’t giving the statement yet, so the worry could wait until that happened. If it ever did—though Imelda probably wouldn’t let him off the hook with that one.

Besides… Ernesto really could have been bluffing about the police thing. By the time he found out the police were after him, Ernesto would probably already be surrounded by officers. That was a nice thought: Ernesto actually being caught, safely away from his family. His goons would probably come right after that, and then maybe the police could find his hand, and that quack physician they’d called could come and fix it. And then his family would be safe, and he could play music again. Yes, that was a nice thing to think about.

Allowing himself a short sigh, he let his head tip back against the pillows, grimacing at the pain in his throat. That would go away, eventually. Maybe all the pain would.

Héctor shut his eyes as the weariness of the hectic night and day came over him, and drifted off to sleep.

Whether from the sheer exhaustion he felt or the presence of the alebrije sleeping beside him (or some combination of the two), his sleep was, for once, sound. No unpleasant dreams ate at him, no pains gnawed at him. Not at first, anyway. Instead, his dream was full of music and color—a cheering crowd before him, an old wooden stage beneath him, and a familiar figure in a red hoodie standing beside him, strumming a guitar and singing with all his heart. The exact song eluded him, lost in the fog of dreams, but he felt the energy of it, felt his feet dance beneath him of their own accord until the rest of his body joined along, separating and rearranging in the most ridiculous ways he could manage. The effort made him dizzy, but the happiness in his great-great-grandson’s face made it worth it. He could even hear the distant howl of that pelón dog somewhere backstage, joining in with their song.

Music. Energy. Family. Joy.

But it could only last for so long.

When he reached over to pick up Miguel, he felt it—a nagging, grinding pain in his right hand. He faltered, the music fading, and the crowd around him began to murmur while his grandson looked on in confusion.

“Papá Héctor?”

He could feel the stares of the crowd around him, but he tried to laugh it off. “No, no, it’s oka—aaaaAH!”

The pain intensified with a variety of faint, sharp jabs stabbing through the individual bones. Instinctively he went to grab his right hand with his left, only to grasp at air.

“Héctor!”

The stage lights began to darken and swim around him, and again he tried to clutch his hand, trying to determine what was wrong, but—

A fiery pain shot through one of his metacarpals, and with a strangled gasp he found himself staggering back, tripping off the stage, the hard cobblestones below rising up to meet him—

Héctor awoke with the feeling of being dropped onto his bed, his ribcage giving a pained heave at the shock. Before he could process that he had just woken from a dream, he felt another intense pain fire through one of his carpals, too intense and real to be anything from the aftershocks of a nightmare or even the horrors of a flashback.

This wasn’t a dream. This was really happening.

Another pain ripped through several of his missing phalanges at once, and he kicked his legs and clenched his jaw against the scream that threatened to tear through his metaphorical throat. Don’t yell, don’t yell—it hurts, it hurts—yelling will make it hurt worse, don’t yell—por favor, basta—

A loud, insistent whine made its way into his awareness, and he felt something warm lean itself carefully against his body, soft enough not to hurt his ribs. Automatically he wrapped his arm around Dante’s neck and shoulders, clutching him as hard as he dared, but the alebrije seemed unbothered by the gesture.

Another hot-and-cold pain tore through another one of his bones, and he clenched his jaw tighter, feeling like this teeth were going to shatter. He couldn’t stand it, why was this happening, why wouldn’t it stop—?!

Faintly he was aware of Dante pulling away for a moment, only to return seconds later, holding something soft and nudging it against his jaw. He wasn’t sure what it was, but quickly bit into it, tasting cotton—one of the pillows on his bed, probably. He looped his arm around the alebrije again, clinging to his sturdy frame for dear life at yet another intense, crushing pain in his absent bones. While the pain brought with it waves of nausea, he tried to divert his attention to the whimpering dog at his side, the warmth of his body, the slimy tongue that was now licking at his face (which was already wet with tears he hadn’t realized he’d been shedding).

After what felt like an age of lying there, clinging to the alebrije and fighting to keep from screaming, the storm passed. His missing hand still hurt terribly, worse than it had before, and the sickness still churned in his non-existent stomach, but no new pains arose. In spite of his broken ribs, his chest heaved in deep breaths as he gingerly pulled the pillow out of his mouth. He was too dazed to wonder what had brought the attack on, only grateful that it was over.

Shakily he brought his hand up to Dante’s head, scratching him around the ears. Gracias, Dante… he thought, wishing he could verbalize the praise. But Dante seemed to understand the gesture well enough, his tail thumping against the bed.

Héctor closed his eyes, willing the agonizing pain to fade to slightly more tolerable levels. As it did so, the fog in his mind began to clear up just enough to ask the right questions—namely, why this had just happened.

That was… like last night… he thought, gritting his teeth. Were they… were they doing something again? Why?!

I want nothing more to do with you, Ernesto had said. So why was this happening?

