#Miguel looks so much like one of my old OCs so It was a given I would adore him asffdsa

[deathinfeathers]

//Pavitr...Hobie...Miguel...my beloveds. I want to muse them all 🥺

[theroseceleste]

Jessica - @ Lizzie_Miggy on Twitter commissioned me to write a Bridgerton inspired AU for our lovely comic book Miguel O'Hara and her OC Lizzie Cunningham.

A Duke who has already suffered loss, reluctantly marries again. Will he allow himself to move on and embrace his second chance with love?

Thank you so much Jessica for the opportunity to write about comic book Miguel and your OC and explore the setting of Bridgerton.

Contains : 18+ - Minors DNI - Wedding day, wedding night, SMUT : oral, fingering, first time sex for OC.

Word count : 6805

Any interaction with post such as liking, commenting or reblogging is greatly appreciated. Thank you xx

Enjoy! xx

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Elizabeth Cunningham stands before her tall looking glass in her chambers. Her emerald green eyes wander over her elegant reflection. A slim-fitting silk wedding dress with a lace overlay adorns her beautiful form. A shakey, nervous breath escapes her parted lips as her gloved fingers trace delicately over the intricate lace design. Her long, dark, wavy brown hair is styled in a bun formed of tight ringlets, while a long ribbon of her wavy locks sweeps over her face and wraps around the elaborate arrangement at the back. A veil sits proudly atop the hairstyle, its smooth netted material drapes down her back, ready to conceal her face with the time comes.

Today is the day. A day that she has been waiting for what seems like an eternity. A day she gets to marry the man she truly loves - Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy. Their long journey of courtship had come to a close and a new chapter of their lives together will soon begin. Their relationship did have its challenges. Reluctance on his part being one of them. A feeling born from grief over a lost first love, his first wife and mother to his daughter Gabriella.

Elizabeth leaves her bedroom for the last time, for today, after the wedding, she’ll be the new Duchess and will be living at her husband’s estate. The bride will miss her old room as it provides a certain comfort to her, a level of security that she grew up with in her family home. In fact, she’ll miss the grand house in Mayfair she lived in her whole life just as much as her bedroom. The family home contains countless memories of a happy childhood.

A whinny from a horse outside the house alerts her that her carriage awaits. It is time…

‘Lizzie’ - as she’s better known by close friends and family - watches the ton go by as her elegant horse-drawn carriage takes her to the church. The rest of the world continues with their normal lives as she’s about to embark on a new stage in hers.

Her father joins her in the carriage. He's proud to be the one to escort her down the aisle and give her away to the Duke. His darling girl will become the new Duchess. A title grander than anything a nobleman would give her. She is a vision of beauty in his eyes, but he supposes he’s biassed. He thinks Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy should consider himself a lucky man, being given a second chance in love and marriage.

Church bells ring merrily as the carriage comes to a gentle stop outside. Not only will the rest of her close family be in there, but the King himself, the Duke’s mother, and his daughter will bear witness to their union.

   This dreamlike moment is becoming more and more a reality as time passes by. Pre-wedding nerves flutter like butterflies inside her as she is assisted out of the carriage gracefully and brought to the church doors.

Entering the house of worship, Lizzie can hear the hushed voices inside as the bells stop ringing. Silence falls upon the ton.

“Are you ready my darling girl?” her father asks in a low whisper as he holds out his arm for her to take delicately.

The blushing bride nods with an excited and nervous smile. Her hand rests on top of Lord Cunningham’s arm.

A large oak door stands between Lizzie and her future. She takes in a deep breath to calm her thumping heart and settle her buzzing nerves. With a loud creak, the door opens slowly. A sea of wooden pews stand before her, and at the other end of the aisle are her family and most importantly, the Duke.

Sun rays dazzle through the large windows, illuminating the pure white walls of the church. The groom stands there facing the altar. As he waits, he holds both of his hands together in front of him. His formal red military attire takes her breath away as she watches him from afar. The uniform compliments his build, making him look rather dashing.

As the Duke’s back is turned, the sunlight shines upon his dark brown hair, highlighting a deep red tint to it.

Either side of the aisle, bouquets of white and pink flowers sit on the end of each pew. At either side of the altar, two large elegant vases stand atop plinths with flowers and verdant leaves spilling out, cascading down the sides in a beautiful display.

The train of her silk and lace wedding dress slides along the smooth floor of the church as her father guides her slowly.

On the left, her family watches in awe at the elegant girl before them. On the right, the King and the Duke’s mother smile in approval at the stunning bride for their son.

Upon hearing slow footsteps approach from behind, the Duke finally turns. He probably feels the most nervous of all about his marriage to Lady Cunningham. Pressure has been mounting from his mother and father to marry, and the longer he courted Elizabeth, unpleasant gossip within the noble society prompted the Duke into proposing.

As of right now, however, he is blown away by her beauty. She is presented in a modest manner, but looks exquisite all the same. Their eyes meet after he turns to watch her as they reach the end of the aisle. The father of the bride bows to the King and then his daughter’s future husband, before taking his seat with the rest of his family.

After giving her own polite curtsey, Lady Cunningham looks up at her groom and smiles. Even through her veil, her green eyes shine brightly. Despite the nerves he feels, his expression remains fairly neutral, not revealing much in the way of feeling and emotion. Eventually, they turn to the altar to begin proceedings.

“Dearly beloved,” the priest begins. “We have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and woman in Holy Matrimony.”

Silence rains within the church as all the guests listen.

“The union of husband and wife is intended by God for the mutual joy; for the help and comfort given to each other in prosperity and adversity; and, when it is God’s will, for the procreation of children and their nurture in the knowledge and love of the Lord.”

The soon to be new Duchess blushes at the priest’s words, ‘procreation of children’, feeling thankful that the veil should help neutralise the pink hue on her cheeks.

“Therefore marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately and in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted by God.”

A pang of trepidation shoots through the Duke’s heart as his eyes remain fixed on the priest. He knows Elizabeth’s true feelings, but he worries his reluctance will affect them both.

“Into this union Lady Elizabeth Cunninham and Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not be lawfully wed, speak now, or else forever hold your peace.”

The silence within the church remains resolute as no-one comes forth and speaks out, much to Lizzie’s relief. She subtly releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“I charge you both, here in the presence of God and the witness of this company, that if either of you know any reason why you may not be married lawfully and in accordance with God’s Word, do now confess it.” The priest waits for any potential response from the couple.

Lady Cunningham has nothing to say and turns to gaze up towards her love. Her optimistic green eyes searching the Duke in silence.

Miguel swallows hard. He is lawfully within his right to marry, however he can’t help but feel hesitation, but does not open his mouth to speak.

Satisfied that neither of them have any reason not to continue with the marriage, the priest continues onto the next segment by turning to Lizzie.

“Lady Elizabeth Cunningham, will you have this man to be your husband; to live together with him in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful unto him as long as you both shall live?”

The sweetest smile grows across her pink, plump lips. “I will.” A promise she truly means. A promise she had been wanting to make to the Duke for such a long time. She felt it challenging to not cry with happiness in this moment, however she keeps her composure.

Now, the priest turns to the groom and repeats the question and waits for his response.

The Duke holds his answer for a moment longer than his bride. It’s not that he doesn’t want to marry her, however he has reservations that he hasn’t yet confided in anyone and now perhaps he feels it is too late to express his worries. Finally, he replies.

“I will.”

The priest now asks for the bride and groom to face one another in preparation of the exchanging of vows.

Miguel takes his lady’s right hand and repeats the vows he’s been given.

“In the name of God, I, Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy, take you, Lady Elizabeth Cunningham, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death…” he pauses for a moment and swallows hard again. “This is my solemn vow.”

The groom releases his bride’s right hand. Now it is her turn to take his. His large hand dwarfs hers as she holds it, giving it a delicate squeeze. His heart warms as he feels her fingers tighten around his.

“In the name of God, I, Lady Elizabeth Cunningham, take you, Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.” Her words are spoken clearly and precisely without a single moment's hesitation. The pair release hands but remain facing one another as the priest takes a cushion bearing the rings to be exchanged by the bride and groom.

“Bless, O Lord, these rings are a symbol of the vows by which this man and this woman have bound themselves to each other through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

A chorus of “Amen,” follows the priest’s prayer to God to bless the rings.

Before placing the ring on his bride’s finger, he must remove her long silk glove. Taking her hand gently in his, he tugs at the material, causing it to slip down her arm with ease.

Now that her hand is bare, Duke Miguel takes Elizabeth’s ring from the white velvet cushion presented to him. Holding her left hand, he positions the ring just at her fingertip. This moment transports him back to his first marriage but he presses on as he feels his father’s eyes fixed on him.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of my love, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honour you, in the Name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” After he speaks, the fine jewellery sits proudly on her ring finger.

The Duke’s ring is now lifted from the cushion as Elizabeth prepares to do the same.

It seems like an eternity sliding the gold metal band up his left ring finger as she speaks her vows. Each digit is so long and slender. She loves admiring his strong hands. Just doing this makes her feel giddy.

The priest now joins both the bride’s and groom’s right hand and begins to speak once more.

“Now that Lady Elizabeth Cunningham and Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy have given themselves to each other by solemn vows, with the joining of hands and giving and receiving of rings, I pronounce that they are husband and wife, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he pauses for a moment. “Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder.”

Another chorus of ‘Amen’ rings out from everyone within the church.

“Lady Elizabeth Cunningham and Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy, having witnessed your vows of love to one another, it is my joy to present you to all gathered here as husband and wife,” he pauses to face Miguel. “You may kiss the bride.”

Elizabeth’s heart flutters at the priest’s permission for the Duke to kiss his bride. She waits patiently as he gently lifts her veil and leans in to give her a soft, delicate kiss on her lips. While he does it quickly, he feels her press into him which makes his heart pound momentarily.

Alone at last - in the carriage - the pair are on their way to the wedding’s reception. It feels strange to know that they’re married now. Strange how the deal is sealed by simply speaking a few words and sliding a ring on the bethrothed’s finger.

Sitting side by side, a slightly awkward silence rests between them. A well-manicured hand reaches out and takes the Duke’s, causing him to stir from his deep thoughts. The silent man looks down at his new Duchess and a soft smile breaks across his face.

“You look beautiful, my dear Elizabeth,” he whispers to her as he squeezes her hand back.

“Please, my love, call me Lizzie. We’re married now, we can act rather more familiar with one another.”

The handsome smile fades slightly as fear creeps up on him at her words.

“Of course - Lizzie,” His Grace repeats the affectionate name for his new wife as if testing it out on his tongue. He tries to smile again, but it does not reach his eyes.

With such a caring heart, Elizabeth can sense her new husband’s troubles but is not yet privy as to what they are. A feeling of concern washes over her. Another gentle squeeze presses against the Duke’s hand to provide some kind of reassurance. Silence falls once more within the carriage as it gently rocks down a road of the ton, on the way to his father’s palace.

In comparison to the number of guests at the church, the reception is certainly a lot busier. An array of colours fills a large room. Ladies, Viscountesses, and Baronesses brighten the place with the latest fashion. Some wear gowns of bright colours that dazzle, while others are sporting flattering paler shades. The male guests of course look handsome and sharply dressed for the joyous and momentous occasion.

An orchestra plays at one end of the room while a banquet for the guests is beautifully presented on a large table. An impressive five tier wedding cake stands proud, adorned with pink flowers wrapping around each layer elegantly.

Her Grace, Elizabeth, finds herself separated from her husband as she greets guests. Duke Miguel O’Hara Fitzroy appears to be speaking with his father who sits at the other end of the room. She receives bows and curtseys, compliments on her dress and the stunning reception that is being thrown in honour of their wedding. Between speaking with guests, the Duchess notices that the discussion between the King and his son is looking rather heated, despite speaking in hushed tones.

A little while later, the dancing begins. The bride and groom join hands and stand at the centre of the wide open space in which they will dance together. The orchestra begins to play, prompting the newly wed couple to waltz. The Duke and his new Duchess spin and twirl in beautiful circles around the dance floor. It seems his wife is rather well practised and performs with grace and elegance. She follows his lead as though she has danced with him for a lifetime.

In his gentle but firm hold, she stares up at Miguel as she tries to read how he is feeling as he looks subdued, hesitant and retiring. Occasionally she is met with a smile and kind eyes from the love of her life, making her heart flutter once more.

Curiosity still grows within her as to what his discussion with the King was about, but the Duke’s face is giving nothing away.

After their dance, many other couples begin to join them on the floor. Dancing and twirling under elaborately designed gilded candelabras hanging from the ceiling. Flames from the candles themselves flicker and sway in their own performances while illuminating the room as the sun starts to set, painting a golden glow through the windows and onto the walls.

By sundown, the Duchess has spoken to everyone in the room, including her now father-in-law, King Tyler Stone and Miguel’s mother, Conchata. They both seem very approving of their son’s new wife; he couldn’t have chosen a better candidate for his hand in marriage. They believe her optimistic outlook will brighten Miguel’s life, with the help of his beautiful daughter, Gabriella.

Climbing into a horse-drawn carriage once more, the bride and groom set off to their estate and her new home. As their carriage trundles down the dark roads, Lizzie notices that her husband has fallen silent once more.

“What was your discussion with the King about, my love?” she asks, doing her best to be careful on the subject.

The Duke sighs as his gaze remains on the view outside his window. Candle-lit street lamps pass by momentarily, illuminating the beautiful houses of Mayfair.

“He was just interfering in my business; pay no mind to it my dear.”

Her beautifully shaped brown eyebrows furrow at his response. “But it’s clearly upset you, Miguel-”

“It has not,” the groom interjects. While it is a response that cut his wife’s words short, it was not said sternly, or in a cold manner. However Elizabeth notices he is not looking at her. A strong sense of resolute willpower encourages her to persist. She will get to the bottom of this conundrum and fix whatever it is that has put her husband in a sombre mood.

A clear night sky twinkles above the pair as they climb out of the carriage after it arrives outside their grand home. The air is still warm and comfortable. Lizzie cannot wait to see her new home during the day. She’s sure the house’s beautiful features are hidden in the darkness that enshrouds it at night.

Arm in arm, the Duke leads his new wife into the family home, where his daughter is already sleeping. She had retired early from the wedding reception as it was approaching past her bedtime.

After tucking her in, Miguel gives Gabriella a soft and loving kiss on her forehead as she sleeps soundly.

Once the groom emerges from his daughter’s bed chambers, he reunites with his new Duchess.

“This will be your room,” he says softly as he guides her into a large bedroom, full of opulence and luxurious furniture.

Her Grace raises a questioning eyebrow at her husband.

“My room? And where is yours? Do we not have a marital bed?”

Miguel frowns at her questions. This is what he and his father were discussing earlier. The King was pressuring the Duke to ensure his new marriage was consummated on this night.

“I’ll just be along the corridor and on the right,” he answers, glossing over Lizzie’s final question.

Long ago, before he was married to his first wife, His Grace considered himself a ladies’ man. Many a woman swooned and flapped their feather fans at him as he passed. He enjoyed their attention, and loved to see how their faces blush when he paid any one of the lucky ladies a compliment.

Of course he calmed down once he found his wife. He was loyal and loving towards her. His daughter completed them as a family once she arrived. He was happy and full of contentment, nothing could bring him down… Except for his wife’s untimely passing.

His better half, his significant other, the sun to his moon - gone, and never coming back. His ‘ladies’ man’ persona, totally diminished.

After the mourning period, the King and his own mother began talking to him about remarrying. Something he felt reluctant to do. To keep the peace, after much deliberation and disagreement, he re-entered society.

Instantly he was swarmed by many young ladies, totally overwhelming him at balls and other social events; until one evening, one lady in particular caught his eye. While still displaying a level of attraction towards him, she seemed to care for him and his feelings, unlike the other ladies wanting to marry him for his title and status. She was indeed beautiful and a very talented young woman. However, his reluctance to marry made him draw out their courtship as long as he could, before feeling more pressure mounting on him, and his own guilt of taking up Lady Elizabeth Cunningham’s precious time searching for a husband in society.

His now wife shakes her head at her husband. This is not how things should be, and this is not how she wants it to go.

“What troubles you, my love?” she asks, stepping forward and taking his hands in hers. Tension stiffens his body, making him look more rigid as he feels her touch. She notices her groom try to pull away but her imploring emerald green eyes stops him in his tracks.

“Nothing troubles me-”

“Something clearly is,” she interjects. She hopes he will open up for her, but she is met with nothing. “Need I remind you of our vows we made just this morning?”

His Grace breaks eye contact and looks away, however his hands grip hers back.

“I, Elizabeth, take you, Miguel, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by-”

“I know!” His serious, wide eyes snap back to his wife. The pair remain standing before one another, their fingers interlinking.

“Did you not mean your promises to me and to God, Your Grace?” The fact that she refers to him as ‘Your Grace’ and not as her usual ‘my love’ or his actual name hits him hard. His expression softens before he lets out a long sigh.

“Of course I meant them, Lizzie…”

“Then what in God’s name is the matter?” The Duchess has kept her cool the whole day. Acting with grace and decorum despite experiencing several moments where her new husband hasn’t behaved with his new bride as she hoped. The desperation to understand his troubles is clear in her voice.

Silence - an all too familiar sound for her falls between them again. But before she speaks to prompt him further, the Duke begins to confess.

“I’m scared,” his voice almost breaks with emotion. A pause fills the air once again as he breathes heavily. Lizzie’s shocked, wide eyes are fixed on his.

“Scared of what?” she mutters, his confession almost renders her speechless.

“I’m scared - no - petrified that if I allow myself to get too close, I’ll…” He bows his head down, almost in shame. “I’ll lose you too…”

A surge of love floods her entire body as tears well up in her eyes. His words confirm that he does in fact feel love for her and relief washes over her.

“My love,” she begins as her hands rest upon either side of his face, “I understand your worry. But is it not better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all?”

The Duke considers her question in silence.

“We are married now, my love. We must embrace this.” Her thumbs caress his cheeks. “My love for you is as true as the days are bright and the nights are dark. From the moment we met, I have loved you. My feelings have never wavered, never dimmed, never waned. Instead, they have grown, like the warmth of the sun builds on a summer’s morning, resolute as mountains that bow to nothing and everlasting as the wedding band that encircles my finger.”

A beautiful smile breaks across her face the very moment she sees her words warm her husband’s heart. His expression softens, along with the rest of his body.

“It is my dream to be the one to make you happy, to be the one you wake up next to every morning and to be the one you see last at night. Please let me live my dream and you’ll never regret it… I swear it.”

“Oh, mi bonita…” A whisper rushes through his parted lips as his hands find her face. Long black eyelashes flutter at his touch, while her heart feels a similar sensation. There have been fleeting moments when she has heard him speak Spanish and it gives her a thrill each time. She doesn’t know much, but she understands that he just called her his pretty.

With such an unblemished reputation as hers, the Duchess had never been touched the way her husband is touching her now. His closeness takes her breath away. While it feels nice and very much welcome, it will take a while to get used to.

“Lo siento, mi amor.” His Duchess is right, it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. It’d be a miserable existence to be married and too afraid to show love and give affection. Even worse, to be married and to never feel love or affection. He couldn’t do that to Lizzie.

A hand slides from the side of her face to the back of her head. His fingertips getting lost in the bundle of curls collected together in a bun. A desire burns through him as he looks down at his new wife. He remembers her pressing into his kiss earlier at the church and would very much like to experience that again.

Her breath hitches as she feels him lean down closer to her. A series of gasps fill the room as his lips press against her forehead and travel delicately to her cheek and jawline. In the corner of his eye he watches her eyelids shut while her lashes flutter against the side of his face, tickling his skin. The sound of her soft breath emerges from her beautiful, kissable lips. The Duke wants to take his time. Make the moments she spent earlier being so tolerant with his behaviour worthwhile.

A smile spreads across his face as he feels her lean in against him, her parted lips in search for his own. More faltered breaths punctuate the sound of his tender kisses, the warm air fanning across his cheek.

She gasps as he misses her lips all together and plants kisses on the other side of her face. Her head turns the other way, following him as her search for his lips continues. It has become a game. She giggles while he chuckles as hands caress and their breathing quickens.

Lizzie’s search is becoming more desperate and Miguel finally relents. His lips travel slowly from her cheek down to her ready lips.

Both of their bodies come alive the moment he captures her mouth with his. Eyelashes flutter again as their kiss excites her.

She feels something warm and wet tease at her lips. His tongue seeks entry to deepen the kiss. A strange sensation but a welcome one. Lizzie has always wondered what a proper kiss feels like and now she’s finding out. Her fingers travel from his cheeks up into his wavy reddish-brown hair as she allows his tongue entry into her mouth.

Rocking forward, she stands on the balls of her feet to give herself extra height while his arms wrap around her, holding his wife close to him.

“I think…” His Grace begins before he quickly captures her lips and pulls away again. “I shall sleep in here after all…” A smile grows against his lips, upon hearing his comment.

“Excellent idea, my love…” Elizabeth replies before sighing sweetly, her husband’s lips have found her neck, peppering her skin with tender kisses and light grazes with his teeth. A grunt vibrates against her flesh as she grabs his hair and gently tugs it. The sensation shoots right down to between his legs, awakening a certain part of his body.

Pins that support the bridal hairstyle start to get pulled out one by one by the groom. He longs to see her beautiful, long, dark, brown hair frame her pretty face again. Intricate curls and ringlets fall, bouncing into place as he lets more of her hair down. His hand collects all the hair accessories and places them on the bedside table. As he does so, he continues to kiss his bride, showering her with the love that she deserves. Fingers run smoothly through her hair, loosening the curls until it resembles more of her normal style.

“There you are…” he whispers after pulling away, his eyes taking in the view of her gorgeous wavy mane. The Duchess giggles; she’s enjoying this side of him and can’t wait to experience it more.

Now that her hair is down, his hands focus on the buttons on the back of her dress. As the bridal gown loosens, his warm lips ignite tingling sensations coming alive from the side of her neck while he stands behind her. He hears soft moans and sighs come from her mouth as she tilts her head to one side, allowing him better access. A strange sensation pulses out from between her legs. A feeling she has never experienced before. It feels pleasant but it pushes her to want more, strengthening the urge for something she doesn’t yet fully understand.

“Such beautiful sounds, mi bonita…” he whispers against her skin as she unfastens the last of her buttons. Another lusty sound rings out from her parted lips. His Spanish makes her melt. 

Not much effort is required to let the dress slip down her shoulders and arms, collapsing in a half inflated heap on the floor. Now her short stays corset and the silk bottoms is all that is left for him to negotiate.

It isn’t long for them both to lay together on the luxurious four poster bed. An opulent canopy hangs above them. Hands roaming the skin of each other’s naked bodies as their lips are connected once more in a deep and passionate kiss. Fingertips leave goosebumps in their wake as they reach the crest of her perfect breasts. Her manicured hands traverse the sculpted muscles on his chest.

Then, he leans further forward over the top of her. Her smile falls slightly the moment she feels something hot and throbbing rest against her stomach. She can’t resist a look and almost yelps in surprise.

A strong hand gently cups her chin and pulls her head to make her look back at his face.

“Do not worry, mi amor. I’ll take great care of you,” he leans in close and kisses her lips quickly before speaking again. “I’ll go slowly, I’ll be tender and we can stop at any time if you so wish.”

Lizzie gives a slight nervous nod, but she trusts him unequivocally.

After dancing tight circles around her hardened nipples, his fingers slip further down her body. Over her ribs, over her stomach and slowing down where her legs join her hips.

“First, I need to make sure you’re ready for me, mi amor…” He watches her close her eyes and sigh as he calls her his love in Spanish. Her reaction to his second language makes him smile before planting more kisses against her neck. This time he adds the sensation of his tongue trailing tantalisingly on her skin, tasting her.

“M-Miguel…” she whispers softly. Feeling him lick and kiss her neck while his hands gently parts her legs is taking her breath away. Giving her sensations she’s not at all used to.

“You’re in good hands, my love.”

A bigger gasp fills the room as the tip of his middle finger begins to circle deliciously around her sensitive bud.

“Enjoy it, mi amor. Does it feel good?” he asks as he murmurs in her ear momentarily.

The blushing bride bites her lip and nods while she tries to stifle a moan.

As time passes, his fingers travel lower down over her entrance. He discovers his efforts so far have already excited her. Biting his lip, he looks down at her with a smile.

“You’re nearly ready…”

After coating his fingers in more of her arousal, he slowly runs them up and down his hardened shaft and around the tip.

The Duke repositions himself on top of his Duchess. His lips crash against hers in a fiery kiss, enjoying the feeling of her skin against his. He has missed this feeling of closeness and intimacy. Feeling glad that he has this opportunity again and allowing himself to enjoy it.

Lizzie’s body instinctively arches upwards against him, seeking more contact, more heat and looking for something that’ll calm her inexplicable urges.

Kisses, licks and nibbles proceed down her body, starting from her neck, over her collarbone before stopping at her breasts.

“Miguel!” she moans urgently as she feels his lips close around a nipple and suck on it gently. Her hands go straight into his hair, unable to resist keeping him there for a while. A warm pulse emits deep inside her core, bringing a fresh wave of arousal that threatens to seep from her needy pussy. All she hears is a warm chuckle against her skin in response.

“That’s it mi amor, enjoy me…” he finally mumbles after releasing her nipple.

Moving over to the other, he does the same again. Drawing it into his mouth with a delicious suck, prompting her to arch into his body and moan once more.

The attention from his mouth advances down her body after releasing her nipple. Tingles erupt around her flesh, generating goosebumps to flare all over her skin.

“I wager you taste exquisite…” he mumbles between kisses as he continues to move lower.

“Miguel… w-where are you go- oh!” Her hands grip the bed sheets as she feels his tongue tease her clit, bringing a different sensation to when he used his fingers. The added warmth and moisture from his mouth made it feel even more irresistible.

Flicking in a teasing manner, between sensual circles and tender sucks, his tongue works hard to bring her absolute pleasure.

“You do indeed taste wonderfully…” The vibrations from his words only add more to what she’s already feeling, making her go crazy.

Elizabeth is now done with stifling her louder moans. It only gets worse when she hears him begin to groan against her, dissolving her into a bigger mess than she’s already in.

Just when she thinks she couldn’t receive more stimulation down there, she feels two fingers brush up and down her sensitive folds again. But soon, they begin to enter gently. Teasing the tight entrance, opening the lips just slightly.

His Grace feels her body stiffen as he pushes his fingers in further.

“Breathe, mi amore, breathe and relax…” he instructs before sucking on her clit a little bit harder in an attempt to distract her from his fingers.

As per his instructions, she relaxes and begins to enjoy the alien sensation of his digits sliding gently in and out, twisting and turning. The bride closes her eyes once more. All of this pleasure is transporting her to cloud nine.

Finally, Miguel believes she’s as ready as she’ll ever be for him. Crawling back up to face her, caging her underneath him protectively, he whispers to her softly.

“As I said, I’ll go slowly and I’ll be gentle. This may hurt, just a tiny bit.”

They keep their eyes locked onto one another. His gaze searches her expression for any kind of pain as he slowly starts to take her. His hips push further and further forward with every passing second, until she gasps out loud and tenses. His Grace stops pushing immediately and waits for her to relax again.

“You’re doing so well, mi amor.” His words bring a smile to her face and her blush deepens.

He begins again, slowly pushing until the hilt of his cock meets her fully aroused entrance.

“There we go…” Another whisper fills her ear. With little movements, he pulls back slightly before pushing back in, testing her for her reaction. Moans erupt from her parted lips as he watches her brow furrow with pleasure.

Dainty hands rest on his sides as his thrusts begin to grow stronger. With every pump, his body ripples, making sure her sensitive bud gets attention from his perfectly defined hips.

Knowing that his bride is fully comfortable with him inside her, he allows his grunts and groans to join her beautiful moans and sighs. A symphony of pleasure in time to his expert lovemaking fills the room.

The bed creaks under his efforts, but neither of them care. They’re too wrapped in their intimate, passionate lovemaking.

The Duchess’ mind is totally blown. She feels complete with him inside her, thrusting and grinding away, filling her with nothing but pleasure and love.

A new sensation is starting to build, one that makes her brow furrow more as she cannot see where this will take her, but she knows it’s doing something to her. With every movement from her husband, the sensation grows stronger.

Miguel grins, he can feel that sensation in her grow too as she begins to clench around him. Squeezing him harder with each pump.

“Miguel… what… I’m feeling something new… I-”

“Hush… do not fear…” he whispers between thrusts. “Let it go… let it happen…” 

Her fingers grip his sides harder as she listens to him. Instinctively, her hips begin to move with him, making them both start a fresh chorus of moans and groans.

The Duke’s mouth hovers teasingly above hers, they exchange each other’s air as they stare into their spouse’s eyes, deepening that connection further still.

Movements get faster and perhaps a little harder. His Grace can tell that his wife is well on her way to her first ever climax.

“Let go, mi amor, good girl…” he praises her as he thrusts even harder.

She lets a sudden moan escape her lips, the loudest one so far. An even more pronounced back arch pushes her body into his, creating further friction between them and pushing her over the edge of pleasure.

“Oh! Miguel!” Lizzie cries out, totally lost to the sensations swirling and rushing through her body. All the while, His Grace watches admiringly, enjoying the view of his wife feeling the powerful orgasm he has just delivered her to.

“Si, mi amor, si…”

His thrusts increase in speed, giving him the stimulation he needs to join her at the peak of pleasure. Miguel certainly isn’t that far behind.

“Make more pretty noises for me, my love… please…” he begs as he pants heavily.

He’s desperate for that release. Desperate to give her every part of him. And he’s so, so close.

Every moan that parts from her lips edges him nearer. His hands ball up into fists, clenching the bed sheets. Every thrust is accompanied with a wild sounding grunt. He watches her body rock under his efforts. The sound, the feeling, the display all working together, bringing him to the cusp of his climax.

With one final pump, his body stiffens as tingles erupt everywhere all around his body, spreading like wildfire. A beautiful sensation he thought he’d never feel again.

The Duchess feels the deep pulsing within her as her husband climaxes and fills her with his seed.

Strong arms wrap around Elizabeth, allowing her to bury her head between his neck and shoulder as the throbs of his orgasm die down.

Laying with her back pressing against his front, they snuggle together in their marital bed, their marriage consummated on their wedding night. The afterglow shining brightly between them with no regrets whatsoever. The groom kisses the sensitive area near her ear as his hand glides up and down her arm on top.

“Te amo…” the Duke whispers softly.

A warm smile spreads across her lips as she wriggles further against him, making sure she fits perfectly.

Today has been her dream come true and she cannot wait to see what her new life will bring, with the man she loves so loyally and so truly.

----------

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.

If you're interested in commissioning me, please click on the link below to find out more!

[spidercrusadersworld]

i don't know what this is but i just need to write this down and show people.

summary

peter B Parker (Mayas unofficial found father figure) finds Maya passed out beside a standing desk, where she does her research and learns about her sleeping patterns. the link leads to the exact color of green i imagine her bus being painted. also i'm tagging @pokers-ocs @kaidacresto @i-put-the-wit-in-dimwit and @persialiu because i want feedback! i have no fucking clue how to wright and I did this in one sitting but I want to know what you think!

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I was helping Miguel scope out new spiders to recruit when we eventually landed on Maya, I was able to see her life and, it was hard to watch. this poor kid has been through hell, and all on her own too. so when I watched Miguel manipulate her into joining, I saw just how lonely she was, and just how desperate she was to have someone to talk to, and yet how terrified she was to open up.

but somehow, I gained her trust. it started with a hello, she said hi, and reluctantly kept up surface level small talk with me . she's very nice, just incredibly nervous.

I made an effort to keep up appearances, and one day, when she saw me with mayday, a part of her she usually kept hidden bubbled to the surface. a genuine desire to actually talk. i guess she finally saw that not everyone there was a loner. or maybe she just likes kids. but what i really think it was, is a desire for innocence. maybe, she thought if i could bring that to the table, bring her, into the world, i was someone she could trust.

so soon after that, she would come to me, make the first move, and the more she would talk, the more comfortable she would be around not just me, but everyone.

so when today, she didn't show up at the society, i called and texted, something she would usually respond to immediately, but there was nothing, and i was worried, the day before, i had told her that i was involved in her recruitment and was there when Miguel looked into her past. and she said "well i assumed something like that would have happened, seeing as whenever I recruit someone, I'm given all the information about their past. I knew Miguel was involved obviously, but usually the info is passed down to someone else, and then to me, so clearly theirs more than one person involved, I've wondered, who else here knew about me, so honestly, if anyone in the entire society could have seen... my past... i'm glad it was you..."

'What if I had lost her trust, what if shes avoiding me, I probably hurt her feelings, I have to go apologize!' I decide to go over to her dimension to say sorry, when I arrive, i'm in a deep part of a forest, with the biggest trees I've ever seen, i"m talking at least twice as big as the empire state building, its foggy, and fireflies and moss carpets completely engulf the area, it's gorgeous, and i let myself be lost in fantastical wonder for a little while when I finally snap out of it.

i see a shape through to mist that has light coming through it, i come closer to it and i find that it's an old school bus, obviously renovated into a cozy living space, painted a nice soft earthy of green. the moss roots and vines spiral around the bus, this thing has been here a while, and it's not leaving any time soon, it looks like the magical spirit of the woods has claimed it for itself, giving it the blessing of it's beauty.

i walk over to the side of the entrance, and thats where i see it; two grave stones. well large rocks with names crudely etched into them. one covered in flowers and pictures, the other with a lanyard draped across it, the one with all the flowers reads Jade Maverick, the name on it etched much more neatly on it, below the name it reads i'm sorry. my heart breaks in a million pieces at the makeshift burial, i know who this is.. Mayas fiance, the one she lost in the explosion, i saw the accident when we where looking at her past to see how to recruit her, but to see this, it's different.

the other stone is more weathered and cracked, obviously less care has been taken in maintaining it. if any. This one reads Maya Maverick. For a second I'm confused, but then I remember, Maya survived the explosion, but she never told anyone. to the rest of the world, Maya Maverick is presumed dead. I look at the lanyard on the rock, and it has her old ID badge from Alchemax clipped on it.she looks so young, and happy, and somehow, more innocent. her hair is different, and she's wearing glasses, though only half the picture remains intact, the other burned, presumably, in the explosion.

the atmosphere is no longer pleasant as i look at this scene, the fog making the grave sight feel somber and cold. I look back at the bus, and I no longer see the once cozy looking hideaway i first saw, It now looks desolate and lonely, a place of grief and solitude, a place to wallow in what once was, and, as i see the M+J carved over the entrance, surrounded in a heart; a place of what could have been but was stolen.

I want to leave this place, it feels wrong. I can't believe I just flipped through this part of her life like a damn power-point presentation, taking notes like it was some sort of fucked up character study! this is so personal, I feel like I completely violated her space... she lives here alone, no wonder she is so closed of, this.. this must be terrible.