But then he remembered—the threat. Ernesto had threatened to go after his family if he dared speak, dared go to the police, but…

I didn’t say anything! he wanted to snarl, overcome with a sudden fury. He found himself glaring up at the ceiling, as though he were looking up into Ernesto’s disgusting face. I didn’t say a word, Ernesto! I’ve been quiet! You know I have!

…Didn’t he?

Héctor mulled it over before his body stiffened in horror—he had kept quiet, but Imelda had gone to the police! Did Ernesto know about that? No, no, it wasn’t fair, he’d been keeping up his end of the deal, so Ernesto couldn’t go after them, he couldn’t!

But, then, that attack hadn’t been on his family—it had been on him. But why would Ernesto attack him again? Perhaps to rub it in, but no, that wasn’t like Ernesto. He never liked dirtying his hands if he felt he didn’t have to (when he was sober, anyway). So why would he…

It was a warning. It had to be. If Ernesto had found out about the investigation, but, somehow, had known Héctor himself hadn’t been involved, then he wouldn’t go after his family, not yet. It was a warning—a reminder.

Ernesto hadn’t been bluffing at all. Héctor didn’t know how that cabrón did it, but somehow he was still keeping close tabs on them. He knew there was an investigation, and somehow, he would know if Héctor really did say something to the police.

Which Imelda was still waiting for him to do.

Héctor went still as something terrible began to bubble up in his ribcage—anger, hot and boiling, burned within him, sending his bones rattling and his chest heaving. Shakily he grabbed the pillow he’d set aside earlier, and pressed it into his face. The pain in his ribs, in his throat—he ignored all of it as he drew in a useless breath, and let it out in an enraged, muffled howl.

Only days ago, he used to think back on that fateful Dia de Muertos as the hardest night of his life, fighting against being forgotten for his last chance at seeing his daughter, and then, later, fighting even harder just to save his newfound great-great-grandson.

But now, all of that seemed so simple. It had been so simple, so straightforward—get his photo to Miguel, and send Miguel home. And by some miracle it had all happened, even after his photo had been lost—Miguel was home, and somehow, there was a photo waiting for him on the other side.

Now?

He didn’t know what he was even supposed to do now. He didn’t know what he could do. Ernesto had taken his hand, threatened to harm his familia if he dared speak about what had happened… It could have just ended there, and he could have kept quiet to keep everyone else safe, hard as it was. But now Imelda had brought the police into the picture, and she was expecting him to talk to them and tell the truth. If she couldn’t trust him to do that, then how was he ever supposed to be reconciled with Imelda and Coco and the rest of his family? But if he did speak, if he did tell the truth... then Ernesto would probably send someone out after his family and—

Dios, this would all be easier if he’d just been forgotten two months ago.

There was a plaintive whine near his ear.

Feeling something tugging at the pillow over his face, Héctor pulled it away, only for something cold and wet to nudge into his cheekbone. Wincing, he glanced over to see two mismatched pink and green eyes staring at him sadly. He wasn’t sure if Dante could read his thoughts or if the dog could just sense that something was amiss, and he let out a short sigh. No, no. Lo siento. I don’t… I don’t really wish that. It’s just… I wish I knew what to do. He turned away, staring out the window, at the evening sky that was slowly turning from pale blue to yellow. I want to keep my family safe, but I don’t want to lose them, either.

Dante nudged at Héctor’s cheekbone again and licked his face.

Frowning, Héctor shoved the dog with his elbow to push him away. Basta. I don’t need your drool all over me right now.

But as soon as he moved his arm away, the dog leaned in again, licking him across the face again and over his eye socket.

¡Guacala! Héctor grimaced, wiping the drool off of his face and scrubbing his eye socket with the back of his hand before shoving the dog again. Stop that!

However, the sad expression was now gone from Dante’s face, replaced with the sort of smile only a dog can have. He stood up on the bed, seeming enthralled by this new game, and leaned in to lick at Héctor’s face repeatedly.

No! No! Stop it! He pushed at Dante’s chest, but the alebrije was persistent, his long blue tongue constantly whipping around, just barely able to reach Héctor’s face. STOP! Ay, if my voice worked now, pelón, you’d be sorry! But, as it was, he couldn’t verbally berate the dog, who was apparently taking his silence to mean a lack of disapproval.

Finally though Dante did stop, sitting back down on the bed and looking very pleased with himself.

Stupid dog, Héctor thought, wiping the remaining drool from his face and glaring at the alebrije. It was a bit difficult to maintain the look, though, when Dante met his gaze with an exaggerated tilt of his head, his blue tongue flopping over the top of his muzzle. With a snort of laughter, Héctor reached out to scratch beneath the dog’s collar. Yes, Dante, you’re a very dumb dog, but a good one. At least I know one person in this family won’t turn away from me when I screw this up, eh?

If Dante was attuned to his thoughts at all, he didn’t seem to notice those ones, more preoccupied with leaning into Héctor’s hand until he tipped over, losing balance and falling off the bed. A quick glance over the edge of the bed confirmed that the dog was not bothered by this, and had fallen back asleep on the floor.