I finally realize I have heard nothing from inside the bus, not a sound. and now i am concerned, is she okay? I hesitate on opening the door, I feel like I have violated something so personal, it feels wrong to enter, i fear like I've already seen to much that was not for my eyes too see. should I really be entering her living space? what if shes completely fine and I only make things worse?

As I turn away i see something in the corner of my eye, through the window of the bus door, I see a hand lying limp on the floor. and I go back and enter the bus, concerned. when i go in I see her lying limp on the ground, a cup of coffee split on the ground, shattered just a few feet away. beside her is a standing desk with a computer open, and notes scattered across it, and pined on a wall, I start to piece together, what I sincerely hope, was what happened here. but it can wait, i go to Maya and try to shake her awake.

"maya?, MAYA! come on kido, wake up and talk to me!"

but she doesent, I try for a long while longer and decide that I need to get her someplace safe, where she at the very least won't wake up alone and confused. so I open a portal to me and MJ's house.

I step through it and MJ walks in happily.

"honey your home early, what's the occa-" she trails of at the sight of me carrying Maya. "whats going on?" she asks, now concerned.

"MJ, meet Maya, the girl i've been telling you about".

she looks at her concerned "is she okay?" she asks nervously

I explain to her what happened, and how she seems to be fine, just exhausted beyond belief, and in an extremely deep sleep because of it.

"is it okay if she stays here tonight, I.. I couldn't just leave her there alone, and, I.. I need to know if shes okay. please, I'm ... I'm worried about her"

she looks at me sympathetically and puts her palm against my cheek, I lean into it, tired.

"alway thinking of everyone but yourself peter" she says lovingly.

"well I'm afraid that might be her problem exactly, I promise it will just be for a ni-" she cuts me off before I can finish.

"that wasn't a no! of course she can stay Pete, she can stay here as long as she needs" she says kissing me softly on the cheek.

"you really are incredible" I tell her

"not as incredible as you; caring about someone like this, that's something only my Peter Parker can do." she says, "I'll go get the couch ready for her, wait one second while i make it comfortable for our guest." she says, leaving to get the blankets.

Looking down at Maya, asleep in my arms I realize I do care, I care a lot actually, I wonder if she's met miles yet, she reminds me of him. I want to protect her, in a a way that's different than how i want to protect miles, or anyone else really. she's just been through so much, all I want is for to wake up so that I can tell her it's all okay. she doesn't though, and I I don't think she will for a while.

I put her down gently on the couch i try to let go but her grip sub consciously tightens on my arm, and she tosses around a little, but eventually, exhausts herself and goes limp again, her chest rising and falling gently. my room is right across from her and I leave the door open so that i can see her. I lie down and after a lot of worrying, I eventually fall asleep myself.

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mayas pov

I feel myself wake up, but not wanting to, it's warm and confortable and I'm extremely drowsy.

that feeling lasts for about two seconds when I realize that I fell asleep in the first place and I panic a little at first, and then a lot when i realize three things.

A: I don't know how i got here.

B: Here is comfortable but it's definitely NOT my bed.

and maybe the most concerning;

C: holy shit. someone else is here and i definitely don't have my mask on.

I quickly bolt up and web up the closest moving object, my vision freaking the fuck out trying to adjust to the sudden intake of bright light, leaving my eyes completely useless on figuring out what the fuck is actually happening

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?!" I demand.

whoever is there calls for someone but my senses are so overwhelmed i don't quite catch who.

another blob runs in from another room and i try to web them up but they doge and web me up instead.

wait, hold up. if someone else is webbing me up, that means it's another spider, which means I should probably stop freaking out and wait till I can actually read the room and see what the hell is happening, before I hurt someone.

my senses slowly come back and I hear someone talking to me, and referring to me by name.

"....aya, .... alm dow... It's Oka... your Okay, It's me peter."

I blink a few times and my vision calms down and i can see whats happening, and it is infact peter.

the panic, anxiety and adrenaline completely drains out of my body when I see him. I realize in that moment, I actually trust peter. it's odd, but it's comforting, and it's welcome, so I guess that is thing that happened.

"peter?" I say, letting my voice crack with emotion, for the first time in years, not even caring on how pathetic i sound.

"hey kiddo sorry about that It, well, it didn't feel right leaving you on the cold hard floor, are you okay? do you need anything?" he said.

on the floor? wait.

"did I fall asleep?" I ask

"yeah, you did".

I feel dread bubbling up inside of me. "nonononon NO" I scream, tears building up, "wha- what happened is everyone okay?" I stammer.

peter seems confused. "kid no one is hurt, except maybe you, i'm worried, how.. how often do you sleep" he asks me.

I stay there, and I think really hard, and finally I say"

"I usually pass out after... five days, but I.. I try to avoid it for as long as possible"

Peter looks at me as if I had just died in front of him. I don't know why.

"kid..." he starts. "you gotta let yourself sleep,what do you do at night?" he asks

that when I realize that my sleep schedule is not a normal one that spiders have.

"I- I go out on patrol, don't... don't you?" I ask, nervous.

"oh my god kid, you.., you need to sleep." he says.

i'm confused. "but what about everyone else, I can't sleep if someone needs my help!"

peter approaches me, and does something unexpected,

he hugs me...

and I don't know what to do...

the last person who hugged me was... her.

my knees buckle, he catches me and hugs tighter...

and that's when I start to cry.

"Maya, you can't do that to yourself.." he says

In the back of my mind I know, I know hes right, I always did, but I couldn't.

"you can't help anyone if you don't take care of yourself" he says

"I.. I can't, It's too hard" I admit, sobbing into his shoulder.

peter is silent for a while, "then let us help" he says.

I pull away, confused. "what?" I ask.

"say here with us, and we can help" he says looking at me with caring eyes. "Mayday would like the company, she really likes you y'a know, and, well.." he looks over at a woman, who I assume is MJ, across the room who gives him an approving nod, and back to me "I guess me an MJ can tolerate you for a little." he says teasingly.

"Yes" i sob out.

"well while your here could you release our breakfast? I think it's ready to talk" he jokes.

I look over and realize that the closest moving thing that I webbed up after waking up, was one of MJ's pancakes in mid-flip.

I laugh, and cry at the same time, and for the first time in years, I have a family.

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[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 26

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

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

A/N: Slower chapter so everyone can catch their breath. Literally, in some cases. The song that features in this chapter was written by @eldathe! Art is by @swanpit​

***

“... Is he asleep?”

“I think so.”

Héctor gently leaned Miguel down on Chicharrón’s cot, and he barely stirred. Within moments Dante was on the cot as well, resting his head on the boy’s chest, while Juanita decided to sit by his head to keep a watchful eye on them both. Héctor smiled faintly - God, the sun had set hours ago and the events of the day were catching up with him - and turned to Chicharrón.

“Thanks for letting us stay here. Miguel needed some time.”

“Hmph.” Cheech scoffed, stirring some kind of soup with unknown ingredients on the stove. “I should hit you over the head with a shovel for having them take you. Count yourself lucky I won’t.”

“It was to save Miguel.”

“Why the hell else do you think I said I won’t?”

Héctor managed another smile, and took the bowl of soup the old gravedigger handed to him the next moment. He looked over at Imelda. 

“... Would you like to stay to eat? I doubt Madre Gregoria will mind, considering the circumstances.”

Imelda wrinkled her nose. “Not that I’d care if she did, given my little announcement before I headed off, but I’ll pass. I suppose I’ll spend the night with my parents and brothers, and in the morning--”

“Ah, by the way,” Cheech cut her off, scratching the stubble on his cheek. “Congrats on the engagement.”

Imelda blinked down at him. “Who told you…?”

A roll of his eyes. “Do you have any idea how long just about everyone in the village has been waiting for you two to get out of the church and tie the knot? I know I was looking forward to it, so that Héctor could finally shut up about you for more than ten minutes.”

“... Ah.”

Héctor cleared his throat, face warming up a little. “That is not-- exactly--” he cleared his throat again. “I mean-- see you tomorrow, Imelda.”

Her cheeks just slightly reddened, Imelda nodded quickly. “Right. I’ll stop by at doctor Sanchéz’s home on my way back. To check on both Ernesto and the gringo.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she spoke of Ernesto, and brushed back Miguel’s hair instead. The boy kept sleeping, hugged close to Dante, and she smiled. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, her voice so soft, and left the shack without another word. Héctor’s gaze followed her until she was out of sight, and he finally sighed. 

“Isn’t she amazing?”

“Mph. You know what’s amazing? The soup you’re letting go cold in your bowl.”

“Wha-- oh!” Héctor hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now, as the smell of it truly hit his nostrils; all of a sudden, his stomach ached for food. “Right. Gracias,” he said, and proceeded to guzzle down the soup like it was water. Cheech grunted and sat on an old chair before kicking off his peg leg with his real foot and rubbing the stump with a grimace. 

“So. The priest was a Federale all along.”

“No. He was a deserter.”

“Well, he was one before he deserted.”

“He didn’t get a choice when it came to joining them. A lot of people didn’t.”

“Mmh.” Cheech made a face, but didn’t argue on that point. “He had balls to pull what he did, I’ll give him that. Awful lot of wine wasted, if you ask me, but at least we did get rid of the rat infestation, no?”

For a moment Héctor thought back of the young man who’d been so concerned about their wounded priest, about the other soldiers who had so clearly not really chosen to be there either, but he felt too weak to argue. In the end he just sighed, and held out his bowl to let Cheech drop another ladle of soup in it.

“... I guess we did,” he murmured. In the back of his mind, the image of Ernesto’s bloodied chest and bruised neck lingered; Héctor suspected he would see it often in his nightmares, for a long time to come, along with Gustavo’s dead weight as he took his body back out of the grove. “I just hope doctor Sanchéz will be able to give us good news,” he murmured. He’d tried to visit, but he’d been pretty much kicked out right past the door’s threshold with a yell to let him work.

“On the gringo, or the deserter?”

“Both.”

“Mph. Don’t think Padre Culo Blanco would be much missed.”

“He tried to step in to save Miguel, too.o

“That only pisses me off more. I’d rather he let me keep hating his guts in peace, but oh no, he had to do something noble.” Cheech grunted, and Héctor couldn’t hold back a chuckle before finishing the rest of his soup. When he looked up again, Chicharrón was picking up a bottle of some unknown liquor, and pouring it in two glasses. 

“Speaking of cabróns who had to go and be all noble,” he muttered, thrusting one glass in Héctor’s hand. “Guess we have to toast to Gustavo of all people now, huh?”

Ah. Héctor swallowed, and let out a long sigh. “I had no idea it was him. All along, with the messages and the supplies…”

“Yes, I guess he did a good job there. Never suspected.” A scoff. “Who could imagine he actually knew how to keep his mouth shut if need be.”

“Heh. I guess he did. Another talent he hid well.”

“Mph.” Cheech lifted his glass. “To Gustavo, then. Probably pissing off more people somewhere else.”

Héctor smiled weakly and raised his own glass in a silent toast before gulping down the alcohol, which was strong enough to make his eyes water. He thought of a boy from so long ago, refusing to accept his mother had left him behind for good and lashing out at everyone else in the orphanage who tried to befriend him. 

“Stay away! I have a mamá and she'll be back, just you wait, she was not a puta like yours and she’s not dead and she'll come back before you know it!”

But she had never come back, none of them had ever known why, and attempts at comforting him had been met with even more hostility. Nursing a black eye, Héctor remembered thinking he was the most infuriating cabrón ever and that opinion had never changed. Sure, that was partly because Gustavo never gave him reason to change it… but looking back, it was only sad. They had both been younger than Miguel was now, after all. 

And now he was dead.

Maybe he’ll find his mother again. He’ll know why she left him here. 

He wasn’t sure whether having an answer to that question would be for the best or the worst. Héctor sighed and held out the glass for some more liquor, throat still stinging from the previous mouthful, and Cheech refilled both of their glasses without a word.

“... He saved my life.”

“See, this is why it’s pissing me off. How can I keep saying he was a cabrón in peace?”

“Looks like you shouldn’t.”

“Hmph. I’ll try,” Cheech grumbled, and downed his second glass. On the cot, Miguel kept sleeping through their conversation and, rather more impressive, though Dante’s snoring.

***

“Nnnhh…”

“What the-- oye! Easy, Padre. Lay back down, you’re in no shape to sit up--”

“Miguel.” A wheeze, another feeble attempt at getting up, easily foiled by the weight of a hand on his shoulder, the one that was not a mass of pain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still heard a bell ringing in a death knell; it had echoed in the dark for what felt like years. “Is he-- where is Miguel-- is he all right?”

“He’s alive and well, Padre,” doctor Sanchéz was saying above him.  “They didn’t take him."

Oh.

With a long breath, John Johnson leaned his head back on the pillow, relief flooding him - sweet relief, making him forget even the throbbing pain where… ah. Ah, yes. He had been shot, he remembered that; his left arm was in a sling and unmovable, the shoulder tightly bandaged. But it didn’t matter. The child was safe. 

“Thank God,” he rasped, and the doctor nodded, clearly misunderstanding what his relief was for.

“You got lucky, but stay down. It was a close call, I’ll tell you that - ah, if you awoke just half a hour ago, I may have given Imelda some news when she stopped by. Really didn’t think you were going to wake up at all. Lost more blood than someone this pale has any right to have in his veins.”

John exhaled slowly, beyond caring for the jab. He was dizzy, but tried to think with  as much clarity as he could muster. “And what of… what of the others? How many did they take?”

“... Thirty. Twenty-nine came back.”

“Came… back?”

“Let’s just say, some revolutionaries passing by gave us a hand. Gustavo didn’t make it, but the others did. And I guess-- Padre Ernesto helped.”

Ah. The mention of the name, the hesitation as it was uttered, caused John’s eyes to snap open, a sudden sense of foreboding seizing him. What did he mean, he helped-- what did he do-- he was meant to be away, stay out of it all, he…!

With the mind’s eye, he could see the scene playing out: Ernesto returning, clueless, from the farm, only to be met by hostile men and a crazed soldier hellbent on finding him. His blood ran cold. He could hear that death knell again, and Ernesto’s own words the day the truth had come out.

If the Federal army finds me, I’ll hang. And they won’t give me the kindness of making it a clean fall with a broken neck.

“Ernesto,” he managed, meeting doctor Sanchéz’s gaze. His expression was grave, too grave for a man who has just seen his patient wake up from an unconscious state. “Where is he?”

“You ought to rest.”

The reply only fueled the terror in John’s addled mind. He gripped Sanchéz’s arm with his good hand, his grasp pathetically weak. “Is he-- is he all right?”

“He…” a pause, as though debating to himself, then he gave a long sigh. “... You need rest, Padre.”

“Answer me!” John’s voice shook. He was beyond caring what a pathetic display he was offering; something ached in his chest, in his throat. “In the name of God, where is he!”

This time he managed to sit up, and Sanchéz caught him instead of keeping him pinned down, a steadying hand on his back. John turned, dizzy, and there he was. On a cot right by, torso bandaged and horrible bruises across his pale face and over his throat, lay Ernesto.

Words faded in John’s throat, what little strength he had left faltering; had it not been for the hand on his back, he may have collapsed back on the thin mattress of his cot. “He-- is he-- what happened…?”

A sigh. “He went after the Federales, to retrieve our men. Their commander seemed to… confuse him for someone else.”

No. He knew exactly who he was looking at.

“Foolish man,” John choked out. Why, why had he done something so reckless? After hiding for so long - going to such lengths to keep his real identity a secret, so many lies to deceive an entire village and him, too - he had given himself away like that. They had passed through, they would be gone, he’d be safe. 

“You do need rest. But if you have enough strength, last rites may be needed. Just in case.”

No. Oh God, please, no.

Yet he moved, out of duty, knowing that if he couldn’t save his life he had to at least do what he could for his soul. Sanchéz supported him, uncharacteristically devoid of biting remarks, and helped him sit on a chair next to Ernesto’s cot. Without thinking, John placed a hand on his forehead. It was cold and clammy; the man did not stir. 

“What have they done to him?” he dared ask. His mouth was dry, his throat like sandpaper. “Is there any hope?”

“They… cut him, roughed him up some, but what concerns me is how long he was left hanging by the neck.” He vaguely gestured at the horrible rope burns and bruises around Ernesto’s neck. “When one can’t breathe for too long… you never know. He wakes up, or he never does.”

There was some hope, then. John swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, his head swimming. “... I do need the anointing oil, if you’d be so kind as to retrieve it for me at the church.”

“I can’t just leave my patients--”

“Would your presence change anything one way or the other?”

A few moments of silence, and a heavy sigh. “I will be back soon. Do not attempt to get up on your own.”

“I won’t,” John murmured. There were steps, a door closing, but he was beyond hearing it. He swallowed, and brushed back Ernesto’s hair before he bowed his head and began praying. It was far from the first time he’d had to give the final rites to someone who was no longer conscious to give confession; but never before he’d done it with such a heavy heart, struggling to force out words that would normally come as naturally as breathing. 

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti... et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi... nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere, et omissione…” His hand shook, slipping off Ernesto’s forehead to cup a cold cheek. The pain in John’s shoulder was distant; all he could feel was the slight stubble against his palm, all he could focus on was the slow rise and fall of his bandaged chest, trying to will it to continue. “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”

That was as far as John could go. The next moment his vision was blurred, his voice broke, and his frame shuddered with a sob he could not stifle. “Don’t take him,” he choked out. He barely recognized his own voice; somewhere in the back of his mind he was once again a lost boy with a wounded arm, pleading with his father and his mother for mercy that would not come.

Mama, please… father, don’t--

“Don’t take him,” John choked again, bowing his head. Tears fell from his face, onto bandages stained with blood. “It should have been me. You fool, what have you done-- why-- God, please. Take me, just please-- don’t take him. Please.”

He’d be able to pull himself together, once Sanchéz came with the anointing oil; long enough to do his duty and give Ernesto his final rites. But for those few minutes, they were alone. He could be weak and he could be selfish, begging God for one thing and one thing only. 

Don’t take him away.

***

“So, he was never a real priest.”

“Apparently not.”

“Hmm. I should have known. No man who looks like that would become a priest.”

“... What?”

“God has gifted me eyes as good as anyone else’s, Sister Sofía.”

“You do wear glasses.”

Madre Gregoria, probably old enough to recall a time before Conquistadores, leaned back on her seat with a sigh. She folded her hands together. “Well. This leaves us in an extremely uncomfortable position, to say the least.”

“He saved the lives of thirty--” Sofía paused, and lowered her gaze a moment. “... Twenty-nine of our parishioners.”

When she looked up, she saw Madre Gregoria’s features twisting for a moment in a pained expression. It occurred to her suddenly that she’d watched Gustavo grow up, along with Héctor and countless other children through the years. Not a particularly affectionate mother figure, but an attentive one nonetheless. 

Sofía watched, not quite knowing whether she should give her condolences, as the elderly nun opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle. Ah, so she also had a fondness for mass win-- no, wait. “Tequila?”

“Or someting very much like it. From Chicharrón’s secret stash.”

“I thought no one ever found his secret stash.”

“So does he. Let’s keep it that way,” Madre Gregoria added, and poured a generous dose of liquor in two glasses. “... Now. Santa Cecilia has a death to mourn as is. I see no reason to add more, or bring further ire down on this parish. Clearly, provided that he survives, his ruse cannot continue.”

“As long as Huerta is in power, unmasking him in a death sentence.” Sofía took a swig from her glass, and stilled when Madre Gregoria threw back her head and gulped down the entire contents of her own. 

Well. Color me surprised.

“Well then. Until Hell takes Huerta, we are compelled by Christian mercy to ensure Pad-- this man’s safety. God will judge him when the time comes, I suppose.”

“... Of course.”

“If Padre Jua-- Johnson lives, it may be difficult to convince him--”

“He’s known for a while.” To Sofía’s amusement, it was Madre Gregoria’s turn to look at her with wide eyes, hand stilling halfway to the bottle. 

“And he hasn’t--?”

“Christian piety. If he didn't tell before, he won’t tell now.”

“Ah. I see.” A pause, and finally she poured herself another glass. She downed it even more quickly than the first. “Well. This makes things significantly easier, I suppose. We’ll have a village meeting to discuss the matter. Word has spread, after all; we cannot hope to keep it within the confines of these rooms, but within the village - that we may do. After Gustavo’s funeral, perhaps. I do expect the church to be quite full.”

Sofía nodded, expression somber. Gustavo had never been especially popular for good reason - he was, after all, kind of a cabrón - but now that they knew what he’d been doing, and how he’d died, there was hardly a soul in Santa Cecilia who did not wish to pay their respects. Still… 

“Provided that he pulls through,” she murmured before finishing her tequila. Madre Gregoria sighed, and filled it again before she could ask.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Provided that he pulls through.”

***

“... And the idiota kept trying to stay awake on the chair through the night, even after I told him he either wakes up or doesn’t and it’s out of our hands. I had to sedate him to get him to rest a few hours, and now he’s awake again and praying. Been at it for hours.”

“Well, that’s… good?”

“Mph. A classic. If he lives everyone thanks God but if they die you know who gets the blame, huh? Doctor Sanchéz does.”

“You did go to the church to get the anointing oil for the final rites, I was told…”

“Well--!”

“Doctor, can we please see them?”

Miguel’s voice somehow managed to come across as both a plea and an impatient huff, and Sanchéz trailed off. He looked down at the boy, back up at Héctor, and sighed. “The dog stays out,” he muttered. Dante whined but stayed put as Miguel patted him once on the head and walked in, as quickly as he could without full-on running. Héctor followed, hoping the sight of Ernesto would be… easier to bear, after having his wounds treated and bandaged. Miguel had already seen enough blood to last him a lifetime or two.

As he'd hoped, there was no blood in sight. Ernesto lay on a cot, still ashen pale but with sheets pulled up to his neck, and Father John Johnson sat on a chair by his side, a blanket over his shoulders. His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder and torso probably bandaged beneath the blanket, but his free hand was hovering just above Ernesto’s forehead in a gesture of blessing. Father John’s head was bowed, eyes shut, as he murmured a prayer; he didn’t seem to have even heard them coming in. 

“Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae--”

“Father John,” Miguel choked out, and he trailed off, startled, before turning back to see them. He looked pale, deep shadows under his eyes, and for a moment he stared at Miguel as though he didn’t even recognize him. Then, weakly, he smiled. 

“My dear child,” he murmured. “Thank God you’re safe.”

Miguel sniffled, tried to say something, but couldn’t. In the end he just rushed forward to hug John’s good arm, his small frame shaking as he cried. 

“I thought he’d shot you dead,” he choked out. The gringo’s expression turned sorrowful. 

“I am sorry I couldn’t protect you, Miguel. I tried.”

“Stupid-- both of you-- all of you-- what if you died? What if you all died?”

Ah. Héctor swallowed and stepped forward to put a hand on Miguel’s shaking shoulder. “We did not. We’re here, Miguel.”

“But what about Ernesto-- is he going to… will be…”

A sharp intake of breath, and John spoke quietly. “... He is in the Lord’s mercy now,” he said, his voice strained, and gently pulled away. Miguel rubbed his eyes and looked at Ernesto’s still form. He stepped closer, slipped a small hand under the sheets to grasp his own, and his shaky voice rose up again - but not to cry, and definitely not to pray.

He was singing, or trying to since through tears.

“As I walk through the plaza, A señora comes my way From her lips falls a question Cómo está tu Padre? Ay, now what-- what do I say...?”

Miguel’s voice shook, and Héctor stepped forward again, a hand on the boy’s back, singing softly. On his chair, the gringo did not protest or say they ought to pray rather than sing: he just listened, quietly wiping his eyes without even trying to hide his distress.

“Since he rode in with swagger And a crass sort of charm, His unconventional ideas Keep our town safe from harm He draws in crowds To the church, old and young Quick to bestow, He'll make his blessings come We were fatherless, and Hey, presto! We were gifted with Padre-”

“Nnnh…”

The groan was so weak Héctor barely heard it over his own voice, but Father John’s gasp was loud and clear, and he fell silent, looking down again. Under his gaze, Ernesto’s features twisted, brow furrowing… and then, at long last, as they all held their breath, he opened his eyes. 

��Ernesto!” Miguel’s voice came out a shrill, and got another groan out of the man. He blinked blearily and turned his gaze on them; he seemed not to realize who he was looking at at first, but after a few moments his lips curled in a faint smile. 

“They got you too, huh?” he managed. After being hanged by the neck, his voice sounded as though he’d been gargling glass. “Bastards. Doesn’t look like… I’m in Hell, though.”

The words seemed to startle Father John out of his wide-eyed silence, and he gasped again, leaning forward. His good hand shaking, he cupped Ernesto’s cheek. 

“Ernesto-- you’re awake-- my dear man…!” he choked out, and Ernesto’s gaze fell on him. After a moment of silence, the faint smile returned.

“Ah,” he rasped. “That’s more… like it.”

“I have prayed to God you’d-- what?” the gringo blinked, startled, while Héctor let out a laugh that was more than slightly hysterical and Ernesto’s head dropped back on the pillow, eyes slipping shut. Out like a candle left in the wind, in need of a lot more rest, but alive.

Miguel stepped back, startled, but the surprise quickly turned into concern.  “Hey, no-- Ernesto, wake up--!”

“Enough, boy.” Doctor Sanchéz spoke up, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He laid a hand on top of Miguel’s head. “He needs time to recover.”

Miguel’s head tilted upwards so quickly, Héctor almost worried it may break his neck. He was biting his lower lip, eyes wide. “But he will recover, right?”

“... He regained consciousness and spoke. Both are very good signs.” A pat on his head, a small smile in response to Miguel’s wide, relieved one. “Just let him rest.”

“He woke up with music. Can I come back with my guitar? There is a song he likes…”

“Maybe once he’s regained some strength,” was the reply, which was… a lot more than the ‘absolutely not’ Héctor had been expecting. Of course, the attempt at a benign smile was gone when he met Héctor’s gaze. “Meanwhile, you may want to think of a good story to tell and fast, if you get what I mean. Before word gets out.”

Héctor nodded. “The sisters are... working on it,” he said, and looked over at Father John. He was looking back at them, but his free hand once again rested on Ernesto’s forehead. He did not seem inclined to leave his side anytime soon. “... We could use your help, Father.”

“Anything to keep him safe,” he replied, all walls down. Doctor Sanchéz’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he made no comments. Neither did Héctor, of course.

Sometimes, to keep men from harm, it is best to know how to keep a secret.

***

“Not to stick my nose into your business, muchacho, but what exactly are you doing with my horse?”

“Gah!” Miguel yelped and turned, the reins of the horse in question still tight in his hand. He’d slipped out of the cemetery earlier than everyone else to quietly get the horse away from the spot where it had been tied, but it seemed the leader of the small pack of revolutionaries - whose name was probably not really José - had returned early, too. 

He didn’t seem mad, if anything, just rather curious as he tilted his head on one side. “Waiting for an answer here.”

Miguel frowned, and held tightly onto the reins. “This is not your horse,” he declared, causing the man’s eyebrows to shoot up almost to his hairline. 

“Oh? I am rather certain this is the same horse I rode in with this morning.”

“But it’s not your horse! This is Dante!”

“... Isn’t that your dog?”

“No! I mean-- yes-- I named him after--” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “This is Ernesto’s horse!”

The man blinked. “You mean the madman who went and tried to poison the Federales?”

“Yes! He’s… wait, he’s not mad! It worked!”

“Well, yes and no. If making them very sick was the goal, it worked. If he had mass murder in mind, not really - not nearly enough poison to kill that many men. If he lives, remind me to tell him to never try poisoning anyone ever again.”

“Well-- he did make them sick and… and… this is his horse, I recognized him! He went missing months ago from the stables, how did you get him?”

“I didn’t steal him, for your information,” the man replied, crossing his arms. “Gustavo took him to us one day, since he’s a good horse we could be put to better use than a priest--” he trailed off, and paused. “... Ah. I think I see what happened there.”

“You have to give him back. He was really sad when Dante went missing,” Miguel said, hand clenching on the reins while the horse snuffled at the ground and then snorted out the dust, markedly uninterested in the exchange. 

José sighed. “I suspect he has more pressing things to worry about,” he said, glancing over towards the church. After attending the ceremony and burial of Gustavo Torres, it seemed nearly all of Santa Cecilia was heading back in the chapel to discuss what to do with regards to the priest who was not a priest at all. 

“No he doesn’t.” Miguel crossed his arms. Héctor had told him not to worry, that all would be well, and he trusted him. All right, so maybe he sometimes lied a little bit to make him feel better, but Imelda and Sofía were a lot more straightforward and they were sure all would be well, too. Madre Gregoria was on their side, according to Sofía, and that just about sealed the matter. No one on that side of Oaxaca argued with Madre Gregoria. “He protected us and we’ll protect him.”

José let out a hum. “I see. Well, we have no shortage of horses now, with all those we, ah… borrowed recently. And I suppose he did do us all a favor - can’t really picture anyone here wanting to hand him over to Huerta.”

Oh. Miguel breathed a little more easily. “So you’re giving Dante back?”

“I’m giving him to you. I trust you’ll treat him right before your friend can take him back.” He stepped over, and stroked Dante’s muzzle. “Heh. Would like to meet him when he’s conscious, as long as he doesn’t offer me a drink. Tricking a whole town into thinking he’s a priest - how did he even think of that?”

“... I don’t believe he thinks a lot,” Miguel admitted, and José laughed.

“Ah,” he said. “That does explain a lot.”

***

“... I guess we’ll have to put his photo up on our ofrenda.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Heh. True. But I still owe him.”

“We both do. At least he’d appreciate the annoyance that is causing us.”

A brief pause as they both stood over Gustavo’s grave, the dirt still soft. Cheech had roped Héctor in to dig it first, and then to fill it after the funeral was over. For once, he hadn’t complained. Imelda lingering there as he worked to fill the grave - both of them in civilian clothing, for the first time in so long - made him even less inclined to complain.

“... Our ofrenda.” Héctor let the words roll off his tongue as they walked away from the grave, and smiled, still quite unable to comprehend the fact they were there, alive, and engaged. “You really want us to be married by November?”

“I can’t see why not. We’re both just novices, no perpetual vows - shouldn’t take too long for the Church to formally release us.”

“Madre Gregoria must be sorry to see you go.”

“No, she actually said Sofía is enough of a headache on her own.”

“Ah.” A pause, and he dared reach to take her hand. She held it back, squeezing gently, and Héctor’s heart fluttered. “Guess it would be good form for me to talk to your parents…”

“I already told them we’re getting married.”

He blinked. “What-- you did? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“No asking your father for your hand?”

Imelda shrugged. “They can give or withhold permission as they wish. It won’t make a difference.” She paused, and finally looked back at him. Her expression was grave. “I thought I lost you for a moment. When they took you. I...” a sigh. “I was ready to speak out and let them have Ernesto, to save you and Óscar and the other people they were taking. Even if I’d promised him I would keep him safe.”

Ah. It was not something Héctor had expected to hear, and for a moment he didn’t know what to say. He just stared back at her, speechless, and she spoke again. She looked haunted at the idea she had almost signed Ernesto’s death sentence.

“Ernesto was right. I didn’t know being at war means, until I saw them taking you away.”

“You didn’t give him away.”

“Only because Miguel asked me not to. I-- you’d do anything to protect those you love and I almost told that madman we had Ernesto, even if you’d hate me for it. I would have learned to accept it. As long as you lived.”

Héctor was silent a few more moments, and slowly nodded. The choice to offer himself up in Miguel’s place had been so easy, it had felt like he had no choice at all. The one Imelda had found herself facing, on the other hand… it must have been agonizing, so few options and none of them good. Héctor found he didn’t know what he may have done in her shoes.

“... I understand.”

“It’s kind of you to say, but if it makes you rethink the engagement--”

“Never.” He turned to grasp both of her hands, holding tight. “Nothing can make me rethink that. I will build us a home, big enough for us and Miguel and all the other children--” Héctor trailed off, realizing belatedly that he and Imelda never had a chance to even discuss adopting Miguel. He’d simply assumed they would, but-- “I mean… if you agree--”

Imelda’s grave expression broke into laughter, and she leaned on her toes to kiss him suddenly. “When are we breaking the news to him?” she asked, and Héctor could only smile before kissing her again.

***

“Uugh…”

“No, no, stay down. Don’t try to sit up, you may pull your stitches…”

“Nnh… Juan?”

Above him, Juan’s anxious features-- was he even paler than before? Was it possible? -- softened in a smile. His hand - so stupidly soft, no callouses to speak of, a man who never laboured a day in his life - cupped Ernesto’s cheek. “It’s me. And, I am relieved to report, neither of us is in Hell just yet.”

Ah. Slowly, Ernesto’s addled mind managed to process what he just heard. Everything felt like a dream; the only real thing was the pain in his throat, and even that was dulled. “... We’re alive?”

“We are. You’re back in Santa Cecilia.”

“They shot you.”

“God was watching over me.”

Oh, of course he’d credit God. “Heh. It was luck.”

“... Perhaps the commander’s aim was not quite as true as it may have been. I may not recover the full use of my left arm, but it’s a small price to pay. Héctor and Miguel are safe, too. They came to visit, remember? You woke up briefly, and they were so relieved - do you recall?”

He did, very vaguely, more a sensation than a coherent memory - the vague echo of a song. His vision swam a moment, and Ernesto closed his eyes. “I thought you were dead. The bells… the death knell...”

“No. No, my dear man. I am here.”

“I was… he… Santiago...”

Is he still out there? Where is he?

A wave of panic swelled in Ernesto’s mind, and he tried again to sit up. A gentle hand on his shoulder kept him easily in place.

“Ernesto, no. Listen to me-- you’re safe here. We’re safe. That madman is gone.”

Oh. Ernesto swallowed, drawing in a shaky breath, and found Juan’s blue gaze again. It was the only thing he could focus on, filling his sight as the sky would. What an odd eye color, he thought, so curiously soothing. “Gone,” he repeated, and the gringo nodded.

“Yes. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

He didn’t know how he was still alive, or how that man had been taken out, but he found he didn’t care. “They know,” he rasped in the end. “The people here.”

“It will be sorted out, Ernesto. You’re safe here, I promise.”

It was enough for now, all the reassurance he needed, and the panic faded into the pleasant mist in the back of his mind. Painkillers, no doubt; he normally may have worried about the extent of his injuries-- there was a knife I remember he had a knife -- but not now. He was mostly free of pain, and he was safe. Juan had told him as much. They were safe. 

Slowly, Ernesto smiled. “Learned my name at last,” he muttered, gaining himself a confused look that quickly gave way to comprehension, and some measure of amusement. Dimly, he felt a hand grasping his own.

“Heh. I suppose I have.”

“Guess I’ll have to call you John from now on, huh?” he murmured. 

A gentle squeeze around his hand, which Ernesto returned without thinking. “If you wish,” the gringo said. “But truth be told, I believe Juan has grown on me quite a bit.”

***

“So he was never a priest?”

“He was a soldier?”

“He left the Federal army, he wasn’t one anymore--”

“He fooled us!”

“He went after the Federales and brought back my son!”

“And my husband!”

“And my brother!”

“And me!”

“If I may--”

“You may not.”

“I’m the mayor, you can’t silence me--”

“And where were you when the Federales took our men and destroyed our market?”

“Hiding, no doubt!”

“I did not hide! I… I simply had pressing matters to attend to, over at the… uh…”

“Shut up.”

“But I--”

“Everyone, please calm down and sit. You’re in the house of the Lord.”

Madre Gregoria’s voice was enough to make everyone present - a good chunk of Santa Cecilia, most of whom had been smacked in the back of the neck by old Gregoria herself as children at least a few times - fell quiet, as politely requested. She cleared her throat before speaking again. “It seems clear to me that we have some decisions to make, so let us not squabble like children. What sins Padr-- this man has committed, it seems plain to me they are between him and God, first and foremost.”

“But if the gringo finds out--”

“He already knows,” Sofía spoke, and all eyes turned on her. Their expressions were nothing short of bewildered. “It’s the reason why Padre Juan officiated all weddings and funerals, and gave everyone their final rites. So that no one’s soul would be in jeopardy, while still saving a man’s life.”

There were some glances, and a few sighs of relief. “So my… my marriage is true in the eyes of the Lord?”

“It is, Gisela.”

“Unfortunately,” a man muttered, elbowing her husband and getting a shove in return. 

“Cállate,” the man grumbled to some laughter. It took a disapproving clearing of Madre Gregoria’s throat to get everyone quiet again, just as a man stood.

“We must protect him,” he declared. “He risked his life for the people of this village!”

“I agree,” a woman, whose marriage bed Sofía was fairly sure Ernesto had blessed, called out. “He could have stayed hidden, and risked nothing. We’d be none the wiser.”

“La señora Reyes is right. And God is on his side, why else would He have struck down the Federales?”

“God? Rat poison, more like.”

“Still! We owe him!”

“He is a miracle worker, ordained priest or not! His blessing allowed my wife to conceive after years being barren!”

Luis Marqués’ words were met with a sudden silence, and all eyes slowly shifted towards him while his expecting wife seemed very interested in the floor all of a sudden. Madre Gregoria looked like she might choke on her dentures for a moment, and it just may be best to bring the conversation back on the topic at hand before dwelling a little too much into Ximena Marqués miracle child.

“Well!” Sofía exclaimed, clapping her hands loudly and causing everyone to recoil, turning to her. “I am glad we all agree that Santa Cecilia does owe Ernesto de la Cruz a debt of gratitude, and that any punishment for his deceit should be left in the hands of God. Because we do agree, don’t we?” She smiled widely, and purposely sought the eyes of several men, among the present, whom she’d known over the years in the biblical sense. “That sins are between ourselves and God, and there is no point whatsoever in divulging what can be dealt with in the secret of the confessional?”

“Uh… well…”

“I suppose…”

“If the gringo-- I mean, Padre Ju-- Juan can deal with that--”

“Wouldn’t hand anyone over to Huerta…”

“And he brought our boys back…”

Sofía’s smile widened to the point her cheeks hurt. “This is very good to hear. And after all, we only have one Federale’s word that he is not a priest, don’t we?’

Several men stared back, somewhat confused, but women were quicker to catch on.

“Oh, yes. That’s true, it was only the commander.”

“And he was loco.”

“Oh yes, he was unwell, clearly.”

“And he’s dead now, isn’t he? Put down like a rabid dog.”

“Can’t trust the words of one like him. He may have been lying - or mistaken.”

“He was absolutely mistaken.”

“Not a believable tale, is it? A deserter pretending to be a priest! Surely he’d have been caught on so much earlier. We’re not that gullible after all, are we…?”

Sofía sat back, giving Madre Gregoria a smile that was only a little smug, and let her take the reins from there. After all, the way forward was clear: in the end it was all a matter of points of view. 

As far as the people of Santa Cecilia were concerned, Padre Ernesto was certainly a priest; they had no proof of the contrary, after all, aside from the ravings of a Federale who’d proven himself nothing short of a madman; no reason to give his words any credit, they all agreed. 

They could ask Padre Ernesto directly, of course, but why would they? He was recovering, and the fact God himself had struck the Federales as soon as they harmed him certainly was proof enough; there was no need to question further. They could all agree on that, too. 

Of course, it was a bit of a shame that the poor man had been so shaken by the events to decide he should abandon his priestly robes. But well, the gringo could step in to take on those duties, and with Gustavo’s death they were in need of a sexton; Ernesto, formerly Padre Ernesto, would still serve their parish in a different capacity. 

An ideal outcome, that, voted on by an overwhelming majority. 

As far as the Archdiocese in Oaxaca was concerned, on the other hand, one Padre Joaquín had tragically been killed in a skirmish during his short tenure as Santa Cecilia’s parish priest. Visiting missionary John Johnson gave them the sad news via letter, expressing his admiration for the man, telling them he had been striving to do God’s work to the end, and offered to remain to tend to the parish for however long it may be needed. 

There was no lie in his words; only a slight omission over when and where, precisely, the good parish priest had been killed. With a lot more on their hands than a vacant seat in a small village slightly to the left of nowhere, the Archdiocese had also found it to be an ideal outcome. No questions were asked. 

As the Bible said, whenever doing a merciful deed, it was best not to let your left hand know what the other is doing.

***

[Back]

[Nex]

[keeponshouting]

After Infection

This is a rewrite and hopefully eventual completion of a massive multiverse mash-up of my OCs with a couple belonging to @whenromancesmoked and a few others from back in the day. I have absolutely no idea if anyone else is going to be interested in reading this (ok, I know a few people who will probably read it) but psh. I’m having fun and want to share.

Note: This is also a George Romero tribute of sorts. Like I started it for giggles because my PB for one of the characters was in the Dawn of the Dead remake and it just snowballed, which I guess means I should throw a WARNING: ZOMBIES sign up here or something. Anyway!

After Infection: Dawn of the Dead

It had seemed like a good idea at the time – or, well, more accurately, it had seemed like the right thing to do. There was a request from fellow hunters in a small town a few hours’ drive south and things had been quiet lately back home so Nate had figured that they could spare the time and energy. Besides, Dennis had been going pretty stir crazy for a while. Even if it was a hunt, it would be a good excuse to get out on the road for a while, a sort of vacation.

It had not turned out even remotely like a vacation.

They had been a little too late to the original party but apparently just in time for things to get much, much worse. Nate had brought a variety of tools just in case but he had primarily been prepared for an infestation of what locals called “hell rats,” a creature that was pretty common in the south and usually pretty easy to handle if you found their nests quickly enough. Sure they were venomous but as long as you were careful… He had not been expecting an infestation of zombies.

“The lot looks pretty clear right now.” Dennis is hunched over at the door, using the peephole to take a quick survey of the goings on outside their hotel room while Nate brews a second pot of coffee to get him through whatever the morning brings. After all, as long as decent coffee is available, he might as well take advantage of it. Lord knows he might have to go without for a while and God help his poor boyfriend’s patience if that happens.

When Dennis stands up straight again, his head is just about even with the top of the doorframe and he yawns as he leans back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “So, come up with any plans yet or are we still waiting for the caffeine to kick in?”

Nate snorts into his cup and foregoes actually taking a drink for the moment in order to respond. “You ask that like I have any idea what sort of plan to use here. I’ve met exactly zero hunters who’ve actually had to handle zombies in the past decade at least. I honestly don’t think they’ve ever been a problem this far north before.”

“Well, there sure are a lot around here for something that’s never been a problem.”

“Some forms of infection can spread at an exponential rate in populated areas.” He drains a good half of the coffee in hand. “Our best bet is probably just to find out if there are any other non-infected people anywhere around here.”

Dennis flops across the bed, face down, with a muffled grunt.

Nate just silently continues drinking as the percolator finally finishes beside him and he very seriously considers making a third pot, just in case.

---

Zombies – shambling, groaning, flesh-eating, nearly Hollywood perfect zombies. For fuck’s sake. This should have been such an easy fucking job and now there are zombies.

Viktor strings together another line of curses, voice little more than a low growl, as he chambers another cartridge. Beside him, a terrified little girl whimpers. He simply scowls, sets Glock number one aside, lights a cigarette, and pulls out number two. “Zatraceně zasraný vědci.” Leaning over toward the window, he catches sight of a proper target and empties the last bullet into the back of its skull. What a fucking cliché.

This was supposed to be simple. They had agreed on that fact the moment that the specifications of the job had crossed the table. It should have been routine, easy money. Three towns, three targets, each plan the same; get rid of the scientist, call their employer, and let the clean-up crew come in and deal with the rest. The first two hits had gone off without a hitch. So, of course, it just figures that last one would have to be so much more complicated than it should have been.

“I—I—I w-want m-m-my d-da—daddy.”

Viktor’s jaw clenches as he exhales – slow and even, two thin streams of smoke – as he reloads the gun in hand and wills himself to remain calm. His patience is wearing thin at this point, though. He had not planned for going into this as usual and coming out as a babysitter. The target’s five-year-old daughter was not supposed to be in the house at the time of the hit. She only stayed with him on the weekends. What an absolutely brilliant turn of events that this was apparently the first Monday that she had ever spent with her father.

Dropping his half-smoked cigarette on the floor, he shoves himself up to his feet. He had lost contact with Miguel some time earlier, likely as a result of the scientist’s neighbor backing into an electric pole at full speed after one of the zombies had rushed her car. The impact had cut power to the entire neighborhood and he can only assume that it must be the cause of the interference. With long-range communication down, that leaves only one alternative: he needs to get within the functional range of their radios. Unfortunately, the hit had been planned for the late evening and he had only been able to make it as far as a vacant apartment building a couple blocks away before night had started to set. From here, short-wave does him about as much good as a water pistol.

“Come on.” Viktor has already reached the door and taken quick stock of the corridor beyond by the time he bothers to look back. Unsurprisingly, his unwanted charge remains unmoved, still curled up as small as she can possibly make herself, which is pretty damned small.

“A-are you g-g-gonna take me b-back to da-daddy?”

God give him strength but that stuttering is getting real old real quick. “Ne.” He swings the door open as quietly as possible and waits for a moment, listening for any movement outside, before carefully stepping out and making his way to the stairwell. With the knowledge that their escape route is currently free of hostiles, he takes a deep, centering breath and heads back to where he began.

“Look, holčička.” He crouches down in front of the child and tries to sound as reasonable as possible. Given his current level of frustration, he thinks that he is doing a fairly decent job. Miguel, however, would likely disagree. “Either you just come with me and go wherever I go, quietly and without complaint, or I leave you here. Your choice.” Yeah, Miguel would definitely disagree.

From the way that the little girl’s eyes go so much wider than he would have ever imagined possible, he feels safe in assuming that she disagrees as well and, five minutes later, they are creeping down an alleyway with more stealth than Viktor ever would have expected of a kindergartener.

---

What was taking so long?

That is the question that had led Alex out of the band’s bus and that was the question that he now wants to keep from crossing anyone else’s minds. This is all way too fucked up, like the should not be real kind of fucked up. None of this should be happening.

On the ground, backed up against the flat tire of the car that their driver had originally gone to help, Alex kicks hard into the jaw of what may have once been a perfectly lovely young woman and sends her sprawling backward where she lands on top of the monster still gnawing on the corpse of a man who should have still been living and breathing and driving their goddamn bus. Alex’s hand gropes around behind him for anything even remotely useful as a weapon and lands on the tire-iron just in time to smash it into the face of the dead woman once more lunging in his direction. Another strike as she tries to get up and he cringes and almost loses his lunch at the feeling of her skull cracking open and her brain splattering across the pavement. Hell, he really might have lost it if not for the howl coming at him far too fast. This time, he opts not to look as the hears the wet crunch and just leaps to his feet and starts running back toward relative safety.

“Alex?”

Oh fuck. “Stay on the bus, Val!”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do, Niccols! What the fuck is going—”

Alex fails to hear the rest as he spins around to slam the tire-iron as hard as he can into something else behind him. This time it gets yanked right out of his hand as the body drops and he scrambles back onto the bus, practically picking up a protesting Val in order to get her out of the way of the door that he immediately slams closed. He lets her go as he collapses into the driver’s seat, wide-eyed and hands shaking, and it takes him a moment to register the sound of his dog whimpering by his knee, let alone that of his own name. When the world comes back into focus, though, Val is staring at him in horror. It takes him another moment to realize why.

“Alex? What the fuck happened?” Whether she sounds more panicked or angry, Alex is far too dazed to tell. Her hands reach for his face, his shoulders, moving down to check every inch. “Are you okay?”

Taking a deep breath, he raises a hand to wipe at his face. No. No he is not okay. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Val does not look like she believes him at all. “Is that—Fuck. That—That’s blood! Why the fuck are you covered in blood?”

Breathe, Alex. Always a good plan to breathe. “Shh. Don’t…” Never mind. Telling her to keep it quiet is pointless. Everybody else will have heard it already.

He shoves himself back to his feet, legs weak and wobbly, and stumbles as he makes his way through the curtain that separates the cabin from the rest of the bus. It is instantly evident that the rest of the band did, in fact, hear all of that. All three of them are already staring at him before he even properly steps into view. He is pretty sure that Sasha is the one choke out an “on shit” and it is definitely Macy whose response comes out as barely a squeak.

“Blood?” On his feet now, Macy rushes in to cling to Alex’s shirt, bodily fluids not withstanding. “None of it’s yours, right? You’re not hurt? You’re okay?”

Again, Alex reminds himself to breathe, turning just enough so that he can see where Val still stands in the doorway, Parker lying on the floor a foot or so behind her, his ears back and expression scared. For her part, Val is gripping the doorway so tightly that Alex can only assume that she is trying very hard not move and crowd him any further.

“None of it’s mine.” He looks at the faces around him, all of them staring, all confused and various degrees of frightened. It brings everything right back into focus. “We need to—” It takes a deep breath in and a slow breath out to get his thoughts back in line. “Everybody grab a bag, pack food, necessities, just—just whatever.” Stepping a little closer to Val, just near enough to pull one of her hands down from the wall and give it a quick squeeze. “We gotta get outta here.”

---

Nate leans out of the passenger side window just far enough to level his sights on one of the creatures that already looks less human and fires. One shot, between the eyes, and it hits the ground and disappears beneath the feet of its companions. He hears a quiet gagging sound come from the driver’s seat and finds himself feeling a bit queasy in turn. They are both going to need to make some real changes to their perspective re: what constitutes a monster and they need to make those changes really quickly because as of right now, it is going to be really difficult to get out of this mess without completely rewiring their conscience.

“Um, Nate?”

With barely a glance spared toward Dennis, Nate focuses himself on reloading. “Yeah?”

“How many, uh—how many of them are back there?”

The question gives him pause but Nate squints to get a count anyway. “About a dozen in view. Why?”

“Because we need to, uh—we have to stop for a minute.”

Nate drops back into his seat so quickly that he nearly smacks his head off the door. “We what?”

Not even bothering to look at him, Dennis simply peels one shaking hand off of the steering wheel to point at something ahead. “We have to stop.”

Nate has to squint but he starts moving the moment that he sees exactly what Dennis is looking at. “I’ve got the door.”

It was rather obvious even from a single glance at a decent distance that the man up ahead, standing stock still in his torn slacks and a blood, rolled shirt-sleeves, was staring straight past the car speeding toward him and cursing the sight of the ever-growing number of zombies trailing behind. Dennis hits the gas and is slamming the breaks in what feels like no time.

Nate shoves the back door open and feels like there is really no room for argument when he shouts to the man to get in but he has been wrong before and apparently he is right now. Instead of heading straight for them, the guy curses in a language that they are now close enough for Nate to tell is definitely not English and turns away.

“Hey!” Dennis spins in his seat to look behind them, which Nate is sure that he immediately regrets. “What the hell? What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. He’s just—” And that is when the stranger pulls his gun, takes out three approaching zombies in relatively rapid succession, and finally turns to sprint back toward the car. “—getting a little girl.”

The child is practically flung into the back seat and their new passenger wastes no time slamming the door behind himself and snapping, “Go. Now.”

Dennis really does not need to be told and floors it the second he knows the door is closed.

“Take a left onto Carver,” the man continues, his tone speaking volumes regarding how unwilling he would be to hear any question or protest. “Follow signs for the mall plaza.” He leans out the window to pick off a few more of the monsters before Nate’s slightly incredulous look catches his attention and his scowl is honestly pretty terrifying. “You’ll be out of gas before the edge of town so, under the assumption that you wish to live—”

Nate’s eyes narrow in suspicion but Dennis has absolutely no qualms against following the orders of anyone with a plan right now and practically takes the aforementioned turn on two wheels when he nearly misses it.

---

“Are you sure you can hotwire this piece of shit?”

“It’s not a piece of shit, it’s a fucking classic.”

Val rolls her eyes at that as she continues trying to calm the utterly panicked Macy currently clinging to her so tightly that he might as well just climb into her goddamn skin. “Fine. Can you really hotwire this ‘fucking classic’?”

Two seconds later, the engine revs up as Alex sits back in the driver’s seat with a trin and a waggle of his stupid eyebrows. Sasha squeals in relief and flings her arms around him from her place in the back seat, as he laughs. “My mechanical genius is wasted on this red wire green wire bullshit.”

He pops the trunk just as something begins to stir inside of the nearby diner and Val shoves Sasha aside to squeeze Macy in so that she can help Nico load their bags at record speed. By the time she flings herself into the front passenger seat, there are already zombies starting to stumble out of the woodwork. Fuck seatbelts. “Gun it!”

Alex hits the gas and they peel out of the parking lot just as the diner’s doors give way.

He had tried to explain what had happened while they packed. It had felt impossible for Val to actually wrap her mind around it at first but once she had seen the mess outside? She had practically dragged Alex and Macy off in search of the nearest source of potential transportation. They needed to find something quickly and it needed to be something fast and she needed to not think about how painfully familiar the blood and gore looked, though she had only ever seen anything like it in her nightmares. When Alex had needed to stop and vomit into the nearest garbage can, she had a feeling that she understood why and a little pocket of rage flared to life in her chest – not because he had to stop but because he never should have been the one to wind up with someone else’s blood on his hands.

“Where are we going?” Macy is the one to finally ask, almost inaudible from where he has curled up against Sasha now, and Val catches his eye in the rearview mirror before she looks toward Alex.

Alex, however, is entirely too focused on driving to really think but so much and instead catches her eye before clearing his throat. “Nick?”

In the back, Nico turns away from the horrors outside of his window. “What?”

“How do you defend yourself against a zombie invasion?”

“Wha—Zombies aren’t exactly my specialty here.”

“No,” Alex agrees, “but zombies are supposed to be a helluva lot dumber than, say, Reavers, right? You know Reavers.”

“So?”

“So how would you defend yourself against an invasion of retarded Reavers?”

The drummer just stares at him for a moment with an expression that plainly says that he may consider that to be the dumbest question that he has ever heard. Eventually, thought, there is an answer. “I’d find the most well-stocked, easily-fortifiable location I could think of and hope I could wait out the attack or find some other way to get through them.”

There is silence in the car and then Alex shrugs. “All right. So, where’s the most well-stocked and easily-fortifiable location we can think of?

Five minutes later, they find themselves screeching into the parking lot of the local mall. The location almost seems somehow normal, given the situation at hand. In fact, were it not for the shrieking horde behind them or the knowledge that Alex is currently doing seventy into a public lot, it might almost feel a little reminiscent of home. Val almost finds it funny, really. What’s funnier to her than coming to a mall for safety, however, is the fact that they were obviously not the only ones with that idea, as they are definitely not the only ones pulling into the place with a bunch of undead goons straggling along behind them.

---

“Miguel.”

There is a burst of static in his ear as Viktor leans out to empty his 22 into the crowd of creatures still chasing behind the car that had picked him up on the highway. Once within range, he takes out a couple of the ones latching on to the other car that had pulled in to the lot at about the same time, too. When his magazine clicks empty, he makes a snap decision to save his 20 for later and drops back into the seat to reload. The driver glances at him in the rearview, looking a little bit frightened, while the original passenger only eyes him for a moment before leaning out of the other side with a freshly loaded shotgun. His fellow gunner might not be terribly trusting but at least Viktor can respect that. Besides, who needs trust? The guy’s a fairly good shot.

“Zatratím tě, Miguel!” The little girl still curled up beside him whimpers. He can hear it over the gunfire, the static, all of the goddamned zombies. It is grating on his very last nerve. “Odpovídáš mě!”

He could hope for no better response than to lean back out just in time to watch as a line of four hostiles drops one by one.

“En ingles, ’mano.” Another line of undead hit the ground as the line sputters out then clears up again, leaving room for easily the most welcome voice he has ever known. “Now where the Hell have you been?”

Viktor nearly laughs. “We can trade stories later, miláčku. Right now, I need cover fire while I try to get these people into the posraný mall.”

“Going shopping?”

“Sklapni. We try the mall or they come to your shop.”

“How many?”

Viktor glances toward the other vehicle still circling around the parking lot with them. “Eight plus me.”

“Well, if they dropped you—”

“Miguel.”

“Sí, sí, the mall sounds like a plan. There’s a garage off to your right. No good angle for me to shoot the lock off but I can keep the number of uglies down while you get in.”

“Děkuji.”

“That means thank you, sí?”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “Sí.”

The line bursts back into static with a laugh.

---

As it turns out, the garage door does not, in fact, require a shot to the lock. It rolls up just enough for the two cars to through before Dennis’s little hatchback even hits the ramp. On the other side, a young woman motions for them to hurry while two men in security uniforms stand to either side of the entrance to help keep the monsters at bay, though it appears that this Miguel guy really only needs the most basic of assistance. His precision is honestly kind of terrifying and Dennis is just as glad not to see any more examples of it as he swerves off to one side so that the other car has room. Nate and their scarier passenger are both out before he even has the damned thing in park, seeing to it that nothing gets in the way of girl at the door to slam the thing shut.

“We saw you on the security cameras,” of the security guards explains as he climbs up to try and jam the gears.

The other car’s driver takes a moment to collect himself, then grabs a wrench and makes his way over to the ladder. “Here. Let me have a look at that.”

“Figured we couldn’t just leave you out there.” The guard climbs down to let the driver up. “Then Shannon said she thought you were headed this way.”

“Thanks.” Dennis finally climbs out only to stretch over the top of his car.

The woman now known as Shannon simply smiles. “No problem. Mercy for your fellow man or something like that.” She laughs and shrugs, looking slightly flustered, though that is probably to be expected, all things considered. “Anyway, come on. Let’s get you all inside. We’ve got food, clothes, relatively comfortable furniture… We’ll get you poor things all cleaned up and sorted out in no time.”

There is a general rumble of agreement as the little group follows her to the door that leads into the connected store, allowing themselves to be ushered toward where another girl is waiting somewhat impatiently. That is, they all follow along aside from one man, anyway, who simply mutters something into his headset before switching it off and making his way back over to the hatchback. Shannon looks back, confused, as does Nate, though he looks more suspicious about it.

Dennis just sighs. “The little girl.” Then he ducks through the doorway and drags Nate away after the rest.

---

“Come on, holčička.” Viktor crouches down beside the open car door with a sigh as the child remains curled up in the center of the back seat. Children. How did anyone actually deal with children, let alone have them by choice?

The little girl simply whimpers and mumbles, “There are monsters out there.”

Well, at least the stuttering has stopped and he supposes he can concede that she has a fair point. “The monsters are outside, not with us.”

Before he can receive a response or think of anything more convincing to say, there is someone else coming up behind him, bending down to look the child in the eye with a painfully sympathetic and all too sugarcoated smile. He might be able to handle the sight of it at any other time but right now, with everything that he has just been through and the way that she has the gall to place one of her hands on his shoulder as if—God, he would really like to wipe that smile off of her face.

“Hi, there,” she says, voice floating in a way that speaks plainly of a familiarity with appeasing people under the age of seven. “I’m Shannon. What’s your name?”

Caught slightly off-guard, the child squeaks. “Um. I—I’m—” The little girl shoots a quick glance toward Viktor then, almost as if asking permission to speak with this new stranger before she finally answers. “I’m Amanda.”

Shannon’s smile becomes even brighter, even sweeter, if that is even possible, and Viktor has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from taking out her kneecaps when she leans even further over him, hand squeezing his shoulder. “Amanda? Well, that’s a pretty name! Are you hungry, Amanda?”

The little girl nods.

“Well, we’ve got all sorts of food inside. We’ve got toys, too, and games and books and all sorts of neat stuff.”

“And—and no monsters?”

Shannon laughs. “And no monsters.”

Still curled up in the seat, Amanda chews worriedly at her lip for a moment longer, eyes flashing back and forth between the two adults still there in the door. Shannon keeps smiling, encouraging. Viktor just stays crouched there with a clenched jaw and a headache starting to build behind his eyes. When the girl finally moves, though, it does not go entirely as expected. Rather than reaching for Shannon’s offered hand, she instead launches herself forward to wrap her little arms tight around Viktor’s neck and duck her head in under his chin, completely unaware of the rather undignified look of surprise that he is entirely unable to keep off of his face. Unhelpfully, all Shannon does in response is giggle.

[tangygoat]

whats up gang its time for art spams at midnight thats what howdy this is my funky guy miguel and some other chuckle fucks we play dnd online im super tired the filter is coming OFF

Miguel: paladin archetype: Dad + gay = *those really long baby leashes that tired adults use during shopping excursions* he’s an old irish talkin soldier who didn’t get recognized for shite lmao. Likes: cats, poetry, nihilist memes about death and surfing on straight tears if the internet existed, fantasy weed lmao 420 blaze it, saying “Eh” instead of “uh” like normal people, topping Dislikes: i dunno, getting pinned to anything by anyone, Travis Starborn’s Coin Surge Spell, topping, how one of the bloodhunters (travis) and rogue (fallen) are stronger than hiM BECAUSE DAMNIT I JUST HAD TO USE STANDARD SCORES HUH!

Honest/Sorrow: bard + gay = “Its cold outside but I’m still looking like a thotty because a hoe never gets cold!” a charming little bean that everyone is horny for i guess? miguel’s def confused. into him? *Miguel voice* “Eh, we’ll see.” Likes: Miguel, The Refreshing Taste Of Whole Milk Dislikes: drama, people giving half a shit about his ass lol challenge accepted you funky little tiefling, Travis probably

Vihaan: bard + gay pining = *slaps roof of car* This bad boy can fit so much Angst in it thERE ARE TWO BARDS AW SHIT. nah its cool this one’s goth. there’s a difference. Orphan drama? probably. got some zuko-ass scars up in this funky fella. Likes: Honest (aw beans who saw that coming), The Refreshing Taste Of Whole Milk Dislikes: Being Ignored (sorry bout that @jasamiemindrow i am not good at reading chat i am going to try harder also you did inspire this post good job gold star it is almost 1am), It should be a given that nobody likes Travis except Travis

Speaking of which..

Travis Starborn: a piece of newly minted gold + mollymauk but meAN = “Thank Travis for Travis” So the PLAYERS like travis…. can’t say the same for the CHARACTERS…. Likes: Travis, gold, peanut brittle, Jorge???? (Hi, its me, Miguel. The universe wants to speak to yo-STOP TRAVIS OH GOOD GOD STOP) Dislikes: You, Sex, Established Religion

Bonelle: angst + horny = HANGST *eyeshine* (its sucks but they had to leave the session bUT THEYRE HERE ANYWAY WHATS GOOD MOFOS) Whats good kids lets imagine the real-life real-world consequences of your devianart oc yknow the crazy one hahah you have made their life a miserable living burning burning burning hell (thats a reference to the character please call me cool?) anyway congrats your babu is suffering and its all your fault Likes: GIRLS boy hOWDY, cats aw thats good, sweet tricks *spaghetti western theme plays* Dislikes: anyone touching her guns, Travis, fire fire fire, strip truth or dare

Fallen: invisible + draco malfoy = STEALTH 100 ah yes, Miguel’s worst nightmare: an invisible kindergartener with a superiority complex and the stats to keep it up and running *insert shitty audience applause* Likes: being invisible, being royal or something idk, riddle me this batman if you cant see the boy than was he ever really there oooooooo Dislikes: not getting his dick wet in every fucking problem even if theyre not his issue damn boy u horny for drama chiiiill

Qin: warlock + angst = CRAWLING IIIN MYY SKIIIIIN it makes sense dont worry. This funky god fucker loves cats, cool swords and going shopping without telling anyone where they are. Likes: fantasy weed lmao 420 blaze it, cats, sweet flips, strip truth or dare Dislikes: lmao idk??? dudes’ up for whatever the fuck

Aidre: muscle + gay = *crushing watermelons between well-oiled thighs* i dont need to explain myself Likes: Girls, getting laid every time they show up Dislikes: idk probably something lol

Ganymede: horny + mollymauk = ANIMORPHS imagine mollymauk but hes now hornier and also an animorph and thats ganymede. yeah Likes: sucking dick lol, Strip truth or dare, sneaking up on parties of strangers in the woods blasted on ale Dislikes: TRAVIS FUKIN STARBORN LmAOOOO

[calliopesquill]

A Year in the Life - Chapter 4

Okay, I couldn’t resist. I was going to wait until tomorrow to post the next chapter but I have been going so hard working on later chapters today I had to post it early.

Thank you all so much for your support and all of your wonderful comments. Talking with you and getting your feedback has really made my week. I know a lot of readers are leery about oc-inserts so I really want to thank you for giving Nell a chance. One of the most comments I have gotten is how much you like her and how well she fits in the canon world. That is something I work really hard to achieve in my characters so I am so glad that you all like what I have done with her.

And now without further delay, on with the story!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 4: Once Upon a Time

         Miguel spent his lunch hour that monday in the library. After discovering that they didn’t have a particularly wide selection of graphic novels he turned to the internet. Nell had said that she’d done a webcomic as well. Maybe her website would help him figure out who he was dealing with.  Just because Nell seemed decent so far didn’t mean she actually was. His experience with Ernesto De la Cruz had taught him that. Hadn’t De la Cruz been kind at first? Hadn’t he saved him from drowning? But behind the smiles and dramatic persona was a selfish, self-absorbed creature who was more than willing to kill to get what he wanted.

         Not that Miguel thought that Nell would be anywhere as bad as De la Cruz had been, but he wanted to get a little more background on her before he decided to tell her anything else.

         A quick Google search had given him the basics. Penelope Rey. (Miguel snorted at that. Penelope? No wonder she went by Nell.) Twenty-five years old. Born in Kelowna, Canada. (Okay, so she wasn’t American, but he’d been close.) Published her first stand-alone graphic novel at twenty-two and recently released the last volume of the trilogy she’d been working on. Most of her books were of the urban-fantasy sort, or contained some hints of “other”. The webcomic, which she’d started while she was in university, was about a magical girl who discovers that she has inadvertently been working for an evil power the whole time, and sets about on a quest of redemption to make things right.

         Not really his thing (he was more into the masked-crusader/folk-hero/luchador genre) but the splash pages and banners on the website intrigued him enough that he clicked the link that would take him to the first page of the comic. Right away he was hooked. The art-style was dramatic but not cluttered or overdone, and her heroine spoke like someone he would meet on the street, with only a minimum of cliche comic book-style dialogue. Her characters were diverse and compelling and her villain…. Miguel shuddered. Oh she was so creepy! Sly and manipulative and calculating under a veneer of support and encouragement. You didn’t even get the hint that there was something wrong about her until you were over a year into the plotline.

         He had just gotten to the part of the story where the main character discovered she’d been played when the five-minute warning bell rang.

         Miguel jumped, almost falling out of his chair. How had the lunch hour gone by so fast? Quickly he closed the browser, logging off of the computer as he grabbed his book bag, then took off out of the library to get to class.

         Miguel’s talk of alebrijes stuck with Nell, and after a few days of independent research she decided to approach approach one of the craftsmen from the plaza.

         Sebastien Berardo had been in the business for many years. Some of his earliest memories were of sitting with his father in his workshop, watching him work. He learned the craft at his father’s side, how to shape and sand the wood to bring out the fantastic creatures inside, and the types of paints and glazes that brought out the best color. He also learned how to deal with the public, from the closest of neighbors to the loudest of tourists.

         When Nell first started asking questions he started with the basic history of the craft.

         Alebrijes had first been created by the artist Pedro Linares in the early 1930’s. The story went that he had become very ill, and had dreamed of a beautiful forest populated by incredible, colorful hybrid creates that called themselves alebrijes. Horned roosters, winged snakes and donkeys, a thousand creatures of infinite strange and wonderful combinations. Inspired, he began to create carnival masks and religious figures of these creatures to sell in the markets of Mexico City. His unique pieces had attracted the attention of a prominent gallery owner who wanted to showcase the pieces, and even Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo sought him out for commissions. Now most alebrije figures were carved from copal wood, in the pre-Hispanic woodcarving tradition of the local Zapotec culture.

         “And you still make all of these by hand?” Nell asked, crouching to take a closer look at the delicately articulated figure of a winged snake that was coiled upon the table.

         Sebastien nodded proudly. “Each piece is crafted in our family workshop. My son Filipe, he is studying art in university. He painted many of these.”

         “They’re beautiful. I love the colors.” It was like seeing an entire summer’s worth of color condensed into a single small figure. “At what point did they started becoming associated with spirit guides? By some of the descriptions they are kind of similar to the Aztec nagual.”

         “It is possible,” Sebastien conceded with an uncertain shrug. He’d never really considered that, but there were certainly some similarities.

         Nell liked the idea. After Miguel had first brought up the idea of spirit guides she’d ended up going on a bit of a research binge on the topic, compiling a series of notes about guardian spirits in world mythology. She’d been particularly intrigued by the the concept of the nagual, the Mesoamerican spirit guide or spiritual double. Depending on the myth, the nagual functioned as either a reflection of the self, or as a separate spiritual advisor. According to some of the myths that she’d found, a person’s nagual could even go wandering while they slept.

         Or in other words, they could astral project.

         There were also stories about shapeshifters but Nell was reasonably sure that wasn’t going to end up as part of her skill set.

         After a little more discussion on the history and process behind the art and history of the alebrije figures Nell decided to leave Sebastien to his work, but as she turned to leave one of the figures caught her eye. A small, brightly-painted bird.

         She couldn’t have stopped the grin that spread over her face if she tried. “Señor, how much is the crow?”

         Over the next few weeks Mariachi Plaza became the unofficial meeting spot for astral hang-outs. By this point Miguel had learned to successfully project while awake, and was confident enough in this new ability that their occasional late-night chat was often more friendly than lesson-like. Honestly it was nice just to be able to talk to someone and not worry about letting something slip and having them think he was crazy. He’d already made that mistake once with friends at school, and had had to play it off as a weird dream.

         At least will Nell he didn't have to worry about that.

         He grinned when she appeared across the plaza. "What, you couldn't sleep either?"

         "Nah. Finished some book planning and wanted to go for a walk. Then I saw what time it was and thought.... yeah this way is better."

         Miguel chuckled. He knew what it was like to get wrapped up in a project and lose all sense of time. How many times had he stayed up late working on a new song, forgetting entirely that he had class in the morning?