Rolling his eyes, Héctor re-adjusted himself on the pillows at his back. Yes, one alebrije who would probably keep following him around the Land of the Dead when Imelda inevitably kicked him out—at least he had that. It was a very, very dumb alebrije, but better than nothing. Dante would still accept him as family, while the others…

Well, Coco might still accept him. He knew there was still probably some hurt in her, buried deep down, and he couldn’t blame her for that, but she’d held onto his memory long enough to tell his story again—it was because of her he survived. Even if she was upset with him for lying… she wouldn’t turn him away, would she?

And… well, Rosita liked him too. She liked to mother him, which was a bit odd, but she seemed to act that way to nearly everyone. On top of that, there was what she’d said earlier—we’re all here for you.

He wasn’t sure how much he really believed that one. The twins, possibly. Julio, he wasn’t sure, and Victoria… no, not Victoria. Recalling the looks she would give him, he felt something cold in the space where his stomach would be, and shifted uncomfortably in his bed.

Then there was Pepita, who… he wasn’t sure about. She was interested in him, clearly, but he could never tell if she was trying to help him, if she was angry at him, or if she was just trying to mess with him. Probably the second one, given whose alebrije she was.

Imelda…

I wish I could tell you, mi amor, he thought miserably, shutting his eyes. I wish I could tell you everything. But I don’t want anything to happen to you, or Coco, or the others… Lo siento. What a mess I’ve gotten into.

Dante let out a quiet whine as his mouth split open in a yawn, breaking Héctor out of his introspection once again. The dog then stood up, shaking himself, and lazily trotted to the door, scratching at it. For a brief moment Héctor wondered if he needed to be let outside, but gave a start when he heard a voice from the other side:

“¿Hola? Señor Rivera, this is Doctor Mendoza. Is it all right if I come in?”

Héctor gave a start, his eyes immediately darting around the room to find some place he could escape to. Jumping out the window again was certainly a no, but he could probably crawl under the desk or the bed and pretend he wasn’t there or something, and then—

Dante continued to scratch at the door, whining.

“Señor Rivera?”

…No, he wasn’t going to run again. This wasn’t something he wanted to do, but he couldn’t keep running away from it, either. Best to just get it over with. Biting his lip, he pushed himself up on the bed, and struck the side of his foot against the wall twice.

There was a brief pause before the door cracked open. Dante barked excitedly, dancing around it, and the door opened all the way as the doctor stepped in.

The second Dr. Mendoza laid eyes on Héctor, he gave a brief start, and Héctor smiled sheepishly, waving at him with his only hand.

“Ah… buenas tardes,” the doctor said, hauling his briefcase into the room before shutting the door behind him. Dante barked at the man again, wagging his tail, and the doctor hesitantly scratched the dog’s head. “Is this your alebrije here?”

Technically, no, but… if Dante didn’t bother the doctor, perhaps it wouldn’t be bad to have him in the room. He nodded.

“I see.” The doctor watched as Dante, who seemed contented with the head-scratching, walked up to the bedside and sat there. “I take it you’d like him to stay here?”

Héctor nodded again.

“Very well.”

When the man approached the bed, Héctor looked out the window, feeling uncomfortable. But before the doctor could say anything, he sat up straighter, remembering something, and opened his satchel to retrieve his notepad and pen. After flipping to a blank page, he scribbled: I feel better than I look. You don’t have to do anything drastic. The first part was a blatant lie, but he didn’t care, and showed the notepad to the doctor.

“…Señor Rivera,” the doctor said, looking from the notepad and back to his patient. “As I understand it, you died in the 1920s, correct?”

Héctor nodded, raising an eye ridge at the doctor. What does that have to do with anything?

“You do realize medical science has improved significantly since then, and we don’t typically have doctors who foolishly kill their patients. Not to mention, we can’t exactly kill anyone here in the first place.”

Héctor paused at that, biting his lower lip. Ah. Well. He should have probably figured that first part, but it wasn’t exactly like he’d had any way of knowing when he hadn’t seen a doctor since he was alive. Plus, living in the shanties for so long meant he didn’t typically have access to a doctor and had to do without.

“I’m not going to propose any wild solutions. I’ll just be seeing what I can do to treat your injured bones. And…” He trailed off for a moment, and Héctor got the feeling he was probably looking at where his right hand should have been. “We’ll have other things to discuss later.”

Shifting uneasily where he sat, Héctor pointedly looked away while the doctor began examining his broken bones. He started with his tibia—one of the more obvious breaks. He could still remember when it had been broken (a bridge-crossing stunt involving fireworks that had gone particularly badly), when he’d tried and failed to set the break himself, and had to be practically carried back to Shantytown to have it taken care of there as best as they could. Not a particularly fond memory, but at least better than thinking about where his more recent ones came from.

…That said, he would rather not think of any of this at the moment. He would rather not be around a doctor at all, but it was a bit late for that.