         “How was school?”

         “Fine,” he shrugged. “Annetta came to visit my music class yesterday. That was pretty cool.”

         “She’s the trumpet player, right? The one the violinist has that debilitating crush on.”

         “That’s the one. She played for us during class, then did sort of a tutorial session with the other trumpets.” God willing, they’d actually be able to stay in tune from now on. “You get any farther on your book?”

         "A bit, yeah. Started doing research on alebrijes and I found some really cool stuff.” She answered excitedly, eager to share what she’d found. “You know the Mayans and Aztecs had stories about spirit guides too? And some of the magic users in the old myths could astral project, just like us! So of course that turned into a crazy research binge. I swear I filled up an entire flash drive just with ideas for character alebrijes."

         "Sweet!" He grinned. "You'll have to show me later. I can tell you how they compare to the real thing."

         "The real -- Man, you've been holding out on me," she groaned, dropping onto the step of the gazebo to sit next to him. "You see alebrijes too?"

         Miguel shrugged. "You probably have too. They just look different this side of the bridge."

         "Different how?"

         "Different like.... You know, normal."

         That was interesting. She hadn't considered that guides could take different forms between worlds. That was something she'd have to think about later. "So there's a lot of alebrijes on the other side of the bridge?"

         "Loads," Miguel told her. "And they're huge! Well, some of them. I used to think they were just a myth, like vitamins--"

         "Vitamins are real, Miguel."

         "People keep saying that but I really don't think they are. Anyway," he continued. "They're, like, everywhere! Some people have them as, well not exactly pets, but they have ones that stay with them. There might be some wild ones but I didn't really see any."

         Oh God the curiosity was killing her. She wanted to respect his boundaries and not ask questions that he wouldn’t be comfortable answering, but she also really wanted to know what had happened. But just asking how the bridge worked wouldn’t hurt, would it? "So you just found the bridge and walked over?"

         Miguel gave a sheepish smile, rubbing one hand over his forearm in a nervous gesture. "Not exactly... It was an accident. Well, the first time was. I kind of....stole something."

         Nell stared. "You what? Damn, kid, what did you steal? Some cursed ancient idol or something?"

         "HA! No!" He laughed. "No, no, no. Nothing like that. It was a guitar."

         “A cursed guitar?”

         “No! The guitar wasn’t cursed. Nothing was cursed. I mean I thought I was for a while, and then I actually was for a while, but no.”

         Now she just blinked at him. “What… What? Okay. I am officially confused. You stole the guitar and it took you across the bridge. And then you got cursed?”

         “No. Taking the guitar got me cursed, but I crossed the bridge after. It’s… kind of a long story.” But maybe it was about time he told someone the truth. Miguel sighed, brushing one hand distractedly thought his hair as he hunched forward, bracing his arms across his knees. It would be nice to have someone to talk to about what happened, someone who would actually believe him.

         “I didn’t mean to steal it,” he told her. “Well, I did. But I was going to bring it back. I just wanted to play it once, here in the plaza.”

         It all came pouring out, the reason for the Rivera family’s ban on music and the events that led to him believing that Ernesto De la Cruz was his ancestor, trying to steal the guitar, and the curse that resulted.

         “Hold up, hold up,” Nell interrupted, holding up her hands in a ‘stop now’ gesture. “Your great-great-grandmother told you that if you didn’t give up music that she was going to let you die?”

         “She didn’t mean it that way,” Miguel said defensively. “She thought she was doing it to protect me. That music was dangerous. And I kind of did almost die three times that night.”

         “What?!”

         “Anyway, so I thought, fine, if the rest of my family refused to give me the blessing, I’d track down the one family member who might understand.”

         “Ernesto De la Cruz.”

         Miguel nodded.

         “Except he wasn’t your grandfather.”

         “Gracias a Dios.” Now that would truly be a nightmare, now that he knew what De la Cruz truly was. “But I didn’t know that at the time. So I ran off and tried to find him.”

         He told her how he met a shabby-looking skeleton who claimed to know De la Cruz, and how he disguised himself with shoe-polish so he wouldn’t stand out. Their attempts to find the man, which took them all over the city (and he met FRIDA KAHLO! HOLY CRAP!), and their quest for a guitar that took them to Shantytown. Nell listened raptly as Miguel continued his story, snickering to herself when he told her about Hector singing “Everyone Knows Juanita”. She wasn’t familiar with the song but she could certainly guess what word “knuckles” might have been meant to replace. And even though she knew full well what kind of awful human being De la Cruz was, hearing first-hand how he’d murdered Hector back in 1921, and then tossed both him and Miguel into a cenote to rot in the Land of the Dead, had her clenching her fists in helpless anger. She wished she could cross the bridge herself so she could punch that creature in his stupid face.

         “And then Mama Imelda and Pepita showed up and pulled us out! Dante had found them and helped track us down. Turns out he’s an alebrije too.”

         “Wait a sec. You are telling me that you were being followed around what is quite literally the afterlife by a dog who turned out to be your alebrije, and you named him Dante.”

         “Yeah?”

         Nell snorted with laughter. “Oh, that is perfect. Absolutely beautiful. I love it.”

         “Um...why?”

         “Look up Dante’s Inferno at school when you get the chance. Let’s just say your dog is really appropriately named.”

         “Um… ‘kay. Anyway…”

         He took her through their infiltration of the Sunrise Spectacular with the entire family in Frida Kahlo cosplay, right up to their final confrontation with De la Cruz when he threw Miguel off the top of the building. Thank god for alebrijes that were large enough to ride on. Pepita had earned her chin-scritches for eternity that night.

         “And then...they sent me back,” Miguel finished. “I ran back home. Mama Coco… I couldn’t let her forget him. She’d had problems with her memory for so long but I had to try. But when I played their song, it was like it all came back somehow. She’d kept everything hidden in her drawer. Hector’s letters, some of his song drafts. And the corner of the picture that had been torn away. We taped it back on and put it in a new frame. It’s on the ofrenda now but… I don’t know if I made it in time.”

         Tears stung at his eyes but he wiped them away stubbornly.

         “And you’ve never tried to go back, just to see?”

         Miguel shook his head, giving a watery chuckle. “I think Mama Imelda would have killed me for real if I tried. I thought… For a moment last year I thought I felt him, like he was playing right next to me but…”

         “Then I’m sure he made it,” Nell told him, resting one hand reassuringly on his shoulder. “You would know best, right? My great-grandma passed away when I was ten and I will swear on whatever you want that I still feel her in my grandparents’ house, so if you say you felt Hector playing next to you that night, then you did.”

         He let out a shaky sigh as a feeling of relief washed over him. He didn’t know how badly he needed to hear that until that moment, for someone else to have such absolute faith that what he felt was real. Hector had become one of his best friends even before they’d found out they were related. The fear that he had been too late had been eating at him for so long…

         They sat in silence for a moment as Miguel collected himself. Then he sighed again. “Thank you.”

         “Any time,” Nell smiled. “Seriously. And hey, we could always try an experiment this year.”

         “What kind of experiment?”

         “Projecting during Dia de los Muertos. I’ve never tried it before but who knows, maybe you’ll be able to see them.”

         Miguel’s face lit up like a christmas tree. “En serio? We can do that?”

         “We can try,” Nell promised. “All the old stories say that the veil is thinnest that time of year, so if there’s any time it would work, well it’s worth a shot right?”

         The boy jumped to his feet, letting out an enthusiastic grito that would have woken the entire town if he’d been in his physical body.

         “I take that as a ‘yes’ then?”

         “Yes! Absolutely yes!”

         Nell didn’t sleep well that night. She wanted to, oh how she wanted to, but one thought kept circling in her mind. There was something about that guitar. She couldn’t help but feel that there was more to the story. Miguel had said that it wasn’t the guitar that was cursed, but if it was nothing more than a harmless musical instrument, Nell was a fire-breathing monkey. There was just something way too coincidental about it.

         Annoyed with herself, she rolled over to scribble a reminder to herself on the notepad she kept on her bedside table in case of midnight bursts of inspiration. She would look into it in the morning. Surely somewhere on the internet was stories of haunted instruments.

         Apparently, as Nell found the next morning over breakfast, stories of haunted or possessed musical instruments were not uncommon. There were even long-standing legends cultural legends related to the phenomena, and when Nell came across the myth of the Japanese tsukumogami, she knew she’d found what she was looking for. Though there was no cultural crossover of this type of legend the correlation of events was just too close.

         Immediately she opened up a new document on her laptop and started to take notes.

         In old Japanese culture there was a belief that if an object was owned for over a hundred years, it would develop a soul of its own and become self-aware. Musical instruments were particularly common tsukumogami because they were often crafted with great care and carried great monetary value, so they usually ended up passed down through generations. But the descendants of the masters who once owned these instruments were not always musically inclined themselves, causing the instruments to fall into disuse and become resentful. And Hector Rivera would definitely be classified as a “master”. Between what Miguel had told her and her own research, Nell could see that this was a man who put his heart and soul into every note he played. That was a lot of emotion for an instrument to absorb in the approximately three years that he had owned it. A lot of love. And for him to be betrayed, murdered for his music, and the instrument stolen and paraded around by the murderer? Someone who only played for fame and attention? Nell figured that would result in a pretty pissed-off guitar.

         And the guitar itself was a freaking showpiece. Hand-made and perfect to the last detail. That kind of love and care being put into its creation had to leave a mark as well. Nell wondered how Imelda had been able to afford it.

         The writer sat back in her chair, biting absently at her lip as she contemplated. Another quick google search had her frowning. Hector had died in November of 1921, at the age of twenty-one. Ernesto De la Cruz had been crushed by a falling bell during a performance in 1942, almost exactly twenty-one years later. No way in hell was that a coincidence.

         And according to the date stamp on the video taken that night, the date of the concert was… the second of November. Dia de los Muertos.

         “Well… holy shit.”

         Nell scrubbed her hands over her face, almost dislodging her glasses. That was a hell of a kick for an instrument that hadn’t even hit twenty-five years yet. It didn’t hit one hundred until 2017. Displayed like a trophy in the tomb of the man who murdered its master until some kid breaks in and steals it. A kid whose motivations might not have been entirely pure, but who had a musician’s heart, and who happened to be a direct descendant of Hector Rivera, its original owner.

         Most stories of cursed objects just dealt with bad luck and deadly accidents. She’d never heard of people being shoved into astral planes and being taken to the Land of the Dead. She could only concluded that the guitar wanted Miguel to meet Hector, wanted him to find out the truth. Had it known that Hector was being forgotten?

         When Miguel returned at sunrise the first thing he did was run to his grandmother. The guitar would have known her too. This was the child that Hector had loved so dearly, who he had played for every night. It had held onto that love, those powerful memories for all those years, and Miguel said that when he played for her she came back somehow. Nell’s own grandfather had passed away when she was in university. Over the last few years of his life, dementia had robbed him of most of his memories. The last time she had seen him, he thought she was her mother. To bring someone back from that was nothing short of a miracle.

         “Okay. So. The guitar might be sentient.”

         After some thought she found she kind of liked the idea. It was reassuring in a way to feel that treasured things could love people in return. And if they developed spirits of their own, could they be considered alebrije too?

         Nell grinned, reaching for her tablet and plugging it into her laptop, breakfast entirely forgotten. A sentient, haunted guitar. It looked like she finally had a real plot for her new book.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so ends Chapter 4!

Researching for this fic has been really educational for me. I've tried to stick as close to the known facts about the history and culture that I reference as possible, though I may have had to use a bit of creative license to get everything to mesh properly with my plot. One of those details was the date of Ernesto's last concert. It was never really specified in canon, but based on the stage design and how when the scene was originally planned for the opening number and how the introductory song was about Dia de los Muertos, I went with that being the date.

One of the most fun things about writing Nell for me is getting to play with all of the meta storylines and fan theories that I can't get to fit within the regular plot. I want to give a special shout out to @im-fairly-whitty​, whose incredible discussion of the sentient guitar theory (found here) has inspired the basis of Nell's novel.

Thanks so much for reading! If you want to see any more fun content or fanart, please follow me! Send me your asks, your fun theories, or any comments you have! I can't wait to connect with you!

[vulpixen]

Small Reminders

Word count: 838

Characters: Parallel Fiddleford McGucket, Mrs. McGucket, Stanford Pines, Adeline Marks (created and own by @hntrgurl13 ), Shauna Nicole Pines, (my gf oc), Shannon Tesia Pines (my gf oc), Quincy Miguel Pines (my gf oc), Marcus Pines (my gf oc).

Summary: Fiddleford helps out a Ford in need with his weapon. 

A/N: This be my own contribution to @fiddleford-appreciation-month , for week one: Parallel Fiddleford. I did decide to include my oc’s into the mix, them being quite different depictions than in my friend’s @sailormew4 main au fic. That Shauna feel in love with an alien version of her husband and had his kid, but my oc’s core personalities being largely the same with some exceptions. And taking place in @hntrgurl13 ‘s dimension jumper au, but with my addition of adding my own addiford kids. Hope you all enjoy this snippet of my work.

It was night in the quiet Oddology lab, the co-founder, Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, was working together with a different Stanford Pines and Adeline; having come from a different dimension entirely than the ones he knew. Apparently, the Stanford, Adeline, along with their twin daughters, young grandchild, and son-in-law looked worse for wear, bearing the scars from many harmful encounters across the multiverse. Fiddleford pitied them, more than willing to make sure their efforts against Bill Cipher come to fruition after thirty years to finally find a permanent solution. Fiddleford being more than thankful things turned out for the better in his dimension. There, his friends and their family live quite the content, successful life.

Fiddleford turns to the Ford, "You did quite well constructing this Quantum Destablizer, old friend. With the NowUSeeitNowUDontium as the power source and some minor tweaks to your blasters, it ought to destroy that demon for good! However, I must warn you only get several chances to shoot him at his center." he then frowns, making the final adjustments to the large weapon, "After that... it'll cease to function, given I can't supply more of the energy to you."

Ford nods, thanks to his wife and son-in-laws additional help in the project. He glances over his shoulder to see Adeline, along with his twin daughters, Shauna and Shannon, his grandson, Quincy, and son-in-law, Marcus, actually getting some rest on some makeshift beds provided to them. 

The small alien-hybrid boy only stirring slightly from the hums of the machines around him, his reptilian tail slightly twitching while curled up next to his father and mother. It had been a long while since they've gotten some peace from all the chaos they've dealt with on a regular basis. At age seven, Quincy knew more about defending himself than what it’s like to be a playful child, not having the boon of growing up with a sibling like his mother and aunt have -- not that it's an entirely bad thing, considering. There was no room to let one's guard down; that Ford does know too well. 

Ford hopes by the time they do reach his and Addi's home dimension, the old man could give his family a better life, and Quincy to have a mostly safe, active childhood. Although, he doesn't doubt that Quincy, being a hybrid between a humanoid lizard-mammal alien (from his father) and a human, will have a hard time fitting in with the people around him. The reddish brown skin with marigold ring marks lining his back, the hazel slit eyes, sharp fangs, and reptile tail are a dead giveaway. May even have to be home schooled. His family has been through so much, with the addition of what will come next once they leave the current dimension and into The Nightmare Realm to confront Bill once and for all.

"We'll make them count, Fiddleford," Ford spoke quietly, lightly smiling at his old friend, "thank you for doing this for me and my family. I wish I could have done more to help you back in my own dimension..." Ford still blames himself for what he put his friend through all those years ago, wondering if he hated him.

Fiddleford smiled sympathetically, "It's really no trouble. Bill Cipher threatens the wider multiverse and I'd do anything for my best friend, and your family. You do what you can to make things right with the other me, knowing myself, he may just forgive you."

Having been said, Ford needed to hear it, coming from his friend. The old man rubbed his tired eyes, having insisted earlier to stay up and help Ford complete the weapon while the others slept, but having sleepless nights was an all to familiar habit.

"I ought to rest now, we'll be sure to leave in the morning." Ford yawns, getting on the nearby bed provided for him, dozing off rather quickly. With that, Fiddleford bids them a silent good night.

Fiddleford shut off the lights, closing the door to the room where Ford and his family are kept in to avoid any contact with their parallel selves. The co-founder removed his glasses to rub his own sleepy eyes, he himself wishing he could have done more for the other Ford and them. Suddenly, his cell phone vibrates, getting a call from his wife, having wondered what kept him so late at the lab.

"Hello, darlin'." Fiddleford intently listens to his wife, having missed dinner, "I do apologize for missing dinner, I needed to work longer than expected. I'll be sure to make it up to you when I get home." his wife understood on the other end, suggesting they have a family dinner to invite their son and his family over, as well as the Pines. This brought a light expression on McGucket's face, "That sounds great, darlin'. I'll see you when I get home. Love you." he concludes, her having said the same. He places his phone back in his pocket and heads out the door to his car.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 15

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

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

A/N: Well, the deed is done. Now it's Héctor's turn to get something done. (Also, this fic is now past 100k words and still not done. Damn.) Art by Dara and @senoraluna​.

***

“So, all right, hear this out. I take her to the stream, I get down on one knee, take the guitar off my back- no, wait, that’d be hard. First I get the guitar off my back, then I get on one knee…”

Watching Héctor pace back and forth across his shack, Juanita sleeping soundly on the table next to him, Chicharrón raised an eyebrow. “The hell is the guitar even for?”

“To play, Cheech! I play her a song asking for her hand--”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“Well-- Padre Ernesto said it always works!”

“What would he know? He’s a priest.”

“Oh, er… right. Heh. Good point. What would he know?” Héctor laughed nervously, plucking the strings, and took a step back. “You know what, it is a dumb idea. Because he’s a priest. So he wouldn’t know, would he?”

Chicharrón gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “You sure you’re not running a fever or something? You’re acting even odder than usual. And turning red.”

“No!” Héctor almost cried out, stepping backwards to the door. “Not at all! I’ve never been healthier! You know, it’s… a bit stuffy in here. I think I’ll go out have a walk.”

“A walk, in the cemetery, at night?” Cheech scoffed, and leaned back in his chair. “If that’s what gets you in the mood for a marriage proposal, muchacho, fine with me.”

“It is! I mean-- not really-- but I’ll just, uh… I’ll go now,” Héctor muttered, face aflame, and was out of the door the next moment.

All right. Maybe he needed to be more careful when he opened his mouth; he hadn’t quite blurted out Ernesto’s secret, but that had come… entirely too close for his tastes. However much eccentricity he could get away with thanks to his charisma - and good looks, Ernesto would probably add - giving advice to a novice on how to woo another novice was probably slightly over the line of what people would accept without questioning. 

Good thing that Chicharrón generally cared little about anybody else’s business and that he never failed to mention he had Seen Some Shit in his forty-something years at the parish, or else he might have begun asking questions that were better left unanswered. 

Héctor could make a convincing liar if the situation called for it, but Cheech knew him too well to fall for anything he said. And really, why had he thought the old gravedigger would be able to give him any kind of romantic advice? He’d wake up Ernesto, and ask him again if he was really sure a song was the right way to go, and then just trust him and, as he said, ‘seize his moment’. 

Surely, Ernesto would definitely know more about seduction that Héctor ever did.

***

When John awakened, it was still dark. 

It wasn’t unusual for him to awaken long before dawn; he couldn’t remember the last time he had a full, uninterrupted night’s sleep. What was unusual was for him to awaken with the weight of an arm across his side, the solid warmth of a body against his own on the small mattress, and quiet breathing against his hair. 

He was aware, distantly, that he ought to be horrified by what he’d done and most of all, but what he’d felt. Maybe he would be the next morning, once fully awake. Now… now he was still mostly asleep, and he found he didn’t want to think. He only wanted to lie down, bask in that warmth, and think of nothing for another while.

John shut his eyes, shifted closer to Father Ernest, and let sleep claim him again.

***

Knock, knock.

“Ern--er, Padre? I know it’s… really late, but I could use some more advice. Mostly encouragement that I’m not about to do something very dumb. But also advice.”

No answer. Héctor frowned a little. 

“Ernesto? I really need some help here. Por favor?”

Knock, knock.

“... Is anyone there?” Héctor frowned, slightly concerned by the lack of reply, and slowly tried the handle; the door opened easily, and creaked a little as he pushed it. He peered in, holding the candle in front of him. The small flame cast flickering shadows over the walls, and on a cot that was, most decidedly, empty and not even unmade yet. No one had laid down to sleep there that night, and Ernesto was nowhere to be seen in the room. 

Why isn’t he here? Where could he be so late at night? Oh God, maybe Imelda was right, maybe we underestimated him and he’s actually a spy, what do we do what do we--

“What are you doing here?”

“Eeek!”

Héctor leaped a couple of feet in the air with a rather undignified screech, causing the small flame on his candle to die out. Luckily, Sofía’s candle stayed on, allowing him to keep seeing their surroundings… and her deeply unimpressed expression. Between her and Cheech, he’d really had his fill of Unimpressed Faces for the week; he could only hope Imelda would be the third time lucky, or else he may as well curl up and die. 

“... Héctor? I’m talking to you.”

Ah. Yes. Right. “I-- I’m here to, uh… I have a few quest-- never mind. Ernesto is not in there!”

“I can see that. Now lower your voice,” Sofía muttered, rolling her eyes, and gestured for him to follow. It was only then that Héctor noticed that there was no wimple covering her head, and that she wasn’t wearing her robe either: she was clad in a long, white nightgown. 

Well, of course she would be, he’d woken her up and nuns didn’t sleep in their robes. Still, he felt an awful lot like he was seeing more than he ought to, despite the fact every inch of her was covered except for her head. “I, uh… should probably leave you--”

“I’m not sleepy anymore. Come in the kitchen and tell me what’s gotten into you to be up this time at night.”

“Ah-- all right. Sorry I woke you up,” he mumbled, following her. Embarrassed as he was, Héctor didn’t even think that it was very unlikely he had been the one to wake her up, given that her room was in another hallway entirely. “But… Ernesto is not--”

“I know where he is,” she cut him off. As they got in the kitchen, she used the candle to light up an oil lamp. “Don’t worry, he’s just… having a good time. I think.”

Come to think of it, Héctor didn’t really want to know any more details. He looked back at the door. “You sure this is a good idea? If Padre Ju-- John wakes up and finds us alone here at night, he’ll have a fit.”

“Oh, I don’t think he will get out of that room anytime soon,” Sofía said lightly, reaching for a bottle of wine. “He’s being kept entertained enough. Or at least, he was. Now there isn’t a sound coming from inside, so I think he’s going to sleep like a log until morning.”

Héctor nodded. “Ah, good,” he said. He paused. His brain stilled a moment, then restarted with  a jolt and, for the second time that night, he screeched.

“Wait-- what--?”

“Shhh! Don’t make so much noise!”

“Ah, I-- lo siento, I just-- are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

She looked at him innocently, sliding a glass across the table and sitting down. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said--”

“Drink.”

Well, that was valid advice: Héctor was desperate enough to scrub the mental image out of his mind that he emptied the glass in one go. He had no idea how he’d be able to look at either man in the eye the next morning, and he found he’d rather not think about it. 

“So, what was it you had to talk about so urgently?” Sofía asked. While he normally might have balked at the idea of telling her - she had just proved, after all, that she was far from a discreet person - Héctor absolutely welcomed the chance to change the subject with open arms. 

“I want to propose,” he blurted out. Sofía blinked at him for a moment, then she smiled… no, grinned widely. 

“To Imelda?”

“No, to Cheech,” Héctor muttered, throwing up his arms. “Of course it’s to Imelda! I just--”

“Well, about time!” More wine was poured, and the glass pushed back towards Héctor. “When?”

“Uh… I was thinking tomorrow, but…” he hesitated, and drank some more. “What if she says no?”

“Seriously?” she rolled her eyes. “Then she says no, but she won’t. Everyone and their abuela could tell the two of you are crazy about each other.”

Héctor’s face flushed. “Well, it's… complicated. Anyway, I wanted some advice on how to go about it."

"... From Ernesto."

"Er… sí?"

She sighed. "Héctor. Look at me in the eye and tell me you sincerely think Imelda would be impressed by… whatever kind of proposal Ernesto would come up with."

Héctor opened his mouth. Sofía raised an eyebrow. Héctor hesitated. “Well, it’s… not that bad an idea,” he finally mumbled, looking down.

“And what is the brilliant idea?”

“I, uh, I wrote a song,” Héctor confessed to the floor. His face felt so hot, he half-feared it would catch fire. “I said I should sing it. For her. Once we’re alone.”

“Oh.” Sofíá said. She sounded mildly surprised. “That’s… not that bad an idea.”

“Yes, I-- I think I can do that. Everything else he suggested, though--”

“I’ll stop you right there. Forget anything else he suggested.”

“But--”

“Héctor.”

“... All right,” he conceded, still looking down. To be honest, he’d had his doubts to begin with, which was why he’d wanted to ask him if he was sure what he’d told him would work. He was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to get her to dance with him, let alone move his hips the way Ernesto had described. And that was one of the tamest suggestions that had come out of his mouth. “So, uh… I just--”

“You just do you,” Sofía finished, leaning back and pouring herself another glass. “So, what’s the song? Let me listen to it. I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

Héctor blinked. “What-- I can’t play it now!”

“Why not? You have a guitar right there.”

“But it’s night, what if someone hears?”

“Gustavo is all the way at the back of the church. And the door is shut. Don’t worry, no one is going to walk in to think you’re serenading me.”

“Ernesto and Padre Ju--”

“Even if they hear, do you seriously think they’re going to come out and check who’s playing?”

Ah. Right. Héctor blushed a deeper shade or red - or at least he could guess he had, with how hot his ears felt - and reached down to pick up the guitar. He tuned it nervously, noting how old it was, how ruined the wood. Come to think of it, Miguel had a really nice one. Maybe he could borrow it, he thought, and finally cleared his throat. 

“Well, uh, it… it goes like this,” he mumbled, and strummed the guitar. 

A feeling so close, you can reach out and touch it I never knew I could want something so much but it's true…

Any sort of stage fright he may have had usually disappeared once he began playing, and that time was no exception; he could only hope the following evening would be the same. He sang softly, played even more softly, and when he opened his eyes Sofía was staring at him from across the table, grinning widely. 

Embarrassment hit him all at once. “Er-- it still needs a bit of work, maybe, but--”

“It’s perfect,” Sofía cut him off. Her grin widened. “If she can resist that, I’ll eat my wimple.”

Oh. That was… nice to hear. He smiled a little. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. So, how do you plan on meeting her somewhere private?”

Ah. That. “I’m still not sure. Ernesto said he’ll think up something.”

A sigh. “Of course. Well, I guess I’m going to have to help him come up with that something.”

“Oh, you don’t have to--” Héctor began, but trailed off when Sofíá reached over to put a hand on his arm. 

“Trust me,” she said. “I’ll have to.”

***

The first thing Ernesto realized when he woke up was that it was much too early for him to be awake. The second thing he realized was that the reason why he’d awakened in the first place was the fact that someone was trying to slide out from beneath his arm and off the bed without him waking up, clearly with very little success. 

The third, as soon as his mind kicked into gear and he remembered what had happened the previous night, was that said someone had to be Padre Juan and oh, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to deal with him and his crisis of faith now. Actually, he was sure he didn’t want to deal with it. 

Turns out he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate it all.

Well, of course he didn’t; Ernesto was good in bed, regardless what Sofía said, surely in jest. And maybe he should have tried to make it unpleasant as the gringo expected it to - rough, painful, chafing the way it did in the barracks - but he… hadn’t.

After all any man with some pride wants to do well under the bedsheets, no? And maybe he hadn’t wanted to feel like he was back in the barracks again. He was miles away and he didn’t want to think of it at all. 

Not that he could have fooled himself, because Padre Juan felt absolutely nothing like a soldier of the Federal Army - soft and fine-haired, skin smooth, smelling of incense and old wood. Not at all unpleasant to have beneath, but right now he didn’t find the elbow in his ribs especially enjoyable. He clearly had never had to sneak out of someone’s bed at dawn and it showed.

“Ow!” Ernesto yelped, and Padre Juan stilled.

All right, so maybe they were even. Failure to sneak out, failure to feign sleep. Holding back a sigh, Ernesto resigned himself to face Juan’s inevitable breakdown and opened his eyes to see something that looked a lot like a giant tomato, but was actually the gringo’s face. 

“I-I… I, er… apologies,” Juan mumbled, and scampered quickly off the bed, taking the blanket to wrap it around himself, to cover stuff that Ernesto had already seen anyway. Well, felt more than seen with only a candle he’d had to fight to keep lit as the gringo protested. 

Now without blanket and quite obviously naked, Ernesto sat up and yawned as Juan went to his desk and pulled out a cigarette, taking it to his mouth with somehow shaky fingers before glancing around, obviously looking for something. 

“Need the matches?” Ernesto asked, picking up the box from the nightstand, where it had been left next to the candle. Padre Juan winced as though he’d yelled in his ear, and turned. 

“Oh. Yes, I--” he trailed off, eyes going huge at the realization that, by taking the blanket, he had left Ernesto absolutely nothing to cover himself - not that he would rush to do so, no reason to cover perfection. Juan’s mouth hung open, the cigarette falling on the ground. Ernesto smiled. Juan shrieked and threw the blanket at him, hitting him full on the face.  “C-cover yourself!”

… Seriously now? Ernesto sighed and pulled the blanket off his head, raising an eyebrow. “Likewise,” he muttered, glancing at the very naked, very pink body that had been left uncovered when he’d thrown the blanket at him. It took a few moments for realization to hit him, but when it did the gringo shrieked and almost dove to grab his shift, flushing crimson again.

“Oh, God,” he groaned. 

Sí, you said that a lot last night too. 

Well. If anything, he wasn’t sobbing and begging for God’s forgiveness, and Ernesto supposed he could count that as a success. He wrapped the blanket around his waist as Juan put on the shift, and glanced back at him. He cleared his throat. “You, uh, dropped your cigarette,” he muttered. He had no idea saintly Padre Juan had a common vice such as smoke, but ah well. It wouldn’t be the first nor the biggest surprise in the past few hours. 

“I… yes. I did.” The gringo swallowed and went to pick it up, but he didn’t put it in his mouth again. He just set it down, heaved a long sigh, and looked back at him with an odd sort of blankness to his face. In a way it was more unnerving than a breakdown would be. It made any though Ernesto may have had to try making light of the situation, or to ask him if he felt cured, die in his throat. 

“I-- the absolution. We have to…” Padre Juan cleared his throat, and looked away. “You said we’d absolve each other, Father Ernest.”

Oh, come on, was he really expected to start mumbling in Latin while just awake? “Can this absolutely not wait until we have breakfast?”

“Take this seriously! It absolutely cannot!” he protested, his voice slightly higher than usual, control slipping; Ernesto found himself thinking he would probably have a stroke if he knew that his absolutions were worth slightly less than nothing. He cleared his throat. 

“Right, right. Of course,” he muttered, and stood, lifting his hand. “Ego te absolvo--”

“Not like this! You-- can you get dressed? Please?” Juan’s voice shook a little. He was still looking away, gaze distant and tense. Ernesto chased away a rather inappropriate thought - ‘was it really that bad?’ - and nodded. “All right,” he said, and went to pick up his cassock without a further word.

They got dressed giving each other the back, and when Ernesto turned again Juan’s gaze was fixed on the floor, arms tightly crossed. He was tense, but seemed to relax just a little when Ernesto lifted his hand over his head and spoke the formula for absolution. He absolved him back, his voice somewhat firm but distant. His mind seemed to be miles away. 

“It’s best if you return to your room,” he finally murmured, once again staring at the opposite wall like he could see something on it that Ernesto could not. 

“... Are you all right?” he dared ask at the door, and for a long moment the only response he got was an empty gaze. Ernesto hesitated. “... John?”

Padre Juan recoiled a little, then he looked away and spoke softly. “Thank you. For trying to help,” he murmured, and closed the door without another word, leaving Ernesto to blink. He lingered a few moments, hesitating, and went to press his ear against the wooden door. 

He rather feared to hear the noises of self-flagellation again, in case the gringo had somehow managed to get his hands on another whip, but for a while there was only silence - then, the sound of splashing water in the basin. Well. At least he wasn’t intent on trying to rip the skin off his back again, and that was something, Ernesto supposed. 

It was damaged enough; the back was the only place where his skin was hardened, covered in raised scars and rough to the touch, so unlike… everything else. Now that he’d stopped opening up new wounds, Ernesto would rather he didn’t start again on his account. He wasn’t doing that now, so maybe he didn’t need to worry; that vacant gaze he’d had on his face would pass. No damage done, he hoped. 

More splashing inside - he was probably washing rather vigorously, which Ernesto definitely should do as well come to think of it - and in the end, Ernesto turned to make his way to his own room, finally thinking over the previous night with a cool mind. 

It had been… pleasant, he supposed. Different from any of his experiences with the soldier and more like sleeping with a woman, although he suspected Padre Juan might kill him and then himself if Ernesto tried to voice that thought. So it would be best to just. Not do that, in case they ever talked about it again. Which probably wouldn't happen, he told himself, opening the door of his room. Maybe that would be it, and with the absolutions over with they would never have any reason to talk about--

"Oh, you're finally back!"

"Gah! What-- what are you doing in my room?"

Sofía tilted her head and frowned in mock hurt. She… didn’t look like she had gone to sleep at all, but still seemed in high spirits, grin barely in check. "That wasn't how you reacted to me being here before you went and replaced me with the gringo. What an insult, that. Were you so desperate to find someone with so little experience he would be easy even for you to impress?"

Ernesto rolled his eyes, but his lips curled upwards. The previous night had been pleasant, but now there was an uncomfortable weight in his stomach he couldn't quite name, and some banter was… just what he needed to take his mind off it. "Says the one who ran back to Sister Antonia as soon as Lent was over. Why didn't you see her tonight, anyway?"

"Womanly issues," she said lightly, and leaned forward. "And good thing for you, because I spared you, the gringo and Héctor a few very, very embarrassing moments. Of all nights to come looking for you for questionable advice, huh? But no worries, I sorted that out. He might look at you and Padre Juan funny, by the way. Don't mind him."

Ernesto groaned. "Por Dios, one time he has to come-- ugh. Whatever," he muttered, rubbing his face. All things considered, it wasn't even the worst of his secrets that Héctor was aware of. "What did he want?"

“We'll discuss that later. One thing at the time,” Sofía said, leaning forward with a wide grin. “Now it's your turn to tell me everything.”

***

For a time after Father Ernest left, John kept himself busy - or at least tried to. Washing himself and saying the morning prayers could only take him so far. Soon enough, he had to turn to his bed, to the rustled sheets and the blanket on the floor, and face the reality of what had happened on it. What he had done, how he’d soiled himself. 

And how his vile, treacherous body had betrayed him.

He’d accepted Father Ernest’s help, put his soul in danger as well - oh he could have never gone through with it if not for the knowledge absolution would swiftly follow - but it had not worked. The longing was not gone; stronger, he feared, now that he knew what a garden of earthly delights could be found in the act.

He had committed the sin hoping it would, at least, extinguish the unnatural desire in him once and for all; expecting it to be painful as all acts against God ought to be, a reminder of how undesirable the act truly was to any normal man. It should have been-- God, he had let another man in him. Not only he’d lain with him, but he’d lain with him as a woman would and God help him, there had been barely any discomfort and then such relief, like the scratching of an itch that had always been there and he could never reach. Such pleasure, he hadn’t believed believe it was possible to ever feel anything like it.

If only the act kept him sated for good, then he would have been content. But it had not: he had looked upon his body earlier and the lust was still there, the unholy temptation to reach out for him, join him in the bed, let him press him down and do what he would. He would take it, and he would enjoy it. Now he knew he would. 

I am a sodomite.

The thought was like a cold, cold dagger through his chest. Slowly, John sank on the floor, back against the wall, and burrowed his face in his hands. His father had been right - he was an abomination, and he would always be. It would never go away, all hope he’d had to cure it, had been vain. Even Father Joseph, his mentor, had said the same thing - if very, very differently.

Perhaps it is in God’s plan that it remains your cross to bear.

John had been so horrified, so furious to hear that he'd stormed out, accusing the old man of hindering him with his kindness... and he had never seen him again, never spoken to him if not by letter, until the say he'd died. And yet, Father Joseph - the man who'd called him son after his own father had cast him out - had been right. What a foolish child he'd been. What an ungrateful child, turning his back to a man who only wished him well and spoke the truth. 

With a choked-back sob, he reached to grasp the golden crucifix at his neck with shaky fingers, and held it tight. His eyes burned, tears slid down his cheeks, and he did nothing to stop them. He couldn’t stop them, as he couldn’t will himself to cease lusting for men. It was beyond his control.

It had always been beyond his control.

Father John Johnson bowed his head, and wept - barley trying to muffle the sobs wracking his chest, the broken gasps as he tried to draw in breath and let it escape him in whimpers moments later. He had to be such a pathetic sight, but he found that he did not care.

And yet, amidst the despair, there was something else. As the sobs slowly stopped, and he wiped his face and sniffled, the vise-like grip around his heart seemed to loosen a fraction. For all his horror at the realization he could never be free of his cross, a thought kept running through his mind, both horrifying and oddly comforting. 

It was always beyond my control. There can be no healing. I was never meant to win.

And it was true. There was nothing he could have done differently, no solution he could have thought of to somehow change what he was. He’d fought so hard for so long, and he’d lost - he’d lost he’d lost because he wasn’t meant to win. It had been all for nothing. He could never win, the odds and his very nature against him. Was that what Father Joseph had tried to tell him, all those years ago?

Perhaps it is in God’s plan that it remains your cross to bear.

I did everything I could. I never stood a chance. And I am too tired to keep fighting. 

It hurt, it truly did, but at the same time the notion he could finally surrender, finally rest, lifted a weight from his shoulders. There was nothing more he could do, nowhere else he could turn to escape the truth of what he was, and he could fight no longer. It was over, nothing left to try. 

Only surrender.

It was such a bitter sort of relief, but relief it was, and John was so tired. So he closed his eyes, murmured a prayer, and allowed himself to find solace where he could. 

***

“All right. Time make sure everyone has the battle plan clear. Any questions before I start?”

“Yes. Do you have to call it a battle plan, and… was drawing a map of the church grounds absolutely necessary?” Ernesto asked, glancing down at the… admittedly shoddily-drawns map Miguel had put together. 

He frowned, a little offended. “Just so that we’re all on the same page and hold out positions!” he exclaimed, yanking the map a little to get the lower left corner out of Dante’s mouth. As he did, Óscar and Felipe leaned in to take a look.

“You could have asked us. We’d have made you a better map,” Felipe said.

“A much better one,” Óscar agreed. 

“This map will be just fine,” Miguel protested, looking over at Ernesto and Sofía for support. He was still trying to figure out if the doodle on the left was meant to be the cemetery or the orchard, but Sofía nodded in support. 

“Yes, it works just fine. Now, you were talking about a battle plan?”

Miguel grinned. “Sí! It’s called… huh. How do we call this operation?”

“We don’t need to name it,” Ernesto muttered, but clearly no one else really shared his opinion. 

Sofía shrugged. “I don’t think my idea should be shared with children. Over to you.”

“Marry the priest!” Felipe exclaimed.

“Kiss the girl!” Óscar yelled, and Miguel grinned. 

“I like that one! All right, so - Operación Besa a la Chica!” he exclaimed. Dante began barking, and he decided to take that as a sign they had chosen the right name. Confidence boosted, Miguel looked down at the map. “All right. So, tomorrow after the evening prayer…”

“I go tell Imelda that Padre Ernesto wants to speak with her.”

“Concerning what?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She shrugged. “And Madre Gregoria wouldn’t question the parish priest.”

“Perfect. She gets here, and…?”

“Héctor and I will be there,” Ernesto supplied. “By the way, where is he now?”

“Getting my guitar from Cheech. I told him he could have it for the proposal. Is he really going to sing a song?”

“If he follows my advice, he will.”

“Then he’ll need to hide the guitar there beforehand. I mean, Imelda will wonder what’s going on if he’s just there with a guitar.”

“I’ll tell him to do that. Anyway, we get her to the orchard with an excuse…”

“What excuse?” Miguel pressed on. Ernesto rolled his eyes.

“We’ll come up with something.”

“You’re supposed to have a plan beforehand. That’s how planning works,” Miguel pointed out, gaining himself a raised eyebrow. 

“I’ll improvise, don’t worry. Sofía and I will get her and Héctor to the orchard.”

Miguel nodded solemnly, and tapped a finger on the spot on the map. “Right here.”

“... Yes. We are aware where the orchard is.”

Ay, since when was he such a spoilsport? He’d been adding a bit oddly, lately, and he wondered if he was angry at him. Did he know… no, it couldn’t be. Héctor had promised him to never tell Ernesto or anybody else that he’d told him the truth, and he’d never broken a promise to him before. It was just his imagination, or maybe he just had other thoughts on his mind. 

That was fine. Everything was fine. “All right, so-- you take her to the orchard. And then…?”

“Then we come along!” Óscar exclaimed. 

“Running!”

“And we tell them that Dante got stuck in a tree and you’re trying to get him down…”

“... And that you’re going to be in so much trouble if you don’t get back by curfew.”

“Someone will have to help!”

Miguel grinned. “Perfecto! And that someone will be…?”

“Me and Padre Ernesto,” Sofía finished. “We tell them not to worry and run off to help you, leaving the two of them alone in the orchard.”

So far, Miguel thought, so good. Of course, there were factors they could only do so much to control. “What if she decides to go back with you?”

Ernesto shrugged. “Then it’s up to Héctor to keep her there. If he can’t do that, then he won’t be able to keep a wife and there is no point in trying.”

“That’s… fair, I guess,” Miguel conceded. “So, uh.... That’s the plan. Then it depends on Héctor.”

“God help him,” Ernesto said dryly, gaining himself a slap on the arm from Sofía. “I mean-- God bless him and the union, I guess, if there is one.”

“There will be,” Miguel said, trying to sound as certain as he possibly could. “She likes him. And he wrote a song for her!”

“And he’ll play it with the best guitar!” Óscar added. 

Felipe immediately nodded. “We know it’s the best because we made it.”

“We make a lot of things.”

“Sometimes they catch fire.”

“Or explode. But not that guitar!”

“Oh no, it’s good as new!”

Miguel, who had witnessed several of their creations meeting a sad and occasionally fiery end, mentally thanked whoever there was to thank for the fact even they had yet to figure out how to make a guitar burst in flames at random, and nodded. 

“All right. So… we’re ready,” he said, trying to convince himself that they really were, that everything would play out exactly as it was supposed to. And that Héctor, too, would be ready.

***

“Oh my God, I’m not ready.”

"You're ready as you'll ever be."

"That's not ready at all!"

"Then you'll never be ready anyway. No point in waiting, no?"

"Is that supposed to come across as encouraging?"

"Sí."

"It isn't."

“Listen, I’m not giving your another pep talk. You make it or break it. By which I mean you better make it, or I’ll break you.”

“... That sounds like a threat.”

“Might be because it is.”

“Ah.” Héctor muttered, and managed a small, nervous laugh. Sure he was joking, right? Héctor would have been certain of it, normally, but that day his mood had been… odd. He seemed distracted, didn’t talk as much as usual, and when he did he was somewhat snippier. And Padre Juan had stayed in his room the entire day, claiming he had a cold and didn’t want it to spread; Ernesto had nodded at the news, pretending to believe it, and had said nothing of it.

… He didn’t know that Héctor knew, did he? Sofía wouldn’t have-- oh God, she would.

“You know I won’t, er. I won’t tell.”

Ernesto turned to glance at him, saying nothing. Héctor’s face turned hot the next moment and ah, God, he was blushing again, wasn’t he? Even before Imelda showed up, his face would look like he’d turned into a tomato and his chances would be ruined, if he really had any chances.

“I mean… with… you know…”

A sigh. “That would be best. Juan might just have a heart attack if anybody knows. Plus, it would cause more than a few issues with the parish, even if we were not clergy. I’d rather leave you the satisfaction of giving them their biggest church scandal in a good while.”

Héctor sputtered. “W-what-- it won’t be a scandal, I-- we haven’t even taken our vows yet, so… so if I propose… we’re going about it the honest way! I mean, if she says yes--” he blurted out, only to be cut off by a sudden laugh and a powerful pat on his shoulder. It was embarrassing, but Ernesto seemed to be back to normal for a moment and Héctor found it was a relief. 

“Hah! All right, forget what I said. I’m sure no one will mind.”

“Her parents will.”

“Her parents can either suck it up or watch her as she becomes a nun. Which despite being good Catholics they’re not all that thrilled about, according to her brothers.” A shrug. “Plus, I’m sure a talk with me will be all that they need.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll give them some bullshit about God’s will, love and whatnot, I bless the union, blah blah. You know I can talk anybody into anything, given enough time.”

Héctor laughed a little. “I noticed,” he said. Ernesto seemed to stiffen, the smile fading on his face, and Hécotor mentally kicked himself. “I mean-- not necessarily, uh…” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing back towards the part of the parish where the sleeping quarters were. “... Is he all right?”

“He’ll be fine,” Ernesto reply, his voice curt, and Héctor decided not to press further. Even if he’d wanted to, anyway, there would be no time: led by Sofía, Imelda was coming.

***

That entire situation was stupid.

First Sofía coming over to tell her ‘Padre’ Ernesto wanted to talk to her, all while pretty much vibrating with excitement, was stupid. Héctor also being there, his face beet red, was stupid. Ernesto’s decision to walk through the orchard while talking about the weather was stupid. Her brothers and Miguel running over claiming Dante was stuck on a tree was stupid. Ernesto and Sofía running off with them to save that dumb dog like they had to get him out of the jaws of a jaguar was stupid. The fact they all had pretended to leave but eventually had very obviously just hidden behind some trees and shrubs was stupid.

And now, she turned to see that Héctor suddenly had a guitar in his hands, she had to wonder how much more stupid could the entire situation get. “... Héctor. What is this?”

He smiled, or tried to. It came across as the most idiotic grimace she had ever seen in her life; rolling her eyes at it would have been easy, if not for the fact it was oddly cute on Héctor’s face, with the empty window where a front tooth was missing reminding her that he was the kind of person who’ll try to fight a much bigger man to protect a woman and her kids. The memory softened her frown - only for it to come back when Héctor spoke.

“It’s, uh, a guitar. Miguel’s,” he added, lifting it up. The last rays of the setting sun shone on the white, polished wood and the decorations. “But he let me borrow it.”

“I see that. I mean, what is this, ” she pointed out, gesturing at the orchard around them - including the trees where five idiotas were hiding, honestly convinced she couldn’t tell their were there. “I was told Padre Ernesto had to speak to me.”

“Well, that was… a lie.”

“... Clearly.”

“And I, uh, apologize for that. I would like to… speak to you. Alone?” he croaked. 

Oh. Oh, God. Imelda suspected she was beginning to get an inkling of where this was going, and it was… a lot of take in. She blinked, taken aback, and oh did her face suddenly feel warm.

“Talk to me?” she repeated, her voice a couple of octaves higher than usual. And cracking. It hadn’t cracked like that since she was sixteen, Jesus Christ why now. She cleared her throat, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “Well, I’m-- listening,” she managed. 

The smile Héctor had managed to put up froze. “Ah. Right. I mean, good? I… er…” his gaze shifted above her left shoulder; it took Imelda all her willpower not to turn. As much as part of her wanted to put a stop to all that foolishness right now, she… wanted to hear what Héctor had to say. It had been hanging between them, unspoken and unacknowledged, for long enough. So she kept looking at Héctor as his expression brightened.

He suddenly looked back at her, grinning, lifting the guitar. “I have written a song!” he declared. 

Imelda… blinked. “Ah. Good for you?”

He flushed a dark red again. “I mean, I… wrote it for… for you,” he managed, somewhat tentatively. He looked at her with such vulnerability, something in her chest ached even through the astonishment. He cleared his throat. 

“I… wait, I’ll play it, I--” he began, lifting the guitar, but he never got to. Imelda stepped forward and put her hand on it; their closeness caused Héctor to draw in a sharp breath, eyes huge. 

“Don’t,” she said, quietly enough not to be heard by anyone else. “I’d rather hear it when I’m the only public.”

Héctor’s, whose expression had turned pained for a moment, brightened up suddenly and nodded. “Oh! Of course,” he whispered as well, like a conspirator. “They, uh… they were not supposed to hang around here. Lo siento.” He smiled awkwardly, and Imelda fought back a sudden urge to cup his face. “We were meant to be alone, and… and I wanted to ask… neither of us has taken the vows yet, so it’s… it’s not too late… if you want… I know I want, I’m sorry it took so long--”

Imelda’s hand went to cover his mouth, and he trailed off, staring at her questioningly. She shook her head, and his features twisted in a sorrowful expression. He looked absolutely gutted and Imelda pulled back her hand and spoke. 

“Héctor, our position in the clergy allows us to aid the Revolution, and better help Santa Cecilia. Outside the parish, we could do next to nothing of use,” she said, her voice still low, so that she would not be heard. What she said would come to no surprise to Ernesto and Sofía, but Miguel and her brothers were best left out of it. “They need us where we are.”

A long breath, and he looked down with a nod. “... I understand,” he murmured. “I apologize. I just-- I won’t bother you again. I only need you to know that I--”

Imelda grasped the front of his cassock, and pulled him down into a kiss. It was soft, chaste - only lips on lips - but it made her feel light-headed, a shiver running down her spine. She had never kissed a man before and ah, she suddenly had to fight the urge to do it again, many more times. Héctor went very still, too, and when she pulled back his eyes were big as saucers.  There was a sound somewhere on their left like that of a grito immediately muffled by several pairs of hands, but neither of them paid it any mind.

Imelda smiled. “Ask me after the war is over,” she whispered, and Héctor’s stunned expression melted in a wide, ecstatic smile. Missing tooth or not, it was the most beautiful smile Imelda had ever seen. It was radiant. 

“I will ask again,” he promised, not bothering to keep his voice down. “And again and again an-”

“Oh, don’t be foolish now,” Imelda replied, brushing down her robe. The corners of her lips were still curled upwards. “You’ll only need to ask once.”

***

“So, she said yes?”

“He says that she said ‘later’.”

“But later, yes, right?”

“Would have helped if Héctor didn’t just skip away like that, we needed the details…”

The discussion went on for a while, but Ernesto barely listened. He nodded occasionally, but his attention was mostly taken by the window to the left of the courtyard - that of Padre Juan’s room.

Now that it was dark he could barely see, through the glass, the faint and tremulous light of a lone candle.

***

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 12

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

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Well, not all secrets stay secret forever. Art by @senoraluna.

***

“What, pray tell, the fuck.”

If doctor Sanchéz found Ernesto’s outburst unbecoming of a priest, he didn’t bother to point it out. The crazy gringo would probably have protested, except that he was currently out cold on the bed, leaning on his stomach, back exposed - which was precisely what had prompted the less than priestly comment.

His back was a complete, absolute mess: a criss-cross of old faded scars and newer ones, covered in recent wounds at various stages of healing, all welts and scabs and broken skin  oozing fluids here and there. Ernesto wasn’t a doctor any more than he was a priest, but he could recognize the signs of infection when he saw them.

“Not the worst I’ve seen,” doctor Sanchéz muttered, and well, Ernesto could second that. He’d seen men whipped raw with riding crops as punishment in the military, hard enough to carve out bits of flesh - but this was still bad and, well, entirely self-inflicted.

“That looks like infection.”

“I noticed, thanks,” the doctor said just a bit too curtly, reaching for his bag and pulling out a bottle of alcohol, clean towels, and some iodine. “I’ll see to that. You should see that he stops this madness, because if he keeps at it some disinfectant is not going to be enough.”

I thought I had seen to it, Ernesto thought, but said nothing. He just stepped back to let doctor Sanchéz do his job, and recoiled when something tapped his shoulder-- a whip. And, holding that whip, was Sofía.

“Here it is,” she muttered. “Keep it away from him.”

“... Right.” Ernesto took it, and noticed it was spotless - not a single speck of blood.

He cleans it after each use. Of course he would, he thought, and suddenly felt sick. He glanced to the bed John was resting on, eyes shut and skin pale even against the white pillow. He’d found it so amusing, being the only one to know Padre Juan’s secret… but now it wasn’t funny anymore. As doctor Sanchéz began to clean the wounds with alcohol, he barely twitched; his breath caught in his throat, but he did not regain consciousness or open his eyes.

“How did you know he was doing… this?”

Sofía shrugged. “I was keeping an eye on him, and I knew he had a whip. No one screams that hard and faints for a pat on the back,” she muttered, then glanced at him, somewhat inquisitive. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you nothing? Like in confessions, or…?”

It’s not enough, never enough! I deserve-- I need-- I tried! I tried every prayer, every penance!

Ernesto tried to ignore the weight in his stomach, like he’d swallowed lead. Could he have noticed something, if he’d looked? He remembered joking with Héctor that the gringo must have a rod up his ass once, because he sat so upright his back rarely did touch the backrest. The real explanation was… nowhere as fun.

“Padre Ernesto?” Sofía called out,

“... He didn’t mention self-flagellation,” he finally said.

“The correct answer, by the way, would be that the secret of confession is sacred.’

“Oh, give me a break. I’m not telling you what he confessed, just what he did not confess. He didn’t come to me telling me he was self-flagellating in his spare time.”

“Any clue as to why he’s done this?”

No penance? But how else am I to heal this perversion?

He could tell her, he knew. She kept her mouth shut when it mattered and, given how she and several of her Sisters usually spent their nights - “Can’t wait for Lent to be over with so that Antonia is available again,” she’d said - Ernesto knew she was on no high ground to pass judgment. No higher than his own, at any rate; somehow, though, he doubted the approval of a fake priest and a less than chaste nun would be of much comfort to Father John.

“... The secret of confession is sacred,” he finally said, gaining himself an elbow in his ribs.

“Really no--” she began, but a look at his face made her trail off. Ernesto wasn’t sure what she saw in his expression-- don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks -- but at any rate, it made her fall silent. That or the presence of the doctor, who was focusing on Padre Juan’s back but was still well within earshot.

“... Fair,” she conceded, then, “What are we going to tell everyone?”

“That I can’t control my miraculous strength and am very sorry I hurt him.”

“Idiota.”

“Show some respect to the parish priest.”

“Cabrón.”

“Please, don’t mind me. I did not just hear any of that,” doctor Sanchéz announced, then he put the bottle of iodine on the nightstand, took his bag, and stood from the chair. On the bed, Father John was still unconscious; his devastated back was covered in a layer of yellowish iodine.

“I gave him a sedative, so he should be out for a while longer. When he wakes up, make sure he stays down like this. No clothes on his back, no sheets, absolutely no bandages unless he wants to deal with iodine burns on top of everything else. Let the wounds breathe. You may hit him over the head,” he added, turning. “For therapeutic purposes.”

Sofía smiled. “I’ll make sure to administer the medication as prescribed,” she muttered, and Ernesto smiled a little as well. Truth be told, he may just smack that idiot in the head himself when he woke up. With no therapeutic intents whatsoever.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” the doctor kept going. “It’s best if someone stays with him through the night, to make sure he doesn’t turn around in his sleep. Or does something stupid when awake.”

“... Of course. About that, huh--”

“If asked, I’ll say he had a neglected wound on his back that got infected,” doctor Sanchéz cut him off. “No offense, but I don’t think anyone would believe you have such Herculean strength to reduce men unconscious by patting their back.”

“None taken,” Ernesto muttered, taking just a little offense. He was rather sure at least some people would belive it. The children, maybe.

“Good. Now, I don’t wish to lie-- but a little omission is not quite a lie.”

“I like the way you think.”

“Gracias. I’ll leave some painkillers here, in case it’s needed.”

After a few more thanks, as Sofía saw the doctor out, Ernesto sighed and sat down on the chair by the bed, looking down at the unconscious gringo on it. He frowned even in his sleep, but at least he was resting and couldn’t fuck himself up any worse for time being.

And when Ernesto uttered a slew of insults he did so under his breath, so not to wake him up.

***

“So, what happened with Padre Ju-- John?”

“Padre Ernesto is so freakishly strong, he broke his back with one pat.”

“He did not!”

“... He’d be very disappointed to know you didn’t believe it for a second,” Sofía muttered, causing Miguel to cross his arms. Truth be told, for a moment he’d… not really believed it, but could have almost contemplated it. It had been so sudden and downright scary, the scream and the way his knees had given in, and he didn’t know what to think.

“So what happened?” Imelda asked. Her arms were crossed over her chest, too, and beside her Héctor looked… a little pale. Cheech was sitting on a chair entirely backwards, and looked like he couldn’t care less either way. And Gustavo… well, as the sexton he should at least be present, but come to think of it Miguel hadn’t seen him around in the past few hours. He seemed to spend a lot of time away, lately.

“An infected wound on his back,” Sofía said with a shrug. “Padre Ernesto didn’t know it was there, struck it, and that hurt. Now, Miguel-- you go back to the celebrations, sí? You can tell everyone who asks that Padre Juan is doing well.”

“Who asked?” Felipe piped in, turning to Óscar, who shrugged.

“No one did.”

As annoying and patronizing as Padre Juan could get, hearing that still made Miguel feel bad. He wasn’t all bad: when he’d asked to be called Miguel had agreed, and… and…

“You know what Saint Michael Archangel did?”

“He chased the devil away from heaven.”

“My younger brother loved that passage. His name was Michael, too. I read it to him very often.”

“I asked,” he protested, frowning. Ernesto, he thought, Ernesto would tell him what was going on; he could tell Sofía wanted him to get out of there before telling the others more. “Where is Padre Ernesto?”

“He’s staying with Padre Juan.”

“Can I see him?”

“Miguel,” Imelda spoke, her voice firm, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You go back outside, and leave this to us.”

“But--”

“Óscar, Felipe, you too.”

“Ay, but Imelda--”

“It wasn’t a request, muchachos.”

They walked back outside to sunlight and celebrations, but Miguel found he couldn’t enjoy any of it the way Óscar and Felipe and all the kids did. He stood some distance away, kicking the dirt, until something suddenly slammed into him, sending him sprawling on the ground.

“Ooof!”

“Woof!”

“Aw, Dante!”

A slobbery lick to his face and Dante was off again, running around the parish. Miguel finally laughed and gave chase, around a corner and then another… only to suddenly stop when he saw Dante on his back on the ground, tail wagging and tongue flailing.

And just above him, an open window leading back inside the parish.

***

“You know they’re going to get you in the end, don’t you?”

The voice that rang out was raspier than it used to be, coming from a throat full of sand. Ernesto knew who it was; he didn’t need, nor want, to turn. He knew who was there with him, sitting at the desk at the other end of the room, and he knew he was putting two glasses down on in.

He shouldn’t have been able to know any of it without looking but, then again, neither should he have been there. None of it made sense, and yet he felt no surprise. No dread. No fear, but he knew that wasn’t long in coming.

Ernesto spoke staring down at John Johnson’s motionless form. “You’re dead.”

“And soon you’ll join me. Isn't that great?” Alberto gave a gravelly laugh. There was a sound of sloshing liquid, something being poured in the glasses. “They’re scouring Mexico as we speak. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I was only a soldier. I heard a whole Regiment revolted since I left. They can’t be looking that hard for me.” He could smell something overpowering the scent of iodine now, tequila and gunpowder and blood. On the bed, Padre Juan was even paler than usual. Too pale. Dead.

“Oh, but they only need to stumble on you. Someone who has seen your face, and that will be the end. No one here will risk their neck to defend you. You lied to them all.”

That was true, he knew it, but oh did he hate the thought. He shook his head. “Héctor would--”

“And then Federales would turn on this town, for hiding you. Give away an imposter to save their own. It’s not a hard choice, Nesto. Even for those of them who wouldn’t shoot you on sight if they knew the truth.” The creak of a chair’s backrest being leaned onto, or that of stiff sinews. A glass was put down. “You’re starting to feel comfortable. That’s when they get you. I would know - I was comfortable around you. Join me before they come. Leave on your own terms.”

Chicharrón convinced Padre Edmundo to buy a lot of rat poison, Gustavo has said. So we have a lot of wine and a lot of poison, stored next to each other.

“Come on. Have a drink.”

“No.” Ernesto clenched his fists, gaze still fixed on Father John Johnson’s lifeless face. His eyes were beginning to sink into the flesh, skin gray. His back oozed blood. “That won’t be how I die.”

“Why not? That’s how rats die.”

“I’m not a rat. I’m just trying to survive.”

“A runaway dog, then. A bullet may be best, that’s how you end a rabid dog. You still have the pistol hidden away in your room. You can use it on yourself like you used it on the boy.”

Ernesto opened his mouth, but no words came out. It was as though all air had been blown out of his lungs. With the mind’s eye, he could see Miguel grinning up at him. You’re not a real priest, he’d said, and then, as Ernesto found himself thinking of ways to silence him for good…

You’re a good guy.

“No,” he rasped. He’d thought about it, yes, but… “I did not. I didn’t do it. Didn’t have to.”

“Are you sure?” Alberto’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Are you really, really sure?”

He was sure, yes-- wasn’t he? His memory was hazy. He’d… considered it, but then the boy…

“Ernesto?” Miguel’s voice called out somewhere on his left, causing Ernesto to still, blood freezing in his veins. It sounded so distant and hollow, like the ring of a death knell.

“No. No, I--” he tried, and words died in his mouth. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He could only sit, staring at the gringo’s corpse on the bed as the floorboard creaked, closer and closer.

“Padre,” Miguel called again, and cold, dead fingers closed around his wrist like a vise.

***

“No!”

“Gah! Ern-- Padre, it’s just m--”

“I didn’t-- I didn’t-- ”

“Hey, careful!”

Thud.

Under Miguel’s stunned gaze, Ernesto - who had jerked awake and up like a puppet on a spring the second he’d touched his wrist, snatching his arm from his grasp and trying to back away only to stumble on the chair he’d been sleeping onto - fell back on the floor with a yelp, dragging the chair with him.

On the bed, Father John’s eyelids twitched a moment at the bang, but he didn’t wake up; something Miguel would have been relieved to see, if he’d been looking at all. At the moment his full attention was on the man on a heap on the floor, still shaking, looking up at him with wide eyes like some of the other children in the orphanage did sometimes, after a very bad dream. That expression was so far removed from anything he’d ever seen of Ernesto, it made a shiver run down his spine.

“... Miguel,” Ernesto muttered after a few moments of silence, and let out a long breath. “Don’t ever do that again. You, uh…”

“Scared the crap out of you?”

“Startled me,” Ernesto corrected him just a little pointedly before standing up, brushing his cassock and drawing in and out another deep breath. “Why-- what are you sneaking up on me for?” he added, brushing back his hair.

Miguel frowned, crossing his arms. “I didn’t sneak on you! I just tried to wake you up.”

“And why are you here in the first place?”

“I found an open window.”

“That’s the answer to how, not why.”

“I wanted to check on Padre Ju-- John,” Miguel replied. He turned to look at the man in question - really look at him - for the first time since stepping in, and… and… “What… what happened to him?” he managed, his voice thin. Sofía had talked about an infected wound, but what he saw there was a ruin. It was wound upon wound upon wound, and beneath the iodine he could hardly see any healthy skin left. It reminded him, vividly, of pictures he had seen of Jesus after flagellation.

He stared, numb and incredulous, as Ernesto slowly put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s resting now, the doctor sedated him. Get back out and--”

“Who… who did this to him?”

“... No one did, niño.”

The thing that had just begun to replace the horror - a reassuring anger - sputtered and died, leaving him with only confusion at first and then an even bigger sort of horror. Why would any man do a such thing to himself? He couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around it. It was incomprehensible. “He-- he didn’t!”

“Miguel, you shouldn’t be--”

“Why?” He turned to look up at Ernesto, reeling, looking for an answer. The other adults wouldn’t tell him, Héctor would try to spare him, but surely he would tell him how it was. He knew he could be trusted with the truth. “Why did he do it?”

“... For penance.”

“Over what?”

“I can’t tell you. It was confess--”

“That doesn’t matter! It’s not like it was a real confession!”

“Miguel--”

“You’re not even a real prie--”

“Enough!” He moved so quickly Miguel had no time to even realize it, no time to react: one moment he was standing by the wall and the next he was pinned against it, a hand around his throat, tight enough to cut off all air. He looked up, stunned, to see Ernesto’s features twisted in… anger? Terror? Both? Whatever it was, it turned into something closer to horror before Miguel’s surprise had the time to morph into fear. The hand on his throat was gone the next moment, and Ernesto crouched in front of him, grasping both of his shoulders.

“Don’t,” he hissed, his grip tight. “It could get me killed, Miguel. You must never say it aloud again, do you understand? Don’t make me-- remind you again.”

The last few words were almost choked out, and for a fleeting moment Miguel wondered what he’d really been about to say. For that one moment, he wondered how much he really knew about the man before him, the musician turned soldier, then fugitive, then priest. A fake priest. What else about him was a lie?

It was a terrifying thought, and Miguel chose to shut it out. He swallowed, still feeling a tightness in his throat, and nodded slowly. It occurred to him that he’d never seen a grown man looking so scared, maybe save that one time he’d fallen off a tree and Héctor had rushed to him as he lay on the ground, all breath knocked out of him.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He found he couldn’t make himself speak any louder than that, but it must have been enough for Ernesto, because he flinched and let go of him like he’d caught fire. He stood, brushing his cassock again, then cleared his throat.

“... It’s all right, muchacho. Go outside-- I’ll deal with everything here.”

The room felt so small, Miguel was all too eager to be out; in the back of his mind there was an irrational fear that Ernesto would grab him again before he made it to the door, but he did not; when Miguel stopped at the doorway and turned back, he was sitting on the chair, hunched slightly forward and giving him his back. He hesitated, then he spoke again, quietly.

“Maybe it wouldn’t get you killed. Actually, I’m… almost sure it wouldn’t. Héctor would never. He’d help you.”

“... That’s nice to know, niño.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I believe you.” Ernesto spoke without speaking, still sitting at Father John’s bedside. “But not everyone is like him.”

“People here like you. And-- everyone knows people are forced into the Federal Army, and you left. They would protect you. Most of them.”

“But not all. And loose lips sink ships.” A long, heavy sigh. “Keep quiet about it, Miguel, and all will be well.”

Miguel opened his mouth to argue, but then something - a tenseness in Ernesto’s shoulders - made him change his mind. “... All right,” he murmured, and ran back to the window to go outside, away from the tiny room, the two men in it, and the secrets they hid.

***

“... All right. Now that it’s just the three of us, has either of you got the slightest clue as to what may be the gringo’s issue? Because Padre Ernesto does, but he babbles about the secret of confession when I ask.”

“As he should, given he’s the parish priest,” Imelda muttered. Sofía seemed to take absolutely no notice of her remark, and just put down three glasses half-filled with wine. Imelda took hers and gulped down a mouthful. “Besides, you are the one who searched his room.”

“And found nothing relevant. Héctor is the one who translated the letter, and it only said he’d been disowned from his family after he converted. Sucks to be him, but that can’t be the reason why he’s… doing… all right, what is that look?”

Héctor cringed a little when Sofía stared at him, and Imelda turned to do just the same. Grasping the glass of wine on the table before him so tightly his knuckles were turning white, he was well aware that he had to look all the world like a hare caught in a snare, looking at an approaching coyote.

“I, uh…” he tried to smile, showing off his missing front tooth, only for the two women to slowly glance at each other and then back at him.

“Héctor,” Imelda spoke, her voice velvet-clad iron. “Was that all the letter said.”

“Weeeell, technically… yes.”

“Technically.”

“It… it was really from his father, and he did sign as ‘Reverend Johnson’. So Father John must be a convert. And the letter was definitely to disown him - he wrote to them, but was rejected.”

Imelda stared at him; he could almost see the cogs in her mind working. “You didn’t lie.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“So what did you omit, Héctor?”

Ah, there it was. He swallowed, shifting on the seat. “It is nothing… nothing dangerous, or that anyone would have needed to know. I swear. I would have told you if…” he paused, and sighed. “You must promise me, this never leaves this room.”

“Depends on what this is.”

“It’s nothing we should concern ourselves about, and-- it could destroy him.”

“All the more reason to--”

“Sofía,” Imelda cut her off, her voice sharp, then turned back to him. There was something in her gaze that stung, something not too far away from a sense of betrayal, but she nodded, giving him a chance to explain. With a sigh, Héctor decided to do just that.

“... All right. That was really all that the letter said. But the place Father John kept it… in the Bible, well… it was on a page of Leviticus. One passage was underlined - 20:13. He underlined nothing else in the entire book, as far as I could see.”

None of them spoke for several moments, his words hanging in the air. Imelda kept staring at him, and he could see comprehension dawning on her face just as Sofía spoke.

“If a man sleeps with a man as with a woman, they have both committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them,” she quoted, and tilted her head. “Good thing it says nothing about two women.”

“Technically, in Paul’s letters to the Romans--”

“The Romans chopped off his head, so look how well that worked out,” Sofía cut her off, and turned back to Héctor. “Padre Juan, a maricón. Well, that explains... a lot.”

Yes, it certainly did: it explained why Father John Johnson punished himself in such a way and why Padre Ernesto - not someone all that strict when it came to rules - balked at the prospect of breaking the secret of his confession. Héctor sighed.

“I’m sorry I kept this from you. But I figured… well, it was of no relevance knowing why his family disowned him, and he’s beating himself up over it as it is - literally beating himself up,” he added, glancing at Imelda. Even in her surprise, she nodded. There was something on her face that seemed pity for a moment, then it was gone and her voice rang out, practical as always.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s of no relevance, and it will never leave this room. We have other concerns. Padre Ernesto can help him.”

“One way or another,” Sofía murmured.

“Sorry, what?”

She gave a bright smile. “Oh, nothing,” she said lightly, and stood to grab the bottle again, refilling the glasses. “Nothing at all.”