Dante gave a quiet ruff, lying his head on the mattress beside Héctor, who gladly began to scratch behind the dog’s ears. The alebrije was a welcome distraction as the doctor got to work removing the ancient tape from his old breaks and putting proper casts on them. As he worked, Dr. Mendoza talked about the casts and other things, which Héctor nodded along to without really listening, keeping his focus on the dog that was now rolling about on the floor next to his bed.

“…why you’re not talking. Señor Rivera? Did you hear me?”

Héctor snapped his head up to look at Dr. Mendoza, and immediately went to rub his neck.

“So it is your neck.” The doctor stepped up closer to Héctor’s head, Dante shuffling out of the way, and stooped down to get a closer look. “Look up at the ceiling, please.”

Grimacing, Héctor obeyed, tipping his head up and ignoring the pain the action caused his vertebrae. This, however, was evidently not enough for the doctor to get a better look at them, and Héctor froze up when his scarf was gently tugged off and a firm hand pulled his jaw upward.

“L-let me go, basta! Let go—”

“Quit squirming unless you want another rib broken.”

Something metal clinked in the hands of one of the guards, and he felt another fresh wave of panic surge through his broken ribcage. “N-no, no, not again, not—”

“Señor Rivera?”

Héctor blinked, suddenly back in his room. His chest was heaving painfully, and the doctor had taken a step back. Dante, meanwhile, had his front paws up on the bed, leaning forward to lick his hand.

Realizing that the doctor was waiting for him to respond, he quickly raised his good arm, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. Fine, don’t worry about it, don’t ask about it, it’s fine, I’m fine…

“You’re certain you’re all right? I could ask your wife to come in here, if that would help.”

Part of him almost said yes—having Imelda come in and speak to him, or hold his hand, or even just be in the room with him would help a great deal—but he quickly shut that thought down. No, no, that was a bad idea. If she came in, she may find out that he ran away from the doctor before, or she may start asking questions or talking to the doctor about what happened (if no one else had already told him). Shaking his head, he waved his hand dismissively again. I’m fine, get on with it already.

The doctor didn’t look particularly convinced, but went on: “Very well… You have a number of deep cuts at the front of your cervical vertebrae, which is obviously why you’re unable to talk at the moment. Unfortunately there’s little I can do other than to put a bandage around your vertebrae in order to protect them as the cuts heal. There’s nothing that can aid the healing process other than memories in the Land of the Living, but unless you’re quite famous in the living world, it will take a month or more to heal.”

Well, that was better than it used to be, anyway—not long ago, when his bones had been yellow, they didn’t heal at all, and constant pain had been the norm. Ever since Coco had fully remembered him, they’d slowly begun to heal. As irritating as it was being unable to talk, he could deal with it, knowing it wasn’t permanent.

Already the doctor was grabbing a roll of soft bandages and pulling a strip of them. “Look up at the ceiling again, please.”

No, gracias. Not that again. Frowning, Héctor grasped his own jaw, gently lifting his head from his shoulders and setting it beside him. Hearing Dante’s bewildered whine and seeing the stunned look on the doctor’s face, he couldn’t help but grin a little.

“…Ah. I… suppose that works, too.”

Even without his head needing to be forced back, feeling someone’s hands at his neck was not a pleasant experience, and was again threatening to dredge up things he’d rather forget. Fortunately Dante was keeping up his job of distracting him, this time by licking his face (which was now within easier reach) repeatedly and fighting off his attempts at shoving him away. As soon as the doctor finished, he replaced his head, letting out a short sigh of relief.

“Careful not to loosen the bandages. So long as you don’t disconnect your cervical vertebrae as you did your cabeza, the bandages should keep them from getting dirt trapped in them as they heal.”

He gave a short nod, frowning at the odd feeling of the material completely surrounding his neck.

“Your ribs I can unfortunately do little to treat. Due to the way they move and how sensitive they are, putting a cast or bandage on them may prove excruciatingly painful, which I’m sure you don’t want. But they will heal on their own, given time.”

Oh, the doctor didn’t need to tell him that. Back when he’d first broken one of his lowermost ribs, he’d tried to bandage it with duct tape himself, and very quickly discovered just why that was not done. He’d dealt with two broken ribs over the years, though—what were two more? (…A lot, not to mention the ones that had smaller cracks in them. But he’d deal with it anyway.)

“Now… Señor Rivera.”

Héctor looked up, noting that the doctor had stepped away for a moment to pull his desk chair over to the bed, and was now sitting on it. That wasn’t a good sign, but then, he’d already put casts on his arm and leg, and gone over his ribs and neck. That left one thing, and Héctor already knew what was to be said about that: I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about your missing hand. By the way, how did that happen? How did you break so many bones and injure your neck like that? Why—

“I’ve noticed that one of your ribs is missing.”

…¿Qué?

“It seems to be an old injury. Do you remember when that happened?”

Héctor blinked. That… hadn’t been what he’d expected, but at least it wasn’t a question he particularly minded answering. Bemused, he retrieved his notepad and pen, quickly scratching out an explanation: Got caught on something when running. Didn’t notice it was gone until later. He left out the detail that he’d been running from the police—the doctor didn’t need to know that much.