***

The first thing John realized when he finally regained consciousness was that it was… dark. Even after he opened his eyes, light was scarce; he could see a bare wall, and the shadows cast on it by the flickering light of a candle at his bedside. His back was burning.

It was confusing and somewhat terrifying, because he’d been standing in full daylight only moments earlier… hadn’t he? He remembered watching the effigy of Judas burn, the explosions; he had been saying something-- someone had replied, laughing, and then… then…

“Juan?”

The memory of searing pain in his back hit him the same moment he heard Father Ernest’s voice, the same moment he realized he was in his bed, his back bared, and panic closed his throat. “Wh-what is the meaning of-- what am I-- what are you--!” John choked out, heart hammering, ignoring the steady throb of his burning back. He tried to pull himself up, only to still when he realized that beneath the sheets pulled up to his waist he was bare. “Who…?”

“Hey, hey,” Father Ernest was saying, putting a hand on the back of his head to push him back down on the mattress. He almost fell back on it, head spinning, feeling faint. “Stay down.”

“Who-- who disrobed me?” John managed, his voice thin with dread. Oh God, it hadn’t been him, had it? He felt so mortified as things were; if he told him he’d been the one to take the cassock and shift off him, he may very well die of shame there and then. He reached down blindly to grab the sheets, to pull it up over his back.

“Doctor Sanchéz did, how else was he supposed-- no, no!” The sheets were snatched from his hand, and dropped back down across his waist. “He said not to cover the wounds.”

“A-avert your eyes!” John protested, but he didn’t dare reach down for the sheets again; part of him feared Father Ernesto would tear it off him entirely if he tried, and that was the very last thing his mind wanted to envision. He struggled to lift himself on his elbows, blood rushing in his ears. “What-- why am I here? Why are you here?”

Father Ernest scoffed. “You just went and fainted on us, Juan. The doctor told us to keep an eye on you.”

Us? Oh God, how many people have seen?

“That-- that was generous of you,” he choked out. “I’m-- better now. Apologies for fainting.”

“Apologies for-- are you serious, Juan?”

John swallowed, looking down at the pillow. He couldn’t even bring himself to correct him on his name, his voice too shaky to trust. “W-well, I'm-- good, so you-- you can be on your wa--”

“The wounds were infected. Were you planning to go on like this until we’d have to skip straight to the last rites?”

It’s not so bad. Can’t have been so bad. He’s trying to scare me, John thought, but there was a coldness in the pit of his stomach that refused to fade. He swallowed. “I--”

“Why did you do this?”

Good God, my child, who has done this to you?

Father’s Joseph’s voice, rang out in the back of John’s mind. It made him want to weep - so many years and miles away, still an abject sinner no holy man could help. Still, he held back.

“Its penance, for my sinful thoughts. Any self-respecting--”

“It’s suicide, idiota,” Father Ernest snapped, causing him to recoil. “Last I checked, that is a capital sin!”

“I didn’t mean to kill myself!”

“Are you really sure?”

Of course I’m sure,  he should tell him, only that words stayed stuck in his throat. No, he hadn’t consciously planned to end his life, but there had been moments when he’d thought that if he were to fall asleep and never awaken, then… then maybe…

No. No, no, no. “I can’t die,” he rasped. “I’d be cast in Hell if I died now, s-suicide or not.”

“Look, you shouldn’t have done… this. I gave no penance. I told you I was working on it--”

“And you did nothing.” John’s voice broke, and his eyes stung. He shut them, refusing to let himself weep. Not before him, he wouldn’t, not again.

“... Look, I’m thinking, all right? If you give me more time--”

“I don’t blame you,” he choked out. “There’s nothing you can do. I’ve been like this since I was a boy-- my will is as weak as my flesh. I came to save this parish and instead I am a taint upon it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. At worst, you’re annoying. But look-- just let me have a think and--”

John didn’t listen to his words, they didn’t matter. Nothing he said could help him now. He shook his head, burrowing his face into the pillow. “I’ll leave Santa Cecilia come morning.”

“You-- what?”

“I’m unfit for my purpose here, and--” I can’t bear to be in your presence any longer “--I will write to my contacts in the States and send the photographs, so that the aid you need is sent here regardless. Then I will write to the archdiocese of Antequera once I leave, to be assigned somewhere else, and… and tell them you’re doing well here,” he added. He wasn’t sure if his letter of complaint about him had been received, as he never got a reply, but he felt that was the moment to make up for it. “They sent the right man. You have heart, experience will come--”

“Don’t!” Father Ernest almost yelled, causing him to recoil. He looked up, startled, to see that he looked… paler than usual. Even in the flickering, faint light of the candle, it was noticeable. He blinked up at him, and he cleared his throat. “Listen, you’re... not well enough to travel. In all, uh, conscience, I can’t let you leave.”

“I… I’m sure that in a couple of days…”

“Not until the doctor says you can,” Father Ernest spoke quickly and as much as he didn’t want to stay there, he… he could see the point. Slowly, John nodded, eyes downcast. He hadn’t expected Father Ernest to worry that much, but he tried not to dwell on it.

If he did… if he did, everything would be more complicated. “... I will listen to the doctor.”

A sigh of relief. “Good. Now get back to sleep.”

John hesitated. “You…”

“Someone’s got to stay through the night. Doctor’s orders. Not arguing with that guy.”

“One of the Sisters… or-- or Brother Hector...”

“I can’t sleep anyway,” Father Ernest replied, his voice oddly hollow. He sat back on the chair, and that was that. John leaned his head back on the pillow, shut his eyes, and did his best to ignore both the burning in his back and his presence.

One was easier to ignore than the other.

***

“Why the long face, kid?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Did the gringo die during the night?”

“Wha-- no!”

“Shame.”

“Cheech!”

As the old gravedigger snickered - a sound Juanita seemed to echo the sound, flapping his wings briefly - Miguel snorted and looked away. His fingers were still plucking the strings of the shiny new guitar Óscar and Felipe had made for him, but he didn’t really feel like playing, much less sing. It wasn’t as much fun without Héctor, anyway, and he was barely around those days.

Sitting back in his old chair, Chicharrón sighed.

“All right, all right. You don’t need to worry about him, muchacho. He’ll be fine.”

Of course he’d say that; he didn’t know that Miguel had seen the state his back was in. Cheech himself probably hadn’t seen it, so he didn’t know just how bad it really was, and now Miguel sorta wished he had accepted the explanation he was given and left it at that.

But he had not. He wanted to see for himself and now he was left with a gruesome sight that wouldn’t leave his mind, and something even worse - the nagging thought that he didn’t really know Ernesto all that well. He had saved him from drowning, he was fun, he could sing and play; he was willing to help him get Héctor and Imelda together and he was helping the town… but ultimately, Miguel knew nothing of him past the fact he’d escaped from the Federal army’s clutches. Or rather, he said he had escaped. Maybe he was still one of them and they sent him.

It can’t be. If he were, he would have killed me when he knew that I had found him out.

That was all true, but now he couldn’t stop thinking of the look on Ernesto’s face. For a moment, his hand around his throat, Miguel had almost thought he could, and would, do it.

You can’t trust Federales.

It could get me killed, Miguel. You must never say it aloud again, do you understand?

I’m… almost sure it wouldn’t. Héctor would never. He’d help you.

And he’d meant it. Héctor would never, Miguel thought again, strumming his guitar. He’d help.

And he knew how to keep a secret.

***

The gringo, Ernesto decided, was by far the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Or maybe not, but he was comfortably in the top five at the very least and clearly determined to climb up the podium. He’d been a pain in the ass since he’d arrived, and the fact he planned to leave should have been amazing news.

Except that of course Padre Juan had to find a way to turn that into a nightmare, too. The prospect he could write to la arquidiócesis de Antequera after leaving, mentioning him, was pretty damn concerning. He didn’t mind some photos of his being sent to some contact he had in the States, who wouldn’t have the slightest clue who the parish priest of Santa Cecilia, a little to the left of nowhere, was supposed to be; but a letter talking about him to what was probably the very archdiocese that sent a different priest and would damn well know it? No señor, he couldn’t let it happen. His life was at stake.

You know they’re going to get you in the end, don’t you?

No, they would not, as long as he had a say in it. He had to find a way to convince Padre Juan to stay, but of course that tight ass couldn’t bear to be in the same parish as the object of his desire. To think he may be risking his cover because some stupid gringo had the hots for Gustavo of all people was maddening; the only way out, as far as Ernesto could tell, was leading Juan to see that he just wasn’t worth the trouble; as for how… well, he had an idea.

“Sofía.”

“That’s my name,” she replied without missing a beat, talking over her bite of bread. Even though they had managed to buy food to last them some time, they had to be careful with rationing; it needed to last them until the gringo could get them aid. But at least it was some breakfast, and he ate it slowly, relieved that at least for now Padre Juan was in the hands of doctor Sanchéz. Sofía eyed him, raising an eyebrow.

“You look like you didn’t sleep a minute.”

“The chair was uncomfortable enough to keep me awake,” Ernesto muttered, not really wanting to think of what had truly kept him up.  “Listen, you said Gustavo is… disappointing. In bed.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not a question I was expecting.”

“Humor me.”

“... Fine. There is only one way for anyone not to be disappointed in bed with him.”

“Which is...?”

“Get into it expecting the biggest disappointment you can imagine. Then you’ll get exactly that. Why, are you considering giving him a go now that Lent is over with and I get to go back to Sister Antonia? I have to advise against it. Strongly.”

Ernesto scoffed. “Thanks but no, thanks,” he muttered, making a face. And changed subject. “Still, it’s kind of cold, how you’re heading back to the fairer sex now that she’ll have you again.”

“Aw, are you going to miss me?”

It helps to have someone in the same bed.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he grumbled. Sofía laughed, and flicked his nose.

“She’s not terribly jealous. Maybe every once in a while, for old times’ sake.”

“Old times,” Ernesto repeated, and had to laugh. God, he’d been there for little over a month, and it felt like years - and not bad ones, either. “I’ll keep in mind your gracious offer, Sister.”

“Subject to availability, of course,” she added. “So, what was the question for?”

Ernesto - who had no clue if Gustavo would even be on board with it - shrugged. “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering,” he said. She didn’t look all that convinced, but thank God the next moment Héctor and doctor Sanchéz walked in and, as they discussed Padre Juan’s condition and treatment as well as his utter idiocy, she seemed to entirely forget the matter.

Or maybe he was too tired to notice the thoughtful looks she kept giving him.

“... Bed rest for at least another week, best if it’s ten days, and keep medicating the wounds,” doctor Sanchéz finished. “He seems eager to get out of town, and good riddance, but as a doctor I can under no circumstances allow him to leave just yet.”

And as someone who’d be utterly fucked, I can under no circumstances allow him to leave at all.

“Of course,” Ernesto said, and smiled. That meant he had a few days at least to convince him to stay; he always had a way with words, and now he also had an idea, so he was… sort of confident he could talk him out of leaving, at least for now. And if he could not, well, there were less pleasant but still effective measures he could take.

He still had a gun hidden in his room, after all.

***

“Hola! Feeling better?”

John was startled out of his bleak thoughts by Father Ernest’s loud, impossibly cheerful voice. He lifted his head from the pillow - doctor Sanchéz had threatened to tie him down if he didn’t keep resting on his stomach with his back uncovered - to look at the door, blinking.

“Father Ernest?” he muttered. His wide smile was such a contrast from the tiredness on his face when he’d left only a couple of hours earlier, he couldn’t even begin to feel embarrassed. “Are you, uh. Are you well?”

“Absolutely,” he exclaimed, still smiling - no, grinning. He sat on the chair by his bed and leaned forward, closer. Entirely too close. “I have a solution!”

“A… a solution? ”

“To your affliction, I mean.”

For a moment, John could only stare. Hope reared its head for a moment, only to be extinguished like a flickering match thrown in a river. It was… kind of him to make an attempt, but it was hopeless; John knew as much now. He’d tried everything - he’d prayed and fasted and punished himself. Father Joseph, the Lord rest his soul, had prayed for him as well and God hadn’t heeded him either.

“ Perhaps it is in God’s plan that it remains your cross to bear,” his mentor had told him one day. John had refused to contemplate that, then. It horrified him to think he may never be free of those urges. He’d felt the flames of Hell at his heels and he’d turned his back to a holy man who had taken him in and tried to help him - a holy man who had only showed him kindness.

“I have to find the solution on my own. And your mercy is only hindering me.”

“Son…”

“I am not your son. I am no one's until I am worthy of it.”

It had been their last meeting, their last exchange aside from the occasional letter, and oh how he’d regretted his outburst when news had reached him of Father Joseph’s death. Even now, thinking of it, he almost teared up. Almost, because he couldn’t allow himself to. Here he was, years later and still as unworthy, with a man who attempted to extend that same kindness.

“You are... a good soul. But I fear there is nothing that can be done, nothing I have not tried.”

“You never gave in to it, did you?”

John swallowed, averting his eyes. Suddenly, his face burned as hot as his back did. “No, never. I swear. I could never--”

“Then it might be worth a try.”

“--even contemplate-- what?? ”

John’s voice left him as an incredulous screech, brain freezing. The part of it that was still sort of working screamed that he must have heard wrong, that Father Ernest couldn’t have possibly be suggesting… he couldn’t… couldn’t.

“I-- I beg your pardon?” John choked out, and Father Ernest lifted his hands.

“I know, I know-- sounds insane, but hear me out. If you give it a go, and hate it, then it could just rid you of any desire going forward, no?”

“I-- I couldn’t--!”

“You tried everything else, what have you got to lose?”

“My soul, that’s what!” John cried out, cheeks on fire. Good God, how could he suggest-- to just imagine… no, no, no, he couldn’t even think of it. “I have-- I have already sinned in my heart. If I commit the sin of sodomy--”

"I’ll give you absolution.”

It was unheard of, absurd. John felt lightheaded, and shook his head. “It… it is… unorthodox.”

“Most of my methods are. But they do work. Think of it,” Father Ernest leaned forward again, causing John to shrink on the mattress. God, why was he so close-- why was he so handsome-- oh Jesus Christ why put him on this path, why him. “You’ve been sinning until now in thought, no? And nothing worked. So why not bite the bullet? If it takes care of it once and for all...”

“N-no,” John managed, and shook his head. He closed his eyes, tears of humiliation threatening to fall. “I could never damn another soul, and-- you don’t understand, I am the most unholy-- if it turns out I… I enjoy...” he fell silent, and dropped his forehead back onto the pillow.

If it turns out I enjoy the act, I don’t know what I’ll do.

“Listen, I know who it is you want.”

Oh. Oh God. Oh God, he knew. Humiliation hit him like a wave, and suddenly John knew the flames of Hell would be a relief in comparison. He shut his eyes tighter, choking out a sob against the pillow. “F-f-forgive me,” he manages. “That’s why I cannot stay, I-- I thought I would be safe in Mexico, I n-n-never thought I could possibly lust after-- after one of your kind.”

He didn’t look up, so he didn’t notice the deeply unimpressed look Father Ernest gave him before he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and spoke again. “Well… anyway. Say that this man is available, and maybe willing to help--”

“What??” John looked up, eyes wide, mind reeling. What he’d just heard was so incomprehensible, it made him flush hot and cold at the same time. Thoughts rushed to his mind, and he shut them down with a desperate shake of his head. No, it couldn’t be, he couldn’t let it happen; he could not allow a holy man to defile himself to help him. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Father Ernest spoke again, causing his brain to come to a grinding halt.

“I know from trustworthy sources that he’s absolutely the worst in bed, so chances are you’ll never lust after him again.”

“... What?”

“Don’t ask me how I know, I won’t name names,” Father Ernest said, shrugging. “I’m just saying, it might be worth a try. Your unfortunate problem will be fixed, I’ll absolve you for the act, and you won’t need to leave.”

“But--”

“It would be a shame if this town lost an asset like you in this moment of need-- and over what? That toad?” he shrugged, entirely unaware of John’s wide-eyed gaze.

“What… what are you talking about?”

Another shrug. “Your awful taste, that’s what. I mean-- Gustavo, seriously?”

John stared. John blinked. John opened his mouth and found he couldn’t force out a single word. John closed his mouth, blinked again, drew in a deep breath. And he screeched.

“What in the blazes are you going on about??"

Father Ernest reared back as though struck, blinking himself, and his patient expression turned into confusion. “I’m saying, I heard that Gustavo-- you know, the sexton-- is… er…” he paused, and blinked. “... Wait. Is it not him?”

“Good God, no!”

“Ah.” Father Ernest seemed to deflate, staring down at him as though he’d just revealed he had wings. He seemed so utterly confused.

Oh Lord, he is an idiot.

“I-I-- I think this conversation should end here, for both of our--” John tried, stumbling over his own words, but Father Ernest didn’t seem to even hear him.

“So wait, who is it then?” he asked, frowning. “It’s not Héctor, it’s not Gustavo, and there is no one else I can think of you’ve spen... any time... around…” his voice faded, and something horrible showed on his feature - comprehension.

As his eyes widened, John found he could no longer stand the sight. He let out a groan, and burrowed his face into the pillow again, waiting for what was sure to follow, the disgust and anger and--

“... I mean, I don't know why I’m even surprised.”

“W-what…?” John stiffened, face still against the pillow, heart jumping in his throat. Why… why didn’t he sound furious? Why was he not running from him, or striking him, or cursing hi--

“I am by far better looking than everyone else in this parish.”

Oh, God. “Please, leave me.”

“I should have known, actually. Who would even look at Héctor or Gustavo while I’m--”

“LEAVE!” The scream tore through John’s throat; even muffled against the pillow, it had the desired effect: after muttering something he did not catch, Father Ernest walked quickly out of the room and closed the door - leaving him alone with the sound of his fading steps, and never-ending, boiling shame.

The prospect of Earth parting beneath him to plunge him into a fiery pit didn’t seem so bad, now.

***

“Héctor? Can we talk a moment?”

A look at the chamaco was enough for Héctor to tell that something was not right. Miguel had turned to him before if anything troubled him - even if sometimes his help ended up making things… just a bit worse - but he’d rarely looked quite that troubled.

It was alarming enough for Héctor to put down his pen and turn to the door, concerned. Songs could wait. “Sure, chamaco. What is it?”

Miguel hesitated, then he walked into the sacristy and closed the door behind himself. “Well…”

“If Dante ate the candles again, we have a few extra ones. No one will notice--”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, he did eat the candles, but… it’s about… something else,” Miguel muttered, and looked down. He seemed to be trying to gather courage, which was… not something he needed to do with him, usually. “You must promise to tell no one…”

*** 

[Back to Part 11]

***

Extra art by Dara!

(Also check out @appatary8523‘s art cause it’s so good!)

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 11

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

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: On one hand I'm sorry for the delay of this chapter, but on the other hand I got to post an Easter-centric chapter on Good Friday and I'm not that sorry. So, uh, happy Easter? Art is by Dara and @senoraluna!

***

“Why is the dog here?”

“Because Miguel wanted to help and he follows Miguel everywhere.”

“We’re in a church!”

“This is an attic.”

“Of a church!”

“Look, it’s not like we let the dog do his business in the chapel,” Ernesto pointed out. Padre Juan made a face that he supposed meant he was conceding the point, and made sure to stay several steps away from the dog, who was sniffing enthusiastically the floor, only to sneeze out clouds of dust. That place was going to need a serious clean-up, Ernesto thought, gaze pausing on the table on the far end. He could see some empty basins, and bottles. “Not fond on dogs?”

“Not especially,” the gringo said a bit pointedly, walking up to the table. “They’re boisterous, unhygienic, and they carry--” he trailed off, stilling. “Good God, a Brownie!”

“A what?”

“An Eastman Kodak Brownie!”

“Can you go back to speaking Spanish?”

Padre Juan turned, and Ernesto was so startled by his expression - he was grinning like a child, he really was - that at first he didn’t notice the aluminium box he was holding. “This camera,” the gringo said, holding it up. It caused Miguel, who was still struggling to contain Dante, to light up.

“Oh! Yes, that’s Padre Edmundo’s camera! Everyone was curious about it because it doesn’t have a tripod like his old one.”

“It’s far better than I was expecting. This will make everything much easier,” Padre Juan said. He looked down at it, wiping the dust off it with his sleeve. “I had a camera much like this, Father bought it as a gift when I turned--” he trailed off suddenly, and his gaze turned oddly blank. It was such a stark contrast to his unexpected giddiness it made something in Ernesto’s stomach clench. Beside him, Miguel looked confused.

“So, uh. These are commonplace in the States?” Ernesto asked, not really caring to know but wanting to say something to snap him out of it. Luckily, it worked: the question seemed to shake Padre Juan out of whatever thoughts crossed his mind. He nodded, the smile back on his face.

“Yes, quite. These were a huge commercial success - it’s the No. 2 Brownie, see? An improvement on the original I used to have, that one was made of cardboard with artificial leather. Still, it served me well - astonishing in its simplicity. It uses a simple meniscus lens, the shutter is integrated-- see? And the viewfinder! My old one did not--”

“I think we get the picture,” Ernesto, who knew precisely nothing about cameras aside from the fact you’re supposed to pose in front of them, cut him off. It seemed a better thing to say than ‘it’s all Greek to me and I really don’t care’.

“What do you need to get it to work?” Miguel asked.

The gingo looked around. “Film-- number 120, I believe. Kodak produces specific film for each specific camera. Hopefully there will be some of that around here, too. Not much point in having a camera you have no film for. I am amazed to see one of these here.”

“We don’t live on the moon, you know,” Ernesto grumbled, but he was still too taken aback by the absolute glee on the gringo’s face to be too annoyed. He hadn’t seen him that excited over anything before. And really, a weirdly excited Father John was easier to deal with than the sanctimonious ass he generally was. So, no complaints.

For now.

***

“Run this by me again - we’re supposed to pose and look holy for the gringo.”

“Sister Sofía! Padre Ju-- John has a name and you’ll be using it! Have you learned nothi--”

“... Did you almost call him Juan, Madre?”

“A-absolutely not! I have enough respect--”

“He keeps calling you Mother Gretchen.”

The remark caused Madre Gregoria’s wrinkled face to twist for a moment in the darkest scowl Imelda had ever seen on her - and that was saying… a lot. “Well, he’s a priest and--”

“An insufferable ass,” Padre Ernesto supplied, causing the old bruja to nod.

“Yes, accurate.”

Héctor smiled a little. Behind la Madre Superiora, several nuns covered their mouths to hide a smirk, or coughed. “Really now, Madre?”

A shrug. “Well, he is the parish priest. Who am to argue his judgment?”

Padre Ernesto laughed. “Your trust moves me. To answer So-- Sister Sofía’s question, yes. He thinks some photographs would help convince… whoever there is to convince that we’re really deserving of some support. Which we need. Like, a lot. No objections there, right?”

No, of course, none at all; Imelda wasn’t surprised. Their situation was not yet desperate - donations had helped them buy some more food - but it was serious, and they needed funds to ensure a steady supply of food until… well, until harvest, at least. Or until that war was over.

“So, he’s going to take pictures during Mass?”

“Among other things, yes. So, let’s all act like good Catholics and--”

“We are good Catholics,” Imelda said, maybe a bit more pointedly than she should have, and entirely ignored the glare from the Mother Superior. Padre Ernesto, however, didn’t seem fazed. Considering that their first proper introduction had happened while they both turned up at a guy’s place to beat the crap out of him, Imelda would have been surprised if he were.

“Yes, of course, but you know how the gringo is. Let’s keep him happy.”

“He’s impossible to make happy,” Gustavo muttered sourly from his corner. It was the only contribution he’d given to the meeting up to that point, and Imelda barely held back from rolling her eyes. She noticed that Héctor’s own eyes twitched upwards for a moment before turning to her, sharing with her an exasperated look. Look who’s talking.

“This is still worth a try,” Padre Ernesto was saying, his voice calm but devoid of the usual warmth. “Let’s pose for nice pictures, so that he can argue for us and get us the money.”

“You mean charity,” Héctor said, causing Padre Ernesto to raise an eyebrow.

“Was that such an important distinction to make?”

“Makes us sound better.”

“... Point taken. We need charity, so let’s all behave and watch--”

“I’m not gonna watch my mouth,” Chicharrón loudly informed them all, despite having never been spoken to once. The old gravedigger seemed entirely unaffected by the looks he got from all nuns present, herself, and Héctor. He shrugged, leaning back on his seat, peg leg stretched before him. Imelda sort of liked him, but right there and then she’d have happily strangled him with a rosary. “Words aren’t going to show on photos, no?”

“... Fair enough,” Padre Ernesto replied. It was the voice of a man who’d decided to pick his battles, and that the one at hand was not worth fighting. “Not to worry though, I don’t think he will want to photograph you specifica--"

“Padre Ernesto should be in the photos,” la Madre Superiora spoke up suddenly. As everyone fell quiet and turned slowly to look at her, she had the good grace to look embarrassed and shrugged. “Well, he’s… appealing.”

“He is,” the Delgado window - who was mainly there due to the fact telling her anything was the quickest way to make sure the entire village would know it by dusk - nodded in agreement.

As all nuns suddenly looked down as though very interested in their shoes, some of them coughing again, Imelda shot a quick glance to her left. Sofía was staring at the Mother Superior like she’d never seen her before, while Padre Ernesto looked unfazed. If anything, he seemed flattered: the smile that followed was much more of a grin.

“Well, as the parish priest, I suppose that cannot be helped,” he said. “He will want to take pictures of the children at Mass, so make sure all those in your care look at their best.”

“Well, not too much at their best,” Héctor muttered. “Last thing we need is for some Bishop in the States to decide we don’t look like we’re in enough trouble to get the money.”

“Charity,” Padre Ernesto corrected him, elbowing his side with a grin. “Makes us sound better, I think you said.”

Héctor laughed, and it was… nice to hear. All their meetings had been about such serious matters lately, Imelda had found she missed his laugh. “Right. Charity.”

“Also, he will take pictures of the Palm Sunday procession tomorrow, so you better be the best Jesus you can be,” Padre Ernesto added, and Héctor smiled.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Get ready to do the same for el Vía Crucis, too.”

Héctor’s smile faded in a confused look. “... What? Who decided I’m going to--”

Padre Ernesto waved his hand, putting an arm over his shoulders. “I did, just now. I’m sure you’ll do great. Can someone ask Prospero to get to work with the cross?”

“I already did, Padre,” Gustavo said magnanimously, and grinned in Héctor’s direction. “I told him to make it as heavy as the one our Lord had to carry,” he added, gaining himself a blank look from Héctor. It took all of Imelda’s self-control not to grab her crucifix and hurl it to his face.

“Oh, how generous,” Héctor said drily. Gustavo shrugged.

“For realism.”

“Of course.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Padre Ernesto said, smiling at Gustavo as he let go of Héctor’s shoulders. “Great thinking. You should be given a part, too.”

That caused Gustavo’s own smirk to waver. “A-ah, that would be kind of you, but--”

“Oh, I insist! You earned it, after all. You’ll be Simon of Cyrene, helping out Lord carry the heavy cross,” he added, and Héctor had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh; Imelda could see that even from a distance. She almost smirked herself… until Padre Ernesto spoke again. “And Ime-- Sister Gisela, you’ll be Verónica.”

Santa Verónica, the woman who wiped Jesus’ face clean on his way to crucifixion. The thought made her falter a little - it seemed something too… too intimate to be doing. As she opened her mouth to protest, she didn’t notice Héctor’s foot suddenly landing on Padre Ernesto’s, causing him smile to become forced. “I’m… touched, but maybe someone else-- la Madre Superiora--”

“Ay, la Madre Superiora should be Holy Mary, I’d say,” he cut her off, and tilted his head towards Madre Gregoria, whose cheeks were quickly reddening.

“Oh-- that would be-- a honor, but--”

“No buts, you’d be amazing,” Padre Ernesto replied with a wave of his hand and a wide, charming smile. Imelda could distinctly see Sofía rolling her eyes. “The other Sisters can be the women of Jerusalem. Would that be all good with you?”

As the sisters in questions nodded - several of them glancing in Imelda’s direction with knowing smirks and making her wish to kill Padre Ernesto, all of them and herself in quick succession - Padre Ernesto smiled.

“All settled, then,” he exclaimed. “Just act at your best starting tomorrow, and Padre Ju-- John will immortalize it. Any questions?” “Juanita doesn’t like cameras,” Chicharrón declared.

It took Padre Ernesto a clear effort not to roll his eyes. “We won’t involve your rooster more than strictly necessary - just make it crow three times before el Vía Crucis starts, for drama. Anything else? No? Wonderful. Now go and spread the word. And most of all, smile for the camera.”

***

“Are you ready or not?”

“Yes, yes. Just… give me a minute.”

“It’s an old donkey, Héctor. Are you seriously afraid to climb on a donkey?”

“It’s not that, it’s… Ceci did a great job on this tunic, but it doesn’t help and the wig keeps getti-”

“Por Dios, just get on this damn burro!”

“Hey! Careful how you speak to Jesus!” Héctor grumbled, finally sitting on the saddle. He wasn’t a good rider, be it on a donkey or a horse, and it sure wouldn’t kill Gustavo to be a bit more patient. As a response, Gustavo scoffed.

“You’re just playing a part, cabrón.”

“Do you kiss you mamá with that mouth?” Héctor snapped back, only to of course regret it the second it left his mouth, as Gustavo’s frame stiffened. He remembered suddenly of all the times, when they’d been kids, when Gustavo had repeated over and over that he was not an orphan like them, that his mamá was alive and would be back for him soon, any day now, any day now.

Mierda.

“I-- lo siento. I didn’t mean--”

“Just get going,” Gustavo snapped, and suddenly smacked the rear of the donkey, which bolted forward. All right, it didn’t quite bolt, but it set out at a quicker pace than Héctor would have liked, heading towards the main road where, he knew, all of Santa Cecilia was waiting with palm branches… and, in Padre Juan’s case, with a camera.

Make us look good, Padre Ernesto had said, but it was easier said than done, clinging as he was to a trotting donkey. Maybe if he pulled just a little on the bridles, he could make it slow down before he made the entrance and--

“Woof! Woof!”

“Wha-- Dante?” Under Héctor’s stunned gaze, Miguel’s dog appeared - seemingly out of thin air - in front of the donkey, who abruptly slowed down, clearly taken aback by the dog walking ahead of it, head turned back to Héctor rather than towards the path ahead. With a sigh of relief, Héctor smiled.

“Gracias,” he called out. He straightened himself on the saddle, made sure the long wig was still in place, and headed down the main road and into the town.

***

The whole arrangement was… picturesque, John had to admit.

People stood on both sides of the road, waving blessed palm branches, dressed up in their best clothes - which were… quite colorful, but he could allow that. After all, Jesus’ arrival to Jerusalem was a day of celebration; he would talk to Father Ernest about having people wear something slightly more subdued during the Via Crucis procession on Good Friday, later.

For now, he would take pictures.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Father Ernest said, his voice smug as it could be. Normally, John would have reminded that pride is the root of all other deadly sins-- but right now, he was too focused on capturing what was happening before his eyes. Father Edmund had left behind a good amount of film, but it wasn’t infinite, so he had to make each shot count.

The parishioners with the palm branches - the people of Jerusalem celebrating Jesus’ arrival in their holy city, less than a week before turning on him, choosing the life of a criminal over his and sending him to his death. Click.

Brother Hector - a slightly unconvincing Jesus, though no for lack of trying - waving at the crowd as his donkey kept going, over the palm branches thrown in its path, towards the main square and then the church. Click.

“Maybe he should have cried.”

“... What?” Father Ernest blinked. “Why?”

“In the Gospel according to Luke-- never mind. The other three didn’t mention it, anyway.”

John moved along the road, taking more pictures - a child on his father’s shoulders holding up a branch, a little girl throwing hers right before the donkey, a woman crossing herself, the twin boys who had organised everything smiling so widely, Mich-- Miguel with them; there was chatter and cheering and laughed, none of which the camera could capture.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

By the time they reached the parish, John was smiling, holding tightly onto the camera. He took another shot as Brother Hector dismounted, the church in the background; a couple more as Father Ernesto joined him, smiled, patted his shoulder. Another one as they smiled at the children from the orphanage, crouching to take something - flowers? - from a few of the little girls. They both looked so at ease, making the children laugh, and John took more pictures.

Click. Click.

Father Ernest laughed at something a boy had said, and he turned towards him, the smile still on his face. He looked positively delighted, and John’s finger froze on the shutter, heart leaping in his throat. To his relief - and a pang of something that wasn’t relief at all - Father Ernest’s eyes moved to his left, where Miguel was holding up a basket full of donations. He hadn’t been smiling at him, after all. His heart sank from his throat down to his stomach. What he felt now was not quite lust, but something similar and yet different, and even more terrifying.

Focus, focus, focus. A few more pictures, just a few more. Do your duty.

He took several more pictures, trying to keep himself from turning the camera towards Father Ernest - but of course, when he developed them in the attic, he found he appeared in most of the shots. He told himself that was normal - he was the parish priest, he was there, that couldn’t be helped. He could almost convince himself of that, really. Just almost.

That day’s photos developed, John forced himself to tear his gaze away. He excused himself from dinner and went to his room, to deal with his affliction in the only way he knew.

***

“All right, we’re good to go.”

“We look nothing like women of Jerusalem,” Imelda muttered, adjusting her headdress. Of course they couldn’t change in different clothing - as nuns, they had to keep wearing their robes - which made including them in the Via Crucis procession especially stupid.

“Well, neither will anyone else,” Sofía reasoned, and handed her a piece of linen with a smile. “Here you go, Verónica. Make sure to wipe our Lord’s face nicely.”

Imelda took the linen with a scoff and a suggestion as to where to put it that was unbecoming of a novice, or any kind of lady in the first place. Sofía just grinned.

“With Lent almost over with, I’m really hoping to have Antonia see to that.”

“You’re the worst nun I have ever met.”

“And I want to keep the title, which is why I’ve been trying to get you out of here since day one.”

Wait, what? “You have some nerve, trying to imply I’d somehow be worse--”

“Assuming you’d be better? That’s pride.”

“That is common sense!” Imelda snapped, only to get an angelic smile and a pat on the hand.

“Temper, novice. A good nun holds her temper,” she said, all sweetness and light. Madre Gregoria’s voice was the only thing that kept Imelda from using the linen cloth to strangle her.

“Let’s get going, everyone-- you chattered enough! Silence is virtue!”

“Yes, Holy Mary,” Sofía muttered with a roll of her eyes, and Imelda felt like strangling her a little less. Maybe she’d settle for a smack, later, away from witnesses. Right now, she would just focus on the procession and getting that nonsense over with.

She really hoped the gringo would get them some funding from his church in the United States as he said he would, because it was the only reason why she put up with any of it.

***

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“What kind of Jesus can’t endure a bit flagellation?”

“The kind that’s just pretending to be Jesus, Cheech. And that’s unnecessary, anyway. No one’s gonna see a thing until I step out.”