Dr. Mendoza nodded gravely. “When did you notice it was gone?”

It was such a long time ago—fifty years, at the very least—he honestly wasn’t sure. Week later? he wrote, shrugging. Now that he thought of it, he had only noticed that it was gone when he realized that his ribcage wasn’t in quite as much pain as it had been for the past several days, and had glanced down to see what had happened. But rather than seeing his rib miraculously healing, it had been gone entirely.

Hearing a deep sigh, he looked back up at the doctor, who was rubbing his hand over his face. “We can detach our bones with no harm to them, but they were never meant to be left detached for long.”

Héctor gave a short nod. That made sense. He remembered trying to call his rib back when he’d realized it was missing, and being surprised when nothing had happened. It was a little worrying, but he’d written it off as just the price he’d have to pay for trying to sneak across the bridge. It was only a rib, anyw—

He sat bolt upright, looking down at where his right hand should have been.

“Your family told me earlier that your hand has been missing since last night. Is that correct?”

He couldn’t breathe. His chest had seized up, and he couldn’t look away from his wrist.

“…Señor Rivera, can you hear me?”

A week—his rib had been lost for a week before he couldn’t feel it anymore, before he couldn’t call it back. His hand had been gone for nearly a day.

“Héctor?”

Feeling the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he gave a start and looked back at the doctor, who stared back at him seriously, but not without compassion.

“If you cannot retrieve your hand within a week of losing it, you will lose it for good.”

He’d known that Ernesto wouldn’t give his hand back—unless he had some miraculous change of heart, there was no way that man would return it to him. But… it hadn’t seemed final. Even if he’d known that it would never happen, some distant part of him had still held onto the hope that he would somehow get his hand back—that he would somehow be able to play music again. But to hear the confirmation that in a few short days, he would lose his hand for good…

Gently he drew his right arm closer to himself, tucking his wrist under his vest and wrapping his other arm around his chest. He stared down at the bed before him, not really seeing anything.

“Are you able to call it back?”

He shook his head.

“Could you tell me what happened to it?”

An involuntary shudder rattled his bones, and he shook his head again, still staring blankly downward. Some part of him was panicking, horrified at where the questions would lead, but it felt oddly distant.

“Is there any information you can give me?”

He shook his head, vaguely aware that there was a tightness building in his ribcage and throat.

There was a long pause before the doctor heaved another sigh. “Memory and proper treatment can heal broken bones, but neither can replace missing ones. There is nothing to be done, other than pray that your hand is recovered soon.”

Off to the side of the bed, Dante gave a whimper.

“…I am sorry, Señor Rivera.”

Héctor wasn’t entirely sure what happened after that; he didn’t hear the doctor ask him anything more, and the shock overwhelmed his senses, numbing him to the world.

The doctor had stepped out of the Rivera hacienda, leaving a dense cloud of tension behind him. It was dead silent in the house—no one dared move or speak, and Imelda knew why.

They knew. They had known.

She’d figured something had been up—Héctor had immediately begun acting suspicious when she and Julio had come home. There had been too much going on to sweat over the minor details, however—or what she had thought had been minor details. She’d needed to talk to Héctor about the police investigation and the statement he would give—she could worry about what he’d been sneaking around downstairs for some other time.

Later, the doctor had come in. Hello again, he’d said, and she’d written off the “again” as him referring to the earlier phone call.

But then he’d come back down after the examination, and—

I’m sure your familia has already told you about what I said at my first visit today.

They hadn’t.

Imelda still had her back to them, glaring out the window and into the yard as her family hung behind her. Fury burned within her ribcage as she gripped the windowsill, jaw clenched, shoulders tense.

For a long moment, she wasn’t sure if she was angrier at whatever low-life criminal did this to Héctor, at the police who seemed to be dragging their heels over this investigation, at that músico idiota who was hesitating to give a simple statement and apparently running away from the doctor, or at her family who somehow thought they were doing the right thing by hiding things from her.

They were all quiet, afraid of what she would do if they dared speak up. She wasn’t entirely sure, either.

Finally the floorboards creaked as one of them took a hesitant step forward. “I-Imelda—”

She whipped around, half the family flinching back as she stormed past them and up the stairs. Halfway up the first flight she stopped, slowly turning back to glare down at them. She could tell who the culprits were, with her brothers standing shoulder-to-shoulder, Rosita wringing her hands, and Coco gripping her arm.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and dangerous. “You all knew about this and you didn’t say one word to me?”

Rosita fidgeted. “W-well… we didn’t want pobrecito Héctor to get in trouble—”

“So you lie to me?” Imelda interrupted. “And you don’t tell me something as vital as—?!” She cut herself off; she didn’t want to repeat it, the very thought sending even more anger surging through her, followed by a wave of even nastier emotions. For a moment she shut her eyes, trying to force her emotions aside so she could speak more calmly, and faced her family again. “I do not want any of you hiding anything else from me. Está claro?”

“S-sí, hermana,” Felipe said, hanging his head.

“Claro,” Oscar confirmed.

With a nod, Imelda turned again to continue marching up the stairs. She might talk with them more later—for now, she had someone else she needed to deal with.

Just thinking about it sent her fuming—after she’d spent half the day with the police and trying her hardest to help him, he’d tried to run away. Again. She’d hoped that perhaps his days of running off were over, but evidently not. Not to mention his absurd reluctance over something as basic as a statement. It was like he was dodging their every attempt at helping him. Did he not care about them? Did he truly not care about how hard they’d been working to take care of him and find his attacker and—?!

Part of her wanted to barge into his room and crack the heel of her boot over his skull. Imelda reached the third floor and immediately stormed down the hall to the guest bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. She yanked it open, ready to shout.

The shout died on her lips when she saw Héctor sitting hunched over on his bed, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, his right arm tucked under his vest, and staring blankly at the quilt in front of him. From the middle of the room, Dante gazed at her sadly with his big, mismatched eyes, and gave a helpless whine.

“…Héctor?” Her voice was far too quiet for something that had been nearly ready to scream only seconds ago. All of the things she wanted to shout at him about suddenly seemed insignificant.

If Héctor heard her at all, he didn’t acknowledge it, continuing to stare into nothing.

“Héctor, ¿etas bien?” she asked, already knowing the answer she was likely to receive.

Except none came.

Slowly she crept closer to the bed, but he still did nothing to acknowledge her presence. Dante was standing now, head cocked to one side as he watched her. Somehow his expression seemed to read, “go on.” Imelda looked from the alebrije and back to Héctor, finally reaching out and placing a hand on his back.

The reaction was instantaneous: Héctor’s spine straightened as he gave a strangled gasp, and a few seconds later, he crumpled in on himself, his body racked by harsh sobs that seemed to rattle and tear through his shredded throat.

Horrified, Imelda pulled back for a moment, her hand to her mouth. She’d been so furious about her family’s hiding things from her that she hadn’t stopped to consider how the news would impact Héctor.

Memories rose to her mind of two months ago, when she had been shouting at him while they stood on the rooftop. Even when presented with the truth about her husband’s disappearance, her own anger had been at the forefront of her mind… up until she saw him collapse, a golden light flickering over his bones.

The golden light wasn’t there anymore, but he was still falling apart before her now.

She still needed to speak with him about everything else, but that could wait. For now, she slowly sank down onto the bed next to him, hesitating a moment before wrapping her arms around his shuddering frame. He flinched back at the first touch, almost afraid, and she caught him glancing back at her before turning away in shame.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, closing her eyes against the growing sorrow in her chest. He stayed tense in her arms, and she could feel the shudders and held-back sobs, but then he began to relax when she ran a hand through his hair. Finally he leaned in against her, tucking his face against her shoulder, allowing himself to be held as he cried. The trembling of his bones was so terrible, she nearly felt he would fall apart if she let go. It was so similar to the previous night, it was almost alarming. But something was different.

It had been a shocking, almost horrifying sight to see her husband like that. While she’d caught glimpses of tears when she’d turned him away earlier in her death, they were nothing like that moment in the alley. But even for as hard as he’d cried, he’d sounded relieved then. Relieved, apparently, that he’d survived to see his family again, Coco had told her.

But this wasn’t relief; his cries had a broken quality to them, like a badly-maintained wall that had finally crumbled.

“Tranquilo,” she whispered, hating the way her voice wavered. She ignored the sudden sharp pain in her throat and chest as she rubbed over his back. “Shh. Cálmate, cálmate. We’ll get through this. I won’t let you lose your hand.”

Héctor leaned his body into hers, his head against her chest as his sobs intermixed with ragged coughing and gagging. The noises were sickening, but Imelda did not flinch away, instead resting her head against his.

“It’s okay, Héctor,” she said, blinking against her own tears. “I’m here, mi amor.”

[nish-e-r-r-o-r-neesh]

A Billdip fic where Gideon is mad about not being able to go out with Mabel, so he and his goons trick Bill into thinking that Dipper cheated on Bill, so Bill and Dipper get into a fight/break up. Dipper tries to kill himself because he doesn't know what he did wrong, Bill goes to the hospital to see Dipper and figures out Gideon was lying because of Mabel. After Bill realizes Dipper is ok, and they make up Bill leaves to the beat the shit out of Gideon(to the point of disfiguring him) fin.

Okay, so you don’t mind if I twist this up a bit, would you? XD

I’ve had a Billdip mafia AU circling around my mind for a while back and I thought this storyline would be perfect for that AU! Well, it’s kind of a modern mafia world at this point so yeah, I hope you enjoy!

Fanfic: Billdip Modern-Mafia!AU

Warnings: angst-filled, suicide, blood, slight swearing and alcohol. All that happy stuff! Yay! 

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It was all that little stringbean’s fault he was in such adisarray.