“Was trying to get you into the character,” Chicharrón muttered, but there was a smirk on his face when he left the sacristy, leaving him standing there with the cross - it was really heavy, dammit - across his shoulder. Of course he was smirking, Héctor thought, adjusting the crown of thorns - not real thorns, thank God, which was what he’d have gotten if Gustavo had a say in it. Why had he let himself be talked into it?

“You’re looking good,” Padre Ernesto muttered, and grinned, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, heading off to steal hearts.”

“That’s… not exactly what this procession is about,” Héctor pointed out, only to be ignored.

“Now, when you come across Verónica, make sure to look as tired and suffering as you can. And put those eyelashes to work. Don’t make my perfect casting go to waste.”

“Hijo de puta.”

“What?”

“... Praise the Lord,” Héctor muttered. Padre Ernesto laughed.

“That’s just what I thought you’d said.”

***

This is so stupid.

The thought kept circling in Imelda’s head as her hands clenched on the linen cloth she was supposed to use to dry Héctor’s face. Jesus’ face, really - that was how she should think of it. For as long as the procession went, Héctor was meant to be symbolically represent the son of God, so it wasn’t his face she’d be wiping, not really. In a way, it made sense.

… Except that it didn’t, who was she kidding? She got stuck into that stupid role because Padre Ernesto didn’t know any better - she refused to consider he had known about the implications because he was the parish priest, por Dios, for all his eccentricities he wouldn’t do a such thing - and now she would have to wipe Héctor’s face.

Which wasn’t supposed to be a big deal at all, but it was and she rather resented that.

This is ridiculous. It will take a moment. I’ll do it, and it will be over with.

The cheering went up, and Imelda looked down the road to see that Héctor was staggering forward, rather good at feigning exhaustion despite the fact he wasn’t carrying the cross: that was currently being dragged by Gustavo, as the angriest  Simon of Cyrene Imelda had ever witnessed. Despite everything, it made her smirk a little.

Serves him right.

Of course, all too soon he had done his part and he quite literally dropped the wooden cross right back on Héctor. He staggered - Imelda suspected it wasn’t an act at all now - and kept walking, dragging the cross… until, of course, he paused before her.

He looked… awful, really: his exhaustion hadn’t been an act. Panting, all sweaty and wig askew, with hair stuck to his face and neck, he sure looked the part of the suffering man condemned to death. Nothing especially pleasant to look at, and yet…

… And yet.

Héctor looked back at her, and he seemed to freeze for a moment. There was nothing unusual about her appearance, she was sure, but his eyes were wide and fixed, jaw slack like he was looking at something incredible. He looked mesmerized-- something in her stomach twisted-- oh God, she had to do something.

Imelda leaned forward and went to wipe his face - gently, carefully. To her relief, his eyes closed a moment. One more moment of that gaze, and… she didn’t know what she’d do or say, and she she was glad she didn’t have to find out. When he opened his eyes to look at her again, he looked oddly lost - then he recoiled when Imelda sharply tilted her head - go ahead.

He staggered away, wavering a little more than he had before. She watched him go on for a time, dragging the cross. Some distance ahead were the other sisters, as the women of Jerusalem, but Imelda refused to look their way, keeping her gaze fixed on the cross. Any moment now he would have the second fall, then… then… wasn’t he supposed to fall about now, before reaching her sisters?

“Fall, Héctor,” she heard Miguel muttering, perfectly audible somewhere the left. “You must fall!”

Something that looked suspiciously like Chicharrón’s peg leg shot shead from somewhere in the crowd, hitting Héctor behind a knee and causing him to finally fall for the second time. Only a couple more stations, and then he would get to the point where Jesus would stripped of his clothes aaand no, no, she had to turn her thoughts to something else entirely just about now.

Imelda looked down at the linen cloth in her hands, face aflame and all to aware of several pairs of eyes fixed on her.

***

“Everything hurts.”

“I think you did great.”

“Everything hurts everywhere. I was not supposed to fall off the cross. ”

“But you absolutely nailed it the second time. Heh, nailed, get i--”

“Suffering is the meaning of the Good Friday, Brother Héctor. Certainly your pain is nothing compared to what our Lord went through.”

Padre Juan’s voice seemed to lower the temperature in the chapel by several degrees, causing Héctor to still, hand halfway to his aching back, and Ernesto to roll his eyes. Whatever magic finding that camera had worked on the gringo, it clearly had ran its course: he was even more standoffish than usual, lately, and ate his meals in his room rather than joining them.

He spoke little with anyone, and with him even less; he was stiff even in the way he stood, and when he sat he hardly even touched the backrest. It made Ernesto wonder what exactly had crawled up the guy’s ass and died, but he decided to try being civil.

“Taken good pictures?” he asked.

A sharp nod. “Quite,” was the curt reply. No more details, no giddy talk about the photos he’d taken and how good the camera was. “No, I’d like to use this chapel for its purpose and pray.”

Héctor and Ernesto glanced at each other with one clear, shared thought - the hell is wrong with him now? - and it was Héctor to try again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us--”

“You’re welcome to join me in prayer, if you can be bothered,” Padre Juan snapped, kneeling. He did so slowly and stiffly, and maybe Ernesto should have wondered, but he did not: he was just too annoyed. Padre Culo Blanco could be an ass all he wanted: Ernesto was done worrying for him. He had no idea when or why he’d even started worrying in the first place.

“Maybe later,” he muttered, and turned to talk out of the chapel, gesturing for Héctor to follow him so that they could talk more about the very obvious look he and Imelda had exchanged during the procession.

Neither of them noticed the way Father John’s features twisted in a pained grimace as he braced his elbows, leaned his forehead on his joined hands, and prayed in silence.

***

“You know, you were close enough to kiss.”

“I am not hearing this.”

“I’m sure you thought of it.”

“I did not!”

“You were turning red, Imelda.”

Oh, damn her. She couldn’t deny that, could she? “... I wasn’t thinking of kissing him,” she finally muttered. After all, it was not a lie. She’d been thinking of him nearly naked.

Far from discouraged, Sofía raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what were you imagining?”

“None of your business. Are we done now? We have priorities here,” Imelda snapped, putting some more rolls of clean bandages and disinfectant - she could even get her hand on some morphine, in case someone needed to dull the pain - in what had been a fruit crate long ago.

“Yes, yes, the medical supplies. Viva la Revolución. We can still talk while we do this.”

Imelda groaned. “And do we absolutely have to?”

Sofía grinned. “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, we do.”

***

“This is awfully unnecessary.”

“First time seeing la quema de Judas?”

“The-- the hanging and burning of some puppet is-- unbecoming of such a solemn occasion!”

“I’m pretty sure they do that somewhere in Europe, too. Feliz Sabado de Gloria.”

“That doesn’t make it appropriate!”

“Look, we’re burning Judas. We’ve got more than a few reasons to be sort of pissed at Judas.”

“That thing doesn’t even look like him.”

“... What, you knew him personally now?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Padre Juan grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at the scene before him. The effigy of Judas was hanging high, on a rope stretched between two houses at the opposite sides of the plaza. Truth be told, it looked an awful lot like Victoriano Huerta; it was clear to everyone as it was clear to the gringo, but of course none of them said as much aloud.

Plus, at least they hadn’t made him white as someone had suggested only half-jokingly at one point. Ernesto felt the gringo had no reason to complain there. “Not taking any pictures?” he asked, lightly elbowing him as he kept watching the crowd all around the effigy parting to allow Miguel to walk up to it, head held high and all solemn-eyed, holding a burning torch.

Padre Juan scoffed, stepping aside. “I’m supposed to try making the lot of you look virtuous.”

“Burning evil is virtuous. I think. The Church did that a lot.”

“Dark and ignorant times,” was the sour reply. “Evil is to be vanquished from our lives each day, every day. There is no need nor point to make a… a spectacle out of it.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes and turned to retort, but words died in his mouth when he noticed one of Padre Juan’s hands had slipped under his sleeve where, he knew, this fingers were now running over a thin raised scar. His mouth was pulled in a tight line, skin even paler than usual; Ernesto paid no mind to that. Only minutes later, he’d wish he had.

I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment. They did the right thing.

“... Well, you know. It’s a bit of a distraction for what’s going on,” he muttered in the end.

“Comfort should be sought in prayer, not with these-- fetishes,” he pointed out stiffly, but he let the matter drop. Not that Ernesto would have heard him either way, because the next moment two very familiar voices reached him.

“Hola, Padre!”

“Like our Judas?”

Ernesto glanced down at Imelda’s brothers, and grinned. “Love it,” he said. It was true: he liked the idea of watching the face of the bastard who’d had him drafted in that damn army go up in flames. He liked it a lot. “Padre Juan here was just saying how impressed he is,” he added. The gringo stiffened, but the boys paid him no mind.

“Thank you for letting us put fireworks in the effigy!”

“Ah, you’re wel--” Ernesto trailed off, brain finally catching up. By his side, Padre Juan looked extremely alarmed. “Wait-- I didn’t give you permission to stuff fireworks in it!”

The boys gave him two wide, identical grins.

“But you didn’t tell us not to.”

“Ah. Mierda.”

“Father Ernest! Langua--”

The rest of the tirade never happened, because Miguel had set fire to the effigy of Judas and that was it. A loud crackling noise, followed my whistles and smoke, caused the crowd in the plaza to back away from the effigy - but none of them seemed scared, or even particularly surprised, which Ernesto supposed could be put down to the fact most of them knew what to expect from the twins.

Flames enveloped the effigy, and more bangs rang out, greeted with cheers and laughter. Judas, aflame, rocked on one side and then the other before yet another bang caused it to jolt; the rope holding it up gave in, and the remains fell on the ground, jolting with each subsequent crackle to roaring laughter - including Ernesto’s own.

“That was great!” Miguel exclaimed, seemingly having popped by him out of nowhere after setting Judas on fire and dropping the torch. “Wait, where is Dante? Aw, I think he got scared…”

“There was-- nothing great about it!” Padre Juan snapped. People around them were already rolling their eyes and muttering to one another, bright smiles fading. “That was an awfully irresponsible and-- and blasphemous--”

All right, enough. He wasn’t going to let him sour the mood for everyone, so Ernesto forced himself to smile. “Hah! Come on, it was funny. Lighten up,” he laughed, and slapped a hand on his back.

John screamed.

It was unexpected, and loud enough to make everyone fall into a stunned silence. Ernesto stepped back, struggling to understand what the hell had just happened, just as the gringo took a staggering step forward and then sank on his knees, trying and failing to hold back something that sounded much like a sob. His skin, already even paler than usual, was now chalk white; he wheezed like all air had been used up for his cry.

“Pad-- Father John?”

“What is it?”

“Is he all right?”

“Come on, it was just a pat!”

“Is he pretending?”

“He’s got to be, it was nothing!”

“What is it with gringos…”

“Ju-- John?” Ernesto called out, still taken aback, and crouched. Father John Johnson was hunched over as though in immense pain - eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched and face reddened. It was alarming as it was, but seeing tears escaping the corner of his eyes made it worse. “What is it? That wasn’t me, I didn’t-- can you stand up, or…?”

“Make way,” someone spoke, and suddenly Sofía was there, crouching next to him. “What did you do?” she hissed.

Ernesto blinked. “Nothing! You saw it, it was just a--”

“I'm not talking to you,” she cut him off, giving Padre Juan an exasperated look before glancing back, at the crowd around them. Miguel and the twins looked completely lost, and a few men were moving closer, Héctor first of all.

“What happened? Is he ill?” he asked, eyes shifting to Ernesto like he thought he had an explanation. And he didn’t… but someone else did, or so it sounded like.

“It's nothing serious,” Sofía replied. “Call doctor Sanchez to the parish, we’ll take it from here.”

“N-no, I don’t need--” Padre Juan mumbled, but no one bothered to listen. Sofía glanced at Ernesto, who nodded and grabbed the gringo’s arm, passing over his shoulders before he stood. The idea was to help him walk, but he was so limp he pretty much had to carry him.

Only once they got to the parish, with no one else around and Padre Juan seemingly semi-conscious, did he speak again. “So, what is the deal with him? You sound like you know what the hell is going on and I’d really appreciate being filled in, because--”

Sofía sighed. “I think this idiota whipped himself raw.”

“What??”

“Explains the shriek when you gave him a pat. Don’t ask why, I have no clue whatsoever,” she added, entirely unaware that Ernesto did, in fact, have a clue. More than just a clue, really.

I need penance, he’d said. Prayer is not enough, he’d said.

“Crazy gringo,” he muttered under his breath as he carried him inside, hoping he hadn’t fucked himself up too badly.

***

“Not a bad place to be, huh? God, I was never in Veracruz before and I already love it.”

“Mph.”

“Oh, come on. It’s much better than marching under the sun all day. Getting stationed to Veracruz is the best thing that happened to any of us since this damn war started.”

“It’s the best thing that happened to me since your wife, Sergio!”

“Shut up, cabrón! At least I have a wife!”

“And who knows who else has her now!”

There was laughter, a couple of glasses thrown on a background of drunken singing. It made Santiago scoff, and he finished his own glass, sitting on the stone steps a little outside the cantina where half of his battalion spent much of their time, drinking and boasting and doing little else. He stared down towards the harbor and the sea, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Discipline had never been all that great, with so many of his comrades having been picked up from the streets or out of prisons; however, it was quickly getting out of hand now that they were there - supposedly to defend Veracruz in case the Constitutional Army decided to attack.

What a joke. Most of the men here couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag.

Not that anyone really expected to fight, with Carranza’s forces far enough not to be an imminent threat; by all accounts, they had little to nothing to worry about, and yet… and yet.

“A peso for your thoughts,” Nando spoke somewhere behind him, and then he was sitting on the steps by him, a shot glass in each hand. He handed one to him. “As long as it’s not something on how we should be down south looking for de la Cruz, in which case I don’t want to hear it.”

Santiago let out another scoff, but he did accept the glass. “I’m thinking a bunch of children in a wooden cart could overpower us if they show up right now with all men drunk.”

“Oh, come now. They’re away from their families and celebrating Easter, and no one is coming.”

“We’re getting too comfortable.”

“And you’re too uptight. Come on, drink-- ah, look, midnight! Feliz Domingo de Pascua.”

They toasted, drank, and Santiago made an effort enjoy the uneventful Easter in Veracruz as much as he could, trying not to think of of how wrong it was, not having Beto there to enjoy the relative peace with him.

And trying to ignore the gut feeling that it wouldn’t last.

 ***

[Back to Part 10]

[On to Part 12]

***

A bit of extra art by Dara:

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 10

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

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Chapter title suggested by @theprairienerd​: The Miracle of Bread and Padre Ernesto’s Sausage. Art in this chapter is by @senoraluna​. Extra art at the end is by Dara, who’s a gift that keeps on giving.

***

“We were hoping for more food, Sister.”

As the remark she’d half-expected came, Imelda sighed and glanced down at the sack she had just handed to the man who’d asked to be called ‘José’. It was only half-filled with canned food, dried beans, hard cheese and salted beef. She nodded, her mouth pulled in a thin line. “It’s all we can spare.”

“I see more food in that cupboard,” one of the men muttered, glancing towards the end of the room. He seemed about to step towards it, but Imelda got in the way.

“Food that we cannot spare,” she said, her voice firm. The man faltered, and stepped back, but another seemed less impressed.

“We can’t fight Federales on an empty stomach.”

“We have children to feed. The ones in our care, and families in poverty. There isn’t much to go around for anybody in town.”

“We’re fighting for the future of Mexico!” Someone protested, and Imelda lifted her chin, glaring at him. She was acutely aware of the fact she was outnumbered - several men, all of them armed, in a dark cellar - but she didn’t allow herself to be afraid. She could not.

“They are the future of Mexico! If the people starve, what will be left to fight for?”

A few stepped back, but one still snorted, and glared back. “Well, I am hungry. I’ve been fighting for a year. I risk my hide every damn day. Get out of my--”

Several things happened in quick succession: the man put a hand on her shoulder to push her away; there was a sudden smacking sound, a cry of pain, and the man staggered back before Imelda could even raise her hand to strike him herself. He knelt, hands to the side of his face, blood running through his fingers.

“The next one who even thinks of laying a hand on a nun will lose it,” José was saying, riding crop still raised. There was a hunting knife at his belt, and his free hand went to its handle. “Objections?”

His question was met with mumbling, shaking heads, and even a few men crossing themselves. With a satisfied nod, José turned back to her. “I understand, Sister. Our man did warn me the supplies were growing scarce - we’ll take no more food out of your mouths. Do you think you can provide medical supplies, if needed?”

Imelda nodded. “That I can do,” she said, getting a nod right back.

“Thank you, sister.”

They left the cellar with what she was able to give them, but Imelda didn’t move for a good while, trying to think of something - anything - that she could do now. They needed more food, too, before their supplies ran out; hardly anything was growing in the piece of land the parish owned, and it looked like things were about to get even harder for everyone. Something had to be done.

She had a duty to support the fight against Huerta's regime, but wouldn’t let a single child go hungry under her watch.

***

It wasn’t often that John stood before a mirror to look at himself. His body mattered not, a husk of flesh he would discard when he passed on to the next life, and his looks mattered even less. He’d long since stopped paying any mind to the marks that criss-crossed his back - old scars and new ones, half-healed welts and some still scabbed over.

The vast majority, he had inflicted over himself - but not the very first ones, those that hurt the most. Those were a parting gift, the very last lesson Reverend David Johnson had ever taught him, he who’d taught him everything he’d know up to that moment. A lesson in pain while he begged for forgiveness and guidance he would not receive.

The beating had been brutal but, after that first attempt at shielding himself with one arm - the only attempt - he’d only covered his face and endured. Even the pain was a relief compared to the horror of seeing his shameful secret uncovered, the disgust on his parents’ face.

Honor your Father and Mother, the Bible said, and oh God, had he failed; the punishment his father was visiting upon him, bringing the rod down on him without a word until his fine Sunday clothes were torn and bloodied, was well-deserved. He was a man of God; certainly he would know best of to handle it, how to cure him. If the salvation of his soul came at the price of his flesh, he would still count himself blessed.

The anger of the head of a family is never without reason, he’d tell Fernanda Rodríguez thirteen years later; he’d believed it, then. His father sought to correct him, as a father should. Once this was done, he’d thought, he’d extend his hand to help him up… but he never did.

Suddenly the blows were over and, as he lay on the ground in a ball of pain - it hurt to breathe, something was wrong, and his left hand throbbed - his father dropped the rod. “Leave.”

That one word cut deeper than any blow, filled him with more horror than he thought a human being could withstand. Surely he’d misheard, it couldn’t be, and it was with that thought that he painfully pulled his hand away form his face to peer up, still curled on one side. He couldn't muster the courage to look at his father in the face, but he did glance at his mother. She sat on the same armchair she’d been on when he’d walked through the door and she was looking away, face turned to the fireplace, entirely expressionless.

No, John thought in stunned disbelief. That wasn’t possible-- God please, no. It couldn’t be happening. It was his father, his mama. They had taught him all he knew, guided him, watched him grow with pride. They held his hands as he learned how to walk, stayed at his bedside when he was sick, kissed him when he’d cried over a scraped knee or a bad dream.

“Ma-- mama,” John called out, his voice so thin and childish. She didn’t even blink, didn’t turn, and John knew no one would wake him from that nightmare. No one was going to kiss it better.

No, no, no. Please. I’m sorry. I’m trying.

“Mama,” he pleaded again, voice breaking up and eyes filling with tears, wanting more than anything for her to come comfort him - and suddenly, she stood… still without looking at him.

There were only a few steps from the armchair to the fireplace; she paused before it and let his journal drop, the journal they had so solemnly given him when he'd turned ten; it smoked on the embers for a few moments before it caught fire in a bright flare, so bright John could believe was gazing into Hell itself.

No, this is good. My sins are burning away. They can help me. They will help me.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper. “Please, I did nothing. It was only thoughts, I prayed God to cleans me, I never acted on-- please, don’t--”

“Stand up.” His father’s voice was cold as ice, and John, still stunned, did stand up; slowly and painfully, but he obeyed, as always. He always would if only they gave him a chance, if they--

That frail hope was dashed away the instant he met his father’s gaze, so cold and unyielding. He had the same look of disgust he reserved to the worst sort of sins, as he preached to the congregation of fire and brimstone and eternal damnation. It made John feel so filthy, so unworthy, so small. “If a man sleeps with a man as with a woman, they have both committed a detestable act,” he quoted, eyes blazing. “They shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them. Who have you lain with, John?”

“N-no one!” he sobbed. “It was-- thoughts. Sinful thoughts, but I didn't-- I wouldn’t--”

“Answer one question, and truthfully,” his father spat. “Have you done anything to your brother?”

The idea alone was enough to chill John to the bone. “No!” he cried out. Something in his chest burned as he did, but he hardly felt it. The mere idea of defiling his little brother, little Michael who’d sit on his knee and listen to stories, made him feel ill. “No, I-- I never-- I would never!”

“Your sisters?”

“No!” John choked out a sob.

A scoff. “Not yet.”

“N-never! Please, dad-- father-- I could never--!”

“Silence,” Reverend David Johnson almost snarled and oh God, John had never seen him so furious. “You will, if given a chance. There’s no depravity a sodomite would not commit. But I won’t allow it. It is my duty to protect this community-- to protect my children!”

“I-I am--” John shook his head, his vision blurry with tears. A sob wracked his chest, causing such intense pain he felt he might faint. He wiped the tears and snot from his face with a sleeve that was quickly turning red, but it seemed so unimportant; it was for his soul that he feared and if his own father and mother found him beyond salvation, then he was truly lost. “I am your--”

“No. Not anymore,” he cut him off, and turned away from him, like he couldn’t even stand the sight. He raised an arm to point at the door. “We'll tell you decided to join the army, to save your honor and that of our family. Then we'll say you died. But if your next step is not towards that door, God help us both."

And John had left, without the strength to argue and carrying nothing with him, so stunned he felt he might be drunk. Just like that, his life was over; his family, his home, his friends and community, everything he’d ever worked for - all he was meant to be since birth - had crumbled to ashes before his eyes, like the notebook in the fireplace. He’d been cast out like Adam from the Garden of Eden, left with nothing but the torn clothes on him and the knowledge the fires of hell were at his heels as he limped out of his home, through the fields, and into the night.

He met no one in his slow, painful trek; it was one more blow - I couldn’t even say goodbye - but also a relief. They would ask for explanations he could never bring himself to give.

His father was right; he was dangerous. For everyone’s safety, he had to go.

Under the cover of darkness, numb to all pain but not to the cold, he walked through dirt paths across the countryside for God knew how long until exhaustion caught up with him. There was a small patch of dried grass by a crossroad, and he didn’t lean down on it as much as he collapsed. Everything hurt, he didn’t know how much blood he had soaking his clothes and cooling against his skin. He no longer cared. He no longer cared about anything. Had suicide not been yet another detestable act in the eyes of God, he would have ended his life and freed the world of the blight of his presence.

John Johnson closed his eyes, and let himself fall into unconsciousness. The numbness overcoming even his terror of Hell, in his last moment of awareness he found himself praying to God not to let him wake up again.

But he had; he’d awakened to a stranger asking him if he’d been robbed, offering to let him on his cart as he headed towards El Paso. He’d accepted, because he had nowhere else to go, and once arrived he’d limped into the first church he’d seen, where a function was going on. Nobody had noticed him as he entered, sat in the back, knelt as they did… and, soon enough, blacked out.

He’d awakened in a bed, God knew how many hours later, with bandages on his wounds and a heavy blanket on him, an aging man in a cassock and white collar looking down at him with worried eyes. One of his hands cupped his head the moment he opened his eyes, the other bringing a glass to his chapped lips.

“Good God, my child, who has done this to you?”

A good man. A man of God. I deserved this.

John had tried to stand and could not, his body battered, a couple of ribs broken, and in the end he’d broken down, wept, confessed his sin and waited to be thrown out yet again - but no such thing had happened. He’d been comforted, offered more water, offered food; and Father Joseph had even joked that surely he was too old to evoke lust, so what did he have to fear?

John’s reflection in the mirror became distorted, and he blinked away some tears, Very slowly, he sat and stared at the rod in his hands. Father Joseph - his mentor, the man who had given him a smile and hope when all seemed lost - would have disapproved of its use, no doubt. He’d been a good man, soft of heart - too soft. He'd disapproved of the punishment his father had visited upon him, too.

“Do you know the parable of the lost sheep, my boy? A sheep was lost, and the shepherd left the flock in the meadow to look for it. Searched high and low, because the flock was safe, but the lost sheep needed to be found. And once he found it, did he beat it with sticks and stones?”

“N-no.”

“What did he do, my child?”

“He… brought the sheep home. To… rejoin the flock.”

A smile, and he’d quoted the Scripture - a very different passage from the one his father had snarled in his face.

“When he has found it, he carries it on his shoulders, rejoicing. When he comes home, he calls together his friends, his family and his neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!' I tell you that even so there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents, than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance."

That had been the moment he’d regained some frail hope, when he’d begun to see a path forward for him, a path to redemption that would go through the Catholic Church. And maybe one day, if he did a good enough job and made a name for himself… then maybe his family - his father, who wouldn’t speak to him even by letter, who told everyone he’d died - would hear of him. Maybe they would forgive him, and let him come home, if for a short while.

Father Ernest could know none of it and yet, in his own way, he'd sounded so much like his mentor, even bringing up the same parable. Or almost.

“I am here to help. Like the shepherd with the, uh, black shee-- Right. Lost. The lost sheep.”

Perhaps… yes, he had misjudged him. He wasn’t proper, sometimes he seemed a downright idiot, and unlike Father Joseph he was most decidedly not too old to evoke lust in him… but he had been kind to him. He was willing to help, God bless him; he'd given him absolution.

And Father John Johnson promised God he would never make him regret it.

***

As la Semana Santa approached, Ernesto didn’t precisely feel blessed.

Things hadn’t been going too badly, really. Everything had settled in a comfortable routine and she found he sort of liked being such a vital part of life in Santa Cecilia. Back home, he’d been a nobody playing for tips in the plaza and dreaming of a big break that simply wouldn’t happen; in the army, he’d been a number, cannon fodder and nothing more.

But there? He was well-liked, listened, sought after; even the gringo had toned down his criticism to a few mutters every now and then, which was a nice change. Yes, things were going well - if not for the small, negligible detail that the entire town seemed to be running out of food.

“What do you expect me to do? Multiply bread and sausages like Christ did?”

“Fish,” Sofía said flatly. “Bread and fish.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Sausage, fish-- the point is, I don’t work miracles.”

A shrug. “Well, Pedro Marques begs to differ,” she said.

… All right, and who was that again? The name was only vaguely familiar, Ernesto thought, bringing the glass of mass wine up to his lips with a questioning look. Sofía gave a sharp smile.

“He’s going around telling high and low what a miracle worker you are. He and his wife had been trying for years to have a child, until you went and blessed their bed.”

Blessed their bed? Odd, he couldn’t remember blessing any be--

Wait.

The mouthful of wine Ernesto had been about to gulp down came back up through his nose in a sudden, foamy stream. “Ack-- gah!” he coughed hard enough to tear up, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. Sofía leaned her hand on her chin, raising an eyebrow.

“Doctor Sanchéz just told her she’s with child. If it’s a boy they want to name him after you, you know?”

“How about-- ack-- no?”

“I am also fairly sure the Martìnez family credit you with curing the infertility that plagued their only daughter, too. Got something to tell me there?”

“No,” Ernesto croaked.

“And about those late evening confessions--”

“All right! All right! I’ll figure something out!” Ernesto coughed again, lifting his hands. “Just keep your mouth shut!”

Sofía shrugged. “I always do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“When it comes to talking, I do,” she retorted, and she seemed about to add something when there was a sudden knock on the door, only for it to open a moment later - what was even the point of knocking if you’re just going to barge in without waiting a single moment? - and reveal Padre Juan in the doorway.

“Father Ernest, I have spoken with Brother Héctor about a matter… we should… discuss.” The gringo blinked at him, eyes shifting to the pool of red wine on the desk Ernesto was sitting at, and his beet red face. Sofía gave him a smile that was nothing short of angelic.

“Padre Ernesto has a bit of a cough,” she said.

Just a few days earlier, Padre Juan would have probably exploded and started rambling something about decor or whatnot - but now, even though he looked like he’d just sucked a lemon, he did no such thing.  “... I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he mumbled, and left, shutting the door under Sofía’s perplexed gaze.

“What is it with him lately?” she wondered aloud. “He hasn’t even talked about pagan fetishes, fire and brimstone since last Sunday.”

Ernesto cleared his throat. “We have reached an understanding,” he said. A practical part of him reminded him it was probably due to fear because he had him under his thumb, knowing his secret… but truth be told, he liked the idea he’d gotten his respect. It felt like a huge win, and he loved winning.  And now, if he wanted to keep his winning streak, there was a miracle to pull o--

“Maybe he can help.”

“... What?” Ernesto blinked up at her. “Him?”

She shrugged. “He might have connections we don’t. Maybe he could get us some food, or money to buy it from somewhere - it’s worth a try.”

That was true, Ernesto knew. They couldn’t will food out of thin air; they’d have to raise money to pay for it, and if food was as scarce throughout the rest of Oaxaca as it was there… well, the price to pay would be high. Charitable donations from parishioners often little above poverty themselves may not get them far enough.

“... Yes,” he finally said. “It’s worth a go.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice - the same that had come up with his very first plan of stealing donation and leaving a few days after his arrival - demanded to know why would he care, since when it was his problem, but he shut it out.

He liked where he was, he liked it how good he had it, and he’d be damned if he let anyone in his parish - any of his people - starve under his watch.

***

“All right. At the moment we have enough to keep everyone - the kids and the poor and whatnot - fed for for… how long?”

“A month.”

“Perhaps a fortnight more if we cut rations now.”

“If we cut any more ration, half the clergy is going to faint. We’re already eating little for Lent.”

“Our Lord fasted forty days.”

"With all due respect, Padre, we’re just human.”

“So was Christ, Mother. He made himself flesh--”

“We can have the lesson later, thanks.”

Father Ernest’s voice caused John to trail off, and shut his mouth. His first instinct was to protest, but he did not; he could tell the situation could get dire if they did not act fast. He was there in the sacristy with Father Ernest, Brother Hector, the sexton - Gustav? - and the Mother Superior to find solutions, rather than argue. Still...

“... What I am saying,” John said slowly, “is that if there will be meals to give up, I am willing to.”

“That’s appreciated,” Father Ernesto conceded, and even smiled before looking back down at the list the sexton had brought in for him to look at. “But it wouldn’t solve much. What we do need is more food.”

“We have plenty of wine,” the sexton spoke up. “It’s the only thing we have in abundance, other than rat poison.”

Father Ernest blinked. “And why do we have an abundance of rat poison?”

“To poison rats,” Gustav said, only to pause when he realized the reply would sound much too sharp towards the parish priest. “We had a serious issue with them a couple of years ago. They got into the granaries - it was a mess. Chicharrón convinced Padre Edmundo to buy a lot of rat poison - said they would eat the offerings on Día de los Muertos - but they were gone before we used much of it. So we have a lot of wine and a lot of poison, stored next to each other. Not a bright idea, but the old gravedigger is not very bright himse-- ”

“We could sell some, or trade it,” Hector suggested, causing Gustav to snort.

“Oh, of course. Who wouldn’t love the idea of trading money or better yet food for poison when times get hard? That’s the dumbest idea--”

“I meant the wine, Gustavo,” Brother Hector replied, his voice dry. “There will always be people willing to buy wine.”

“Sell holy wine?” John protested, but Father Ernest shrugged.

“It’s not holy wine until it’s blessed,” he said lightly. Suddenly reminded of last time he’d told him as much, John shut his mouth and leaned back on his seat. His face was on fire, and he could only hope it wasn’t turning too obviously red.

Thankfully, Father Ernest was speaking again and turning the attention away from him.

“We’re going to need the kind of stuff that lasts - canned food, maybe, but that’s hard to get away from the city and the army has most of it. Flour, dried meat, desiccated beans, flour. Grains for us and for the parish’s hens because God knows we need that supply of eggs. We’ll need to buy it in bulk, and you can bet we’re not the only ones making plans to. I doubt many people in a hundred miles radius are faring better than us. We must to be ready to pay twice the price, if needed.”

“And deprive others of food,” John spoke up. It wasn’t condemnation as much as a statement - he knew how the world worked - but it gained a long look from everyone in the room.

“If that’s what it takes,” Father Ernest said gravely. “I must look after my parish.”

John said nothing, and Brother Hector turned back to Father Ernest.

“That would be a lot of money to raise.”

“I know. We’ll sell some of the wine in San Luz, and push for offerings from parishioners who can part with a few pesos. After all, isn’t Holy Easter the right time to buy yourself paradise?”

All right, that was going too far. “No one can buy paradise,” John pointed out.

A shrug. “Relax, Martin Luther. I’m not saying we’re going to sell indulgences to--”

“What-- to compare me to that heretic --!” John could feel his face burning, and now he was sure to be turning beet red. It wasn’t the worst Father Ernest could say of him, but it still felt like an awful insult. With a shrug, Father Ernest waved a hand.

“I meant no insult. You are a proper man of God,” he said, and stared at him in the eye. He sounded perfectly serious - like he meant it - and oh, it was a relief that he’d think so… even knowing what he knew. “And you can help us a great deal.”

John blinked. “... What? Me?” he asked, and looked around to see everyone’s eyes on him. He was acutely aware, suddenly, of the golden crucifix hanging from his neck. It was worth quite some money, he knew, but he couldn’t bear to part from it and he he found himself hoping none of them had noticed it. He fought an impulse to hide it beneath his collar. “And… and how can I help?” he asked. Certainly they did not expect him to be the one to ask parishioners for offerings; they knew how little the people in that town thought of him.

“You have been travelling with the blessing of a Bishop,” Father Ernest said. “You have good connections, and certainly someone will be able to spare a few donations for a town in need.”

John nodded, finally seeing what he was getting at. “I could write a letter, but I am not sure my plea would hold much weight,” he said. “I won’t be the first nor last missionary to plead for aid. A letter might not cut it, but… if I can find a way to make it stand out…” he paused, and met Father Ernest’s gaze.

Let me have a think, he’d said, unfazed by his confession, but his sin. We’ll work something out.

John clenched his jaw for a moment before he spoke. “Give me a little time. I’ll try to think of something,” he said. “I’ll do all I can to help.”

Another smile. “Thank you, Father John,” Father Ernest said, and John just looked down with another nod, not daring look at him in the eye - hoping that his face had not reddened again and not realizing, lost in thought, that Brother Hector was looking at him with a concerned frown.

***

Miguel could tell something was not right.

No one had come forward and told him - or anyone else in the orphanage, really - but he wasn’t dumb. He noticed the hushed voice of the nuns, the insistence of not letting one bite to wasted at meal times; he noticed the tight line of Imelda’s mouth, and the frown on Héctor face.

“I’m just a bit thoughtful,” Imelda had told him when he’d asked.