Gideon Gleeful—a name feared by men and lusted after bywomen. He was powerful, a god damn millionaire! He always got what he wanted,and Mabel Pines—oh, the gorgeous Mabel Pines—should not have been anydifferent.

It was her brother, of course. Her little, scheming brother,wanting his sister all to himself. He thought Gideon wasn’t good enough. Hefilled her head with lies and deceit, convincing her of anything other thantheir clear, bright future together.

No, this could not go on. This could not be tolerated! Dipper Pines, the little maggot that he was… hehad to pay—and in the most excruciating way possible. Picking up his telly’sreciever, Gideon knew exactly what to do.

“Cancel tonight’s meeting, Larry. We’re going after Cipher.”

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Emotions.

Emotions were complicated and a constant nuisance—yes, eventhe pleasant-seeming ones. Take love forexample. Bill knew what love was. Itwasn’t exactly an emotion, but rather a cacophony of them. There was theconstant euphoria of simply being with that one person, the amusement ofwatching his antics, the fascination with everything you know about him and newones you discover every day, and the constant security you felt in hispresence.

Yet there was the constant anxiety of doing something wrong,having him get mad enough to leave you, or the fact that your job would landnot only you but him on the blade ofthe knife.  

Bill didn’t like dealing with emotions; it got in the way ofbeing in the mafia, with all the people you had to terminate, operations youhad to keep secret, the enemies you gained… But hey, he was always one to takerisks, even when it came to the one he loved. He could handle it. He could bearthe weight, keep Dipper safe and still be with him.

And only several hours later would he realize that it was that very mentality that got him intohis little situation. He’d always thought that any possible threat to Dipperwould be from himself—from his job, more specifically. So he was careful, hekept quiet, he kept Dipper out of his files. He made sure no one in his familiaknew who he was. No one could use Dipper as a target against him.

He just never expected someone to use him as a target against Dipper.

So when the boy himself came barging into his apartment,eyes ablaze and growling for answers Billdidn’t have, the mafia captain couldn’t help but sink into his defaultconfrontation mode—anger.

A little way into the argument he could no longer keep trackof, Bill decided on shooting back with a little nonsense of his own.

He shot out words he shouldn’t have, said things that hit alittle too close to home. He ignored the tears forming behind Dipper’s equallyblazing fire and kept going, kept fighting. Dipper was wrong, and he had todrill that into the boy’s head.

More than words were thrown at each other, maybe even a vaseor two.

“Damn it,Bill!Maybe if you’d just been honest with me and never been such a pain-!”

“No, Dipper, you listen!You’re always going on about how I’m making so many mistakes, maybe I want to make them this time! With allyour nagging and holding me back-“

“Don’t you freaking dare say-!”

“You’re the pain DipperPines! You shouldn’t have to get a say in my every action and you shouldn’thave to hold me back!”

Bill still wasn’t done, but he stopped. He glowered atDipper, whose expression slowly softened. Then, just as Bill thought he wouldcry, his mouth twisted back into an angry scowl and his eyes returned theirnasty glare.

“Sorry for wasting your time, Cipher.” He turned, just like that, stalking back towards the frontdoor. “I just don’t know what I did wrong…”

The door slammed shut.

Bill looked around himself, slowly calming down. Oh god,everything was a mess… and so was he. He needed to fix this. He needed to fix them. But first, he needed to fix hisapartment. Never let it be said that Dipper Pines’s rage was something tame.

Dipper seemed like he needed some time, too… Alright. Space.If that’s what he needed. This would blow over in no time.

Ha ha, Bill knew he really screwed up this time.

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What did he do? What did he do? What did he do?! Wasn’t heenough?! Wasn’t Dipper enough for him? Why was he like this? Oh god… it was hisfault….it was his fault…

You’re always going onabout how I’m making so many mistakes, maybe I want to make them this time…

No, no, no, please… it couldn’t be true…

You shouldn’t have toget a say in my every action and you shouldn’t have to hold me back!

But his words said it all.

Bill didn’t love him anymore.

Who was that woman? How was she so much better than him? Whywould Bill dance with her? Drink with her? Carry her around?

At first he thought it was just his eyes playing tricks.Then the photos came into the mail. Then a phone call from the blasted womanherself, asking for her… lover… goingon about their ‘nights together.’

Dipper was desperate for answers—maybe too desperate. No, hedidn’t want what he’d gotten but… why would Bill do this to him?

He knew Bill tried to keep his distance, in fear of Dippergetting involved with his job. Dipper knewthat. But he could take care of himself, fight his own battles. He wasn’tsome limp noodle that needed constant reassurance. He knew that Bill was thereand loved him, and he knew he would always love him back.

Ha… maybe he was simply living in a fantasy all this time.Maybe Bill did love him once, butthen grew tired of him. If so, then what was the point? Everyone would leavehim just like that, now wouldn’t they?

His sister had left him to live her own life, his grunkleshad taken to their own retirement, his parents were never there to begin with…

His poor, pathetic excuse for a life was really all leadingto nowhere.

Maybe this is all adrunken mistake, Dipper though, raising the blades to his arms. His mindwas too muddy and rational thought too far gone to turn back now. Bill didn’tlove him, Bill didn’t care. What did he do wrong? What did he do wrong?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care. The pain would end here… Onlyif that incessant pounding would stop.

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“-my god, please, gethere quick…!”

Bill wasted no time in scrambling to the car at the word‘hospital’.

“Mabel, tell me what happened!”

In a frantic rush, Bill did his best to weave past trafficwhile listening to the static-laced sobs of the woman on the other line. Mabelhad said something about Dipper in the hospital, and that in itself was enoughto send him into a panic. So when she began to tell him about freaking attempted suicide, he was close torunning down every car in his line of sight.

It took fifteen excruciating minutes, but Bill finallymanaged to scramble for a parking space and dashed into the hospital. The placewasn’t busy, and he was glad for it.

Room 319, Mabel had said. She’d also said Dipper was stable…not too much harm was done but…

Well, Bill couldn’t really make much out through herdistraught sniffling.

One elevator ride later and there she was—standing down thehallway, back pressed against one of the doors and face in her hands. Billmoved to stand next to her and, really not knowing what to do, tapped hershoulder.

“Oh, you’re here… good…” Mabel sniffed, wiping furiously ather eyes. “Please, Bill, don’t you ever think this is your fault.”

That took him bysurprise.

“Wh-what do you-“

“What Dipper did may have been because of your fight—yes, Iknow it happened. Dipper thought you had been with another woman and-“

Another woman? What?“Cheating? I wasn’t- I could never-!”That’s what it was about? He didn’t. He couldn’t hurt Dipper like that, ever.

Mabel shook her head, a humorless smile sneaking its wayonto her lips. “I know how ridiculous it sounds. But some people have theintentions and the power to… forge… such things.”

Forge. Framed. He was framed.

“Who did…?”

“Later. But for now, you should go inside and check on him.”

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The journey into the room was a near impossible feat. Hishands shook and his heart pounded in his chest. He had no idea what horrors awaitedhim on the other side of the door. Could he take it? How bad had Dipper hurthimself? And to think that it would be all his fault… No, not all his fault.Whatever low-life sorry son of the devil had framed him, it was their fault. That asshat would be sorrythey ever-

“Hey, Bill.”

Oh. Well… it wasn’t too bad, maybe…

His complexion was paler than usual, or maybe it was thelighting, his eyes were rimmed red and watery, but otherwise wide open, and hisarms… god.

It wasn’t terrible, butthe red-stained bandages wrapped around them were enough to send Bill intoanother panic.

“Oh my god, Dipper, are you okay? Why would you-? I-I’msorry! I-I didn’t mean to- why are you- I c-ouldn’t-I’m sorry I ever hurt youplease don’t ever do something this stupid ever again! You hear me, Pine Tree?”

Dipper smiled at the little nickname. “Geeze, calm down,Cipher.” He tried for a laugh. Bill… yeah, Bill would never. He couldn’t. MaybeDipper was just too paranoid and drunk at the time but… it did hurt. It hurt alot. Even if it was never real, it hurt.

Just goes to show how much the blond bundle of sadistic stupiditymeant to him, huh?

So when Bill enveloped him in a hug, almost squeezing thelife out of him and whispering promises of revenge and hastened apologies,Dipper decided that he should definitely have more faith in his boyfriend.

He couldn’t wait for him to kick Gideon’s ass.

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“OOH BOY, that was a treat!”

Glasses were clinked together and beer sloshed to the floor.Another success for multi-millionaire Gideon Gleeful!

Now with the brother out of the way, the path to Mabel’sheart was easy. He raised another glass to his men, their little rented-out pubfilled with them. It was a cause for celebration, after all!

Gideon’s rush of excitement was cut short, however, when asudden blast sounded and he found half of the men he’d just been toasting withdead at his feet. Men scrambled to get to the exit, when they too were suddenlyshot down, splaying over the numerous tables and booze.

“What?! What is this? Wha-“

Something cold pressed against Gideon’s neck. He froze. Asense of warmth ghosted over his shoulder before a breathy laugh was felt hisear.

“You think I wouldn’t find you, hm? You thought I wouldn’tfind out.”

Oh no.  Oh no, oh god.Not him.  He found out…

“My men-!”

“Your men are dead.”It was that laugh, that eerie, sadistic laugh that sent chills over Gideon’sspine. The man nearly cried out as he was shoved onto a table, a cold, sharpblade digging into his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, you’ll join them. But first, a little courtesygift from the Pines and myself.”

The next day, Bill would insist the stains on his coat werefrom the ketchup on a hotdog he ate, while Mabel would say they came from a muddypig—which, in all honesty, wasn’t that far-fetched.

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Well this took longer than I though it would. Welp, keep watch for the next one! (Gerita Tangled!Au is still in progress and I keep editing and re-editing chapter 2 XD )