“Got a few things in my mind, chamaco, nothing more,” Héctor had replied, ruffling his hair and suggesting he go practice his guitar skills with Cheech.

Miguel hadn’t gone, because he liked Cheech but playing was no fun without Héctor, and they hadn’t played or sang together in weeks. So he’d just nodded and watched him leave, saying something about going house to house to collect donations - another red flag, they had never needed to do it before and come to think of it, Ernesto had insisted a lot on charity at Mass the previous day. Even Padre Juan had begun going around to ask for donations, even if it got him a door slammed shut to his face more often than not.

Sooner or later he’d have to learn not to look outraged when he asked to speak to ‘the head of the family’ and an abuela came out to talk to him, but Miguel wouldn't hold his breath over it, or waste it trying to explain anything to him. Instead, he’d used it to ask what was going on to one person he knew wouldn’t baby him.

“So, what’s happening?”

“Your dog is trying to eat my foot.”

“No he’s no-- oh, he is. Dante, no! Here! I mean, what else is happening?”

Ernesto made a face. “An awful lot at once. You might want to be more specific.”

“With the whole spiel about charity and Héctor and Padre Juan going off to collect donations.”

“Ah. That. We’re facing a food shortage and might all starve.”

“What??”

Ernesto laughed. “All right, things are not that dramatic. We’re working to fix it.”

“By raising money?” Miguel gave him a doubtful look, stroking Dante’s head. The dog seemed to thrive on a few scraps, but what would happen once there would be no more scraps to be spared? “You can’t eat money.”

“You buy food with money.”

“And from who?”

“From people who have enough of it stored to part with some for the right price,” Ernesto said, and shrugged. “That’s how the world goes when things get tough. People hoard, but money is sweeter than any pastry. The war must end, and they’ll be richer once it does.”

It seemed unfair to people with little to nothing to eat, but Miguel wasn’t so naive not to know what was how it went. He nodded, looking down, and Ernesto seemed to notice his frown. He crouched in front of them, stopping Dante from licking his face with one hand.

“Hey, chin up, muchacho. We’ll be fine. But if you’re so worried, why don’t you help? We’ve got to organize the procession for el Domingo de Ramos, but I'm sort of taken - why don’t you and your friends do it? We’ll need a donkey, a Jesus, and a lot of palm branches people will give an offering to get.”

Miguel blinked. “Why would they pay to get those? They can find them anywhere.”

Ernesto grinned. “Not blessed ones, they can’t,” he replied with a wink, causing Miguel to laugh.

“You sure you’re not a real priest?” he asked. Ernesto rolled his eyes, giving him a light shove, but he was laughing as well and Miguel was wonderfully sure all would be well.

***

“... And this is where Jesus will get to the plaza from!”

“I mean, not the actual Jesus.”

“Just our Jesus.”

“Mexican Jesus.”

“Jesús.”

“We know a Jesús.”

“But he’s sixty.”

“And there is also another Jesús.”

“But he’s missing an arm and he curses all the time,” Felipe muttered.

“I would also curse if I were missing an arm,” Óscar added. He looked extremely satisfied with their plan so far as he looked at Ernesto and Padre Juan, both sitting at the desk in the sacristy. Miguel couldn’t help but think the gringo looked uncomfortable, but he had no idea why; nothing of what the twins had suggested so far was too different from your typical procession for el Domingo dos Ramos.

And Ernesto liked it, too, glancing down at the map of Santa Cecilia. The procession was going to begin at the start of the main road, through the plaza, and finally in front of the church; there was plenty of space for everyone to stand along the way to put down their palm branches on the path.

“Sounds good to me,” he said, smiling brightly. The twins smiled back.

“Great! Can we use the donkey in the parish stables, then?”

“That would be my donk--” Padre Juan started, only for Ernesto to shrug.

“He says you can,” he told Felipe, not even turning to look at the priest, who looked distinctly annoyed but did not protest. Both boys grinned widely.

“Yes!”

“Thank you, Padre Juan!”

“It would be Father John, Phil--” the gringo started, only to be entirely ignored.

“You’ll have to choose Jesus, Padre Ernesto!”

“As in, someone to play Jesus. You already choses Jesus. Clearly.”

“Ah. Do I have to?”

“Well, it was Padre Edmundo who picked every year.”

“So now you have to.”

“Then we'll get your Jesus get on the donkey.”

“And people will put down palm leaves.”

“Just like in the Scriptures!”

“And there will be fireworks!”

Ernesto’s face lit up. “Oh, I love firewor--”

“There is definitely no mention on fireworks in the Scriptures,” Padre Juan cut him off, his voice a little tighter. Ernesto frowned and seemed about to protest, but paused when he noticed Miguel, shaking his head frantically behind Óscar and Felipe’s back.

Not that Miguel didn’t like fireworks - he loved them - but he had seen what happened when Óscar and Felipe were allowed to handle them, and it wasn’t worth the risk. Last thing they needed was for someone to have to fetch Doctor Sanchéz because the stand-in for the Son of God had serious burns in addition to being trampled by his own frightened donkey.

Luckily, Ernesto took his input on board.

“... Right. No fireworks anywhere in the Scripture. Sorry, muchachos,” he added at Óscar and Felipe’s obvious disappointment. Padre Juan seemed relieved, but of course he had no idea how dangerous the twins could be while handling anything flammable, so he was probably thinking something boring on how they would all be spared blasphemy. “But you can pick Jesus.”

Just like that, the disappointment faded in wide grins.

“Oh! We need to make a list!”

“We could pick anyone!”

“Like Chicharrón!”

“Or Gustavo!”

“Hey now--” Ernesto began, but neither twin listened: they were out the next moment, still brainstorming names. He blinked. “... I should have reserved the right to veto especially dumb choices.”

“You should have,” Padre Juan agreed, his voice flat. It made Miguel laugh a little, watching them agree on anything.

“I can try to get them to pick someone who’d be… a better Jesus?

Ernesto grinned. “Like me,” he suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Padre Juan interjected, causing him to frown. Ah well, Miguel supposed they just weren’t meant to agree on more than one thing at a time.

“Why not?” Ernesto protested. “At least I’d look good in a loincloth.”

Just like that, Padre Juan’s pale skin turned beet red. It was a change so quick Miguel could hardly believe it. “That-- that is not the point!” he very nearly screeched. “A-and besides, our Lord was fully dressed when he entered Jerusalem!”

“Do the Scriptures say  so specifically?”

“It doesn’t say otherwise!”

“How about I suggest they pick Héctor?” Miguel asked, raising his voice a little to be heard. As Padre Juan looked away, suddenly very interested in the floor, Ernesto shrugged.

“Not as devastatingly handsome as me, but he’d make a good second choice.”

“Pride,” Padre Juan muttered under his breath, but Ernesto entirely ignored him.

“Best to find him and tell him to agree, before those two try to rope in Chicharrón.”

“Or worse yet, Gustavo.”

“Or worse yet, la Madre Superiora.”

“Well, she does have a beard, so--”

“Father Ernest!” Padre Juan protested as they laughed, causing Miguel to shut his mouth - but he still snickered - and Ernesto to turn his laughter into a cough.

"A-hem. Why don't you go find Héctor? He should be back by now,” he told him, and Miguel took the chance to leave. He really wasn’t looking forward to being there for a lecture… even if Padre Juan did tone down, lately, come to think of it. And he’d kept the promise to call him Miguel instead of Michael, too. Maybe he was learning.

But Miguel was still not risking a lecture.

“Sure! I’m bet he’ll agree,” he said, and then, with a quick nod Padre Juan, he turned to run outside, leaving Ernesto to deal with him.

***

“So, uh. Any updates?”

Father Ernest’s voice broke the brief silence, and caused John - who had been looking down at his glass for just a bit too long - to wince.

“Ah, I…” he hesitated. The urges were still there, the thoughts were still there, but he’d been trying to ignore them, push them in the back of his mind instead of letting them linger and then punishing himself for it. But God, if he didn’t stop uttering nonsense about wearing a loincloth only - and leaning in entirely too close, good God, did these people know nothing of personal space? - he didn't know what he'd do. “W-well enough. I have been fighting it.”

Father Ernesto blinked. “What?”

John looked down, his face aflame. Part of him wished he would move away, but he was also grateful for his presence, for the inexplicable fact he did not seem horrified by him. “There have been moments of weakness, but I never defiled myself - not once, I--”

“Ah. Er, that’s… great. But I meant to ask if you thought of anything that could get us funding.”

Oh. John stood quickly, pacing away a few feet and hoping against hope his face wasn’t too red. “I-- of course. I believe I thought of something,” he said, and breathed a little more easily. That was a good thing to talk about, practical, safe. He even found it in himself to look at Father Ernest in the eye. “I heard from the gravedigger… I believe you call him Chicharrón, but he never told me his Christian name.”

Father Ernest shrugged. “I don’t think he told anyone. I’m not even sure he has one.”

“That is simply not possible! He has been christened, has he no--” John began, only to trail off when Father Ernest snapped his fingers.

“Don’t get sidetracked. Priorities, remember?”

“The soul of a sheep of your flock--”

“I’ll concern myself with keeping their bellies full before I move on to their souls. You said you had an idea. What did Chicharrón tell you?”

“I… Yes. Right,” he muttered. “He mentioned the late Father Edmund was a keen photographer. He believes his equipment should still be in the parish. I… as a boy, I was keen on photography as well, and knew my way in a dark room. I was… decent at it.”

“... Congrats?”

“So, I was thinking-- a letter from me might have some leverage, but no more than many others pleas for help they are certainly getting. A few photographs to go with it might make it stand out. I can be persuasive in written word, but a photograph can speak volumes,” John explained. The more he spoke, the surer his voice got. “Perhaps if I write and send some photos taken of the progress toward true Catholicism and civilization-- don’t look at me like that, you said getting funds is the priority!”

Father Ernest rolled his eyes in a way that was decidedly unbecoming of a man of God, but he didn’t protest. “Noted,” he said, and grinned. “So we're supposed to put on the nice Sunday clothes, look good and pose for pictures? I'm good at that."

Oh, of course he is.

Skin flushing once again, John chased away the thought. "Yes, well… you are the parish priest, so I suppose… er. But I think we should photograph the children, show them studying Latin, as I suggested… and dressed well at Mass.” He paused. “They are quite well-behaved when you say Mass,” he added, ignoring the sting to his pride.

Father Ernest seemed… intrigued, if anything, and seemingly unaware of how flustered he’d gotten. “So you think that pictures of kids being good little angels in Church, maybe studying Latin, would help convince… whoever there is to convince?”

"Yes. We need to show them following the true Catholicism and leaving behind the pagan ways a small town like this would-- er,” he hesitated when Father Ernesto narrowed his eyes. “A-anyway. They will understand my efforts here are so impactful the town deserves funding,” he added.

Father Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly truthful. Sounds like I’ll have to absolve you for lying,” he laughed, but John didn’t find it funny. He knew his efforts seemed for naught, the town so entrenched in its pagan traditions, but surely in time… if he kept at it...

“It wouldn’t be complete a lie,” he finally muttered. “After all that's the path I'm leading the town on. It's just... a projection of the future."

“... Sure,” Father Ernest nodded. “All right, it’s worth a try. We’ll look for the equipment right away, and tomorrow we’ll discuss how to organize this. The sooner we get that letter and the photos through, the better.”

If they do go through, John thought. The letter he had sent to la arquidiócesis de Antequera on his concerns over the new parish priest hadn’t received a reply yet, and John was beginning to think - hope, really, maybe he’d misjudged - that it had gone lost on the way. It was not unusual for that to happen, after all, much less in a country in turmoil. Nothing he could do about that but to take the photographs, write the letter, and pray to God it would reach its destination as swiftly as possible.

“All right. I’ll ask Brother Héctor if he knows where the equipment is, as he was here for--”

“... About that, Padre Ju-- John,” Father Ernesto spoke up, standing. “I think we need to have a talk about Héctor.”

“Oh,” John said, blinking in confusion. What could it be about? “Has there been any issue?”

“Well, he may not be with us for long.”

The words hit him like a blow. “Oh! Oh my God, is he that ill?”

“... What?”

“I had noticed-- he was paler-- seemed upset over something, like he did not sleep well, but I thought-- is there nothing the doctor can do?” John managed, grasping the crucifix hanging from his neck. He would never argue the will of God, but it seemed such a horrible waste and tragedy - a gifted young man with the makings of a great man, taken from them too soon. In his dread, he didn’t even take notice of how close Father Ernest was - close enough he could see the confusion etched in his features.

“Wait, what? No, no!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands. “He’s not dying! I mean-- he might not be in the Church for long.”

“Oh.” John breathed out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God-- wait, what? He means to leave the Church?"

"Well, possibly. It depends on--"

“We must talk him out of it!” John exclaimed. “He shows so much promise, it would be a downright shame--” he trailed off when Father Ernest raised a hand.

“He’s questioning his calling and we won’t talk him out of anything. That’s exactly what I meant to talk about.”

John gaped. “But--”

“You wouldn’t want him to take the vows only to regret it ten years down the line, would you?”

The thought made John pause, and whatever he was about to retort died in his throat. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone could regret taking the vows but then again, unlike him, Héctor had a choice. He could lead a normal life, marry a woman, have children and be blessed. John… could never. The Church, his mission, was all that there was; outside it there was only perdition. Things would be different for Héctor, should he choose not to take the vows.  

“I…” he sighed, and looked away. “... No, I would not. You are right. He must act according to conscience.”

“It’s good to see we’re on the same page,” Father Ernest said, a smile in his voice, and put a hand on John’s shoulder. It made him tense, the hair on his neck standing on end - oh God while did he keep touching him - but he didn’t seem to realize it at all. “I appreciate it. I know it can’t be easy, just letting him go.”

“W-well, he is a good pupil, and I would miss teaching him--”

“And he’s good looking too, I guess, so I could understand the attraction, but he doesn’t swing that way, at least as far as I know,” Father Ernest added, and suddenly the tension turned to confusion. John blinked up at him.

“What… what are you talking about?”

Father Ernest rolled his eyes. “Come on, no need to keep up the act. I know your, er, affliction, remember? I know you want Héctor, I can tell - can’t hide a thing from me,” he laughed, clearly unaware of the horrified look spreading on John’s features. “No worries, he won’t know--”

“What-- when-- no!” John screeched, tearing himself out of his grasp and taking a few steps back. He clutched even harder at the crucifix. “I-- I would never! He’s like-- a pupil, a younger brother-- to abuse my position and authority to sway him--!” he felt disgusted at the mere thought, and his knees wobbled.

Have you done anything to your brother? Your sisters!

Never!

You will, if given the chance! There’s no depravity a sodomite would not commit.

“Hey hey-- all right, my bad!” Father Ernest was saying, holding up his hands. He seemed confused. “I assumed, since you spent so much time-- huh. It wasn’t Héctor you, er. Lusted for?”

“No,” John croaked. “It was never him! Please-- oh God, please, believe me!”

“Fine, fine,” the other man said quickly. “I believe you. Lo siento. Calm down. I just-- who is it, then? I can’t think of anyone else you’re around usually that doesn’t want to kick in your teeth every hour of the--oh. Oh.”

The look on Father Ernest’s face - the realization - filled John with dread, shame, and an odd sort of relief in equal parts. Now that he knew, oh God he knew, there was no way he could keep standing there in his presence. He would fall apart if he had to stay another moment, and he’d crumble if he had to talk about it.

“I… I’m sorry, I need… need to find the camera. And equipment. Excuse me,” he added, and almost ran past him, to the door. Part of him feared he’d grab his shoulder again, but he didn’t, and he did not call out.

Father John Johnson burst out of the sacristy, heart beating somewhere on his throat and mind reeling, and left with quick steps before anybody could walk by to see him in that sorry state - leaving a very confused, and certainly disgusted, Father Ernesto behind.

***

Well, now that was a surprising turn of events.

Ernesto had been so sure it was Héctor that Padre Juan had the hots for, he hadn’t considered any other possibility. It seemed so obvious, with the time he spent playing his mentor… but then again, maybe it was not.

With poor Juan horrified as he was by his inclinations, it actually made more sense for him to avoid the true object of his desire… who, luckily for him, tended to stay out of the way most of the time, muttering about errands no one knew a thing about.

“Gustavo, of all people. Would have never guessed,” he muttered to no one in particular, leaving the sacristy. The guy seemed awfully dour, and as far as Ernesto was concerned he had the physical appeal of a raw potato. Not that Juan, pudgy as he was, looked much better. With that pale skin, straw-like hair and watery eyes, he looked odd. Not necessary ugly, just… odd. Exotic, in a way, but nowhere near good-looking, that was for sure. Just peculiar.

With a shrug, Ernesto pushed the thought out of his mind. Padre Juan was nowhere to be seen as he walked through the chapel and into the yard, but he did find Miguel and the twins, talking to Héctor and - well, look at that - Imelda. Sister Gisela. Whichever.

With some luck, she wouldn’t be keeping her name in Christ for much longer.

“Oh! Padre Ernesto!” Miguel called out suddenly, waving his arm. “Héctor is gonna be Jesus! Óscar and Felipe agreed and are looking for a fake beard!”

With a laugh, Ernesto clapped a hand on Héctor’s shoulder. “Perfect! I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“As long as I don’t fall off the donkey,” Héctor smiled. “I did, once.”

“Because it had been stung by a wasp and panicked,” Imelda pointed out, and smiled. It was a fond smile, and it made her all the more beautiful. It wasn’t hard to see why Héctor had fallen so hopelessly for her. She turned to Ernesto. “My sisters and I will help pick palm branches for you to bless.”

He nodded. “Perfect. Hopefully, donations will be enough to ensure a steady supply of food. Padre Juan has a plan, too, and it’s not too bad. We’ll talk about it as soon as we can get--”

“What if the army comes to take the food?” Miguel asked suddenly, looking up. It was a very real risk, they knew it. The smile on Imelda’s face froze, and Héctor’s expression turned grave.

“We’ll keep it hidden. We won’t let them starve any of us for feed their ranks,” Imelda spoke, her voice tight. She spoke like she was stating the tenets of the universe, and Ernesto had to admire that; if how she’d behaved in the Ramírez household was anything to go by, she might just decide to really try and stop them.

And get herself killed, of course. When the Federales came demanding anything, you had to give them what they wanted... and count yourself lucky they just demanded supplies and not men. He would know: he’d been one of them, raiding town after town to keep himself fed, so he could keep marching and fighting a war he didn’t give a damn about.

But not here, they won’t. This is my town, my parish, my people. Mine. They can’t have them.

Ernesto looked back, towards the edge of the town - the desert he’d come from - before glancing back at them. Miguel had turned to look at him; of course everyone would think he was looking for reassurance from the parish priest, but that was only because they didn’t know what Miguel did. He knew he was not a priest. He knew he had been one of them… and told no one.

Ernesto made an effort to smile, and ruffled Miguel’s hair. “If Federales come,” he said slowly, thinking back of what Gustavo had said about the wine and rat poison, “let them take what they will, and reap the rewards.”

***

[Back to Part 9]

[On to Part 11]

***

Ernesto's amazing deductive skills at work:

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 9

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

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Okay, sorry for the wait on this one! Life happened. As in, death happened and messed things up a bit, as a death in the family tends to do. But I think I'm back on track. Art at the end of the chapter is by @senoraluna

***

“All right, I’m writing this.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because your handwriting is too obviously not a grown-up’s.”

“You’re not to grown-ups either.”

“But we’re close enough!”

“We can fake it!”

“More or less.”

“We can try.”

Miguel huffed, crossing his arms. “Imelda is your sister. She’ll recognize your handwriting.”

“Not if we make it look like Héctor’s! We have seen it before. Let us try…”

They did try, all right, but none of their attempts came out looking even remotely like Héctor’s handwriting. Soon enough they were leaning against the fence with utterly defeated expressions, scattered pieces of paper around them and Dante snoozing contentedly across all of their laps. Miguel sighed, reaching to scratch his ears. They weren’t even sure if Héctor and Imelda knew each other’s handwriting well enough to recognize it, but they couldn’t risk it.

“We might have hit a snag,” he conceded.

“Maybe Cheech can do it?” Óscar suggested.

“Cheech can’t write,” Felipe droned.

“He can read.”

“Barely.”

“He’s always getting Héctor to read stuff for him.”

Silence.

“... Gustavo can write.”

“He’d never help us. No one is supposed to know it anyway, except for us and Sister Sofía and--” Miguel sat upright suddenly, eyes wide. “Padre Ernesto!”

“What?”

“Where?”

“No, no, he’s not here, I mean-- he will help us!”

“... He will?”

“I’ll ask him to try writing it! He just needs to see Héctor’s handwriting.”

The twins exchanged a glance before looking back at him. “He’s a priest.”

No he’s not, Miguel thought, but of course he knew better than saying it aloud. He had promised Ernesto that his secret was safe with him, and he would keep that promise. “So what? He said that if one isn’t sure about taking the vows, they shouldn’t do it. He’s on our side!”

“Wouldn’t faking a message amount to, you know…”

“Forgery?”

“That too. I was thinking more of ‘lying’. Does the Bible say forgery is a sin?”

“You mean, forgery specifically? I’m not sure, but if we check--”

Miguel shrugged and stood, causing Dante’s head to drop down on the ground with a dull - and quite hollow-sounding - thump. It didn’t stop him from wagging his tail furiously, thumping it against Felipe’s leg. “So what if it is? He can absolve himself,” he said. “Perks of the job. I think,” he added, and he sprinted towards the parish without waiting for a reply.

***

The English lessons had turned, if possible, even more boring.

And utterly useless, too, now that he had read what he’d been meant to read. But Father John was clearly glad for the company, so Héctor supposed he could endure it just for a little while longer. Especially since he had seemed so upset the previous day; he hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and Héctor knew better than prodding, but it was clear something had unsettled him greatly.

Even so, there were limits to what he could take, so he’d claimed to have a headache - he had made a point to show an uncomfortable expression when walking in, so that it wouldn’t seem to have come entirely out of the blue - and excused himself, heading towards his own room.

Only to see Miguel stepping out of the hallway leading to it, glancing around. Had he come to look for him? Probably, yes. He’d neglected him lately, and he was… sorry about that.

Well, time to make up for it

“Miguel!” Héctor called out, smiling. It had been some time since he and Miguel got to spend some time together, and he’d missed the chamaco. He’d missed their lazy afternoons without much to do, when they would just practice with their guitars, or Miguel would watch him writing a new songs, occasionally providing help with the lyrics.

He was almost as good at it as he was at playing, and Héctor planned to help him write his own songs when he was a bit old--

Miguel almost jumped in the air as his voice rang out, and turned, blinking at him for a moment before he gave a very, very wide smile. If not for the fact he was still mulling how how they had seen each other relatively little later, Héctor might have noticed something suspicious about that smile.

But he didn’t.

“Héctor! I wes, er. Looking for Padre Ernesto. Have you seen him?”

Actually, come to think of him, he hadn't - and as much as he liked him, he was rather relieved he did not. It wasn't that he was jealous that he seemed to have become Miguel's hero in a matter of weeks, but... all right, yes, so maybe he was a little jealous.

Had it coming for hardly speaking to the chamaco these days. Here's the chance to make up for it.

"No, I haven't. But hey, get this-- I was thinking of a new song! I have yet to write it, it's only sort of stuck in my head right now, but I think you'd like it. How about we got over to Cheech's, get our guitars, and try it out?" he added.

Until not too long ago, Miguel would have jumped on the chance; they would have made their way to Cheech’s place, laughing and joking, and then they would have practiced playing and singing until someone came looking for him, or for Héctor… or for both. Sometimes la Madre Superiora herself would come looking for them, and they would put up a contrite expression at her tirate, struggling not to smile at each other. Not this time, though.

"Great, great! We'll do that later. Got to find Padre Ernesto," Miguel said quickly, sprinting past him and around the corner. "Keep up the good work!" he heard him yelling as his footsteps faded away - leaving Héctor to stand there on his own, utterly confused and more hurt than he wanted to admit to himself.

It felt like the closest he’d ever had to family was slipping away from him, and he didn’t know what to do.

***

“You stole--”

“Borrowed.”

“... Right. You borrowed Héctor’s songbook because you want me to try doing his handwriting?”

“I want you to succeed at doing his handwriting!”

“Couldn’t you just write in upper case like last time? It worked.”

Miguel blinked. “Oh. I… er… I want it to look more authentic.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “I get the feeling you didn’t think your brilliant plan all the way through,” he muttered, causing the boy to huff and cross his arms.

“Because you think all of your plans through,” he muttered, raising both eyebrows. That left Ernesto unsure whether to kick him under the table or grab him by the neck to shake him a little, given that Sofía was right by and listening, but in the end he opted to smile with clenched teeth.

“Fair enough,” he growled, shooting a glance towards Sofía. She was listening with her chin in hand, clearly not having caught the meaning behind Miguel’s remark. Granted, it would take quite a leap of logic and imagination to do so... but it was still a risk he didn’t want to take. He’d need to have a serious talk with Miguel about watching his words, remind him he held his life in his hands, and if he didn’t listen--

The thought of the pistol hidden away in his room flashed through his mind, and suddenly he could smell gunpowder, and taste bile. He quickly went to wipe his lips with the back of his hand and looked down at the songbook. Anything not to look at the boy. “... All right. I’ll give it a go.”

“Gracias!” Miguel exclaimed, then, “Sofía, about Imelda’s handwriting, would you try--”

“I’ll do it,” she said, and shrugged when both the kid and Ernesto blinked at her. “I practiced. I can fake the handwriting of every nun in town, and working on Madre Gregoria’s.”

“... Dare I ask why?”

“I consider it an insurance.”

Making a mental note to be careful not to leave samples of his handwriting within her reach, Ernesto looked back down at the songbook - though to be honest, he didn’t pay as much attention to the handwriting as he did to the words, and the notes. He hummed the beginning of one of the songs, low enough not to be heard and Christ, it was good.

Héctor had so much talent for songwriting that letting him join the church and never use it for anything would be a crime against music itself. Not that marriage was a much better trap, in Ernesto’s opinion, but at least it wasn’t mutually exclusive with secular music.

“Do you want me to slip the note in her room?” Sofía was asking, snapping Ernesto from his thoughts. He looked up just on time to see Miguel shaking his head, and grinning.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I have a better plan.”

Ernesto and Sofía exchanged a quick look before glancing back.

“Define ‘better’,” he said.

“Define ‘plan’,” she added.

Miguel grinned. “No need to be worried! I’ve been working on this with Óscar and Felipe.”

“Now I’m terrified,” Sofía said drily, getting a shrug out of him.

“Don’t worry, all will work out,” he grinned. “Here’s what you need to write…”

It wasn’t that much of a great plan, all things considered, but Ernesto had to admit the niño was right on one thing: without a shove in the right direction, it was entirely possible that idiota would just never confess a thing. And that would be stupid, really.

If that songbook was anything to go by, he knew how to use words.

***

“What. Is. That.”

“Miguel’s dog. I… I think,” Sofía managed. One talent-- fine, one of several talents she prided herself to possess - was a  knack for keeping a straight face in the most unlikely situation. However, the sight of the Xolo pup chewing up his own leg, a flower crown stuck around his neck and a letter tied to his furiously wagging tail was almost too much even for her.

“What-- why--” Imelda groaned, and rubbed her temples. “Where do those flowers come from?”

The answer was ‘probably the cemetery’, but Sofía knew better than saying as much aloud. “Maybe he got his head stuck by accident. And, uh... There’ something tied to his tail.”

“I see that,” Imelda muttered, making no move to get it.

“... It might be something important.”

“This is far too stupid.”

“Would you bet on that?” she asked, and Imelda had no time to reply. The next moment Dante seemed to finally realize there was something stuck to his tail and began chasing it, spinning frantically and snapping his jaws at it. Both Sofía and Imelda were on him the next moment and the letter was saved, if at the price of muddy robes, slobbery hands, and petals everywhere.

By the time they pulled back, the slightly damp letter firmly in her hand, Imelda was scowling… and Sofía couldn’t stop laughing. Now that was off to a great start.

“I can’t see what’s so funny,” Imelda grumbled, unfolding the letter to read… and immediately going very still, her eyes the only thing that moved as she scanned the page.

Knowing exactly what it read - it was Héctor, there was something he needed to tell her, would she meet him at the bridge at four? - Sofía feigned curiosity. “What does it say?”

Imelda recoiled, and immediately crumpled the letter in her fist before looking at her with a grimace. “Nothing of any importance,” she muttered, and turned to leave without saying another word, leaving Sofía alone in the small vegetable patch that seemed to refuse growing anything that year. With a sigh, she turned to look at the puppy currently flopping and rolling into the remains of the flower crown, leaving pools of drool on the petals.

That didn’t seem to have gone well. Or maybe it had.

With Imelda, sometimes it was hard to tell.

***

“Ah, Héctor! What have you got there, amigo?”

Padre Ernesto’s voice rang out suddenly, causing Héctor to nearly shriek and jump out of his skin. He turned quickly, face burning and crumpling the letter in his fist. “Nothing!” he exclaimed, knowing full well that he wasn’t believable at all. Padre Ernesto raised an eyebrow.

“Looks like a letter to me.”

“No! I mean, it is-- a note-- to remember--” he looked over Padre Ernesto’s shoulder, to the crucifix on the wall. “... Jesus.”

“A note to remember Jesus,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Yes-- I mean-- to remember to pray to him, you know? And-- and I’m late!”

As he rushed past him, Héctor felt like an idiot. After all, Padre Ernesto was perhaps the only person he could turn to for advice right now… but his heart was beating so fast, his thoughts in turmoil, and he felt he could explode if he dared open his mouth to say anything of the message he’d just read.

I know there is something you need to tell me. See me at four at the bridge.

***

It’s something about the Revolution. He’s got to be, something must have happened. It must be urgent, or else he would have sent the message the usual way.

Of course, it was hard to believe that. The way the message had been delivered - tied to a dog’s tail, really? - wasn’t the only unusual thing about it. The handwriting was different, too - but it would only make sense if he used a different one for his anonymous messages to her, after all.

What if it wasn’t Héctor?

The thought struck her suddenly, as she stood alone on the wooden bridge crossing the stream. How had she not thought about that possibility? Was if someone else - someone who had found out what they were doing to aid revolutionaries - was trying to lure her away?

The answer - she had wanted it to be Héctor - was tucked somewhere in the back of her mind, but she ignored it and looked around. If no one came within five minutes she would leave, and take the long way around in case anybody was waiting for her to pass by--

“Imelda…?”

Hearing Héctor’s voice was more of a relief than she was willing to admit to herself. With an inward sigh, Imelda turned to see him walking up to her, looking… more than a little sheepish. “Héctor.” She nodded, and said nothing until he stopped - a few respectful feet from her. She looked up at him, because he was ridiculously tall, crossing her arms and forcing herself to ignore the acute awareness that they were entirely alone, with no one in sight.

To say it was breaking the protocol was an understatement… but then again, certainly he had something very important to tell her. “What is it you need to tell me?”

“Well…” Héctor hesitated and oh, that was not a good sign. Something in her stomach clenched and fluttered at the same time. “I needed to tell you that… that…” he cleared his throat, struggling to get words out. “Well…”

“Did something happen? Is this about the revolutionaries?” Imelda blurted out, almost without thinking, looking for an answer that would feel safe and make sense. He seemed taken aback, his skin reddened, but after a moment he nodded.

“Oh! Yes, o-of course!” he exclaimed. “So, uh… there were some instructions for…” he hesitated. “Some instructions. Well, you would know, I mean...”

Yes, she had found the note - they needed some food, and she would make sure they’d have it, even if they had little of it to begin with. “Yes. I will find a way,” she promised, then hesitated. “Was that… all?” she asked. When Héctor nodded without looking at her, it was a relief… but something she dared not name ached. She ignored it, and turned to look at the stream. It could run fast and deep when it rained, but there had been no rain in some time and there was little water flowing, slow and steady. It made the bridge itself almost entirely useless, really.

“... Was it real--” she began, but didn’t get to finish the sentence.

“Hey! Isn’t this where you convinced me to eat mud cakes?” Héctor exclaimed, just a bit too enthusiastically. It was a very obvious attempt at changing subject, and Imelda hated such nonsense… but this time, it felt better to play along. Safer. What would she even ask, anyway?

“It was a little further downstream,” Imelda replied. She looked ahead, in the direction of the water’s flow, and a smile curled her lips. She could still remember it - a bunch of kids on the stream’s banks, playing in mud left behind by a small flood that had since ended. She still remembered putting together that mud cake. “... Did you really think it was chocolate, or were you just trying to humor me?”

“Oh, I believed it!” Héctor exclaimed, reaching to put a hand over his heart. He’d always been kind of cheeky upon occasion, but this time there was a dramatic flair to the gesture that made her wonder if Padre Ernesto was rubbing off him. “Absolutely and wholeheartedly!”

She laughed, leaning her elbows on the wooden railing. “Are you going to have to confess to lying now,” she asked, resting her chin in her hand. Héctor grinned sheepishly.

“Maybe,” he admitted. There were a few moments of silence, peaceful and nowhere as tense as the previous one. Imelda found she didn’t mind it at all; it seemed to natural. She let her gaze wander across the water again, saw a fish jumping quickly out of water and back in.

“... My parents didn’t like me playing with you,” she recalled, smiling a little. “Or any other of the orphans. They said you had lice.”

“I did have lice,” Héctor pointed out.

“We all had had lice at some point,” she reminded him. “My mother went through my hair with a fine comb for what felt like ages.”

“Heh. If you think that was bad, we all had to shave, remember?”

“Oh, I do. You cried,” Imelda quipped. To her amusement, Héctor turned slightly redder, rubbing his arm in the way he always did when self-conscious.

“I looked like a vulture,” he muttered, making a face. “Bald head, sharp beak…”

Imelda blinked. “Beak?” she repeated, turning to look at him, and her gaze fell on his nose. She let out a laugh. “Oh! That. It’s better now than it was then,” she told him, turning back to look at the water below them. “You grew into it.”

“You look good too,” Héctor blurted out. If not for the fact it left her stunned, she might have even found it amusing how his expression turned into utter horror in a second. “I-I mean…” he stammered. “No! I mean-- yes you do but-- I-- you… uuuugh!”

With a groan, he leaned against the rail and burrowed his face in his hands. “Oh God this is hard,” he muttered against his palms.

Around there, time seemed to have come a to a standstill. Under the shining sun, there was no sound - not even the song of a single bird; even the murmur of the stream was very far away. Wrapped in a sense of utter unreality, Imelda stared.

“Héctor…?” she called out, barely hearing her own voice. She tried to think of something to say, anything, but as he turned to face her, her mind drew a blank. He swallowed, and gave her a look that was both terrified and determined.

"There is something I need to tell you,” he said. “Imelda, I--”

“Brother Hector! Sister Giselle! What is going on here??”

In the space of a breath, Imelda felt two things: relief, and an almost irresistible urge to bash Padre Juan’s skull in with a shoe.

“Two novices, out here alone!” the gringo was going on, his face almost purple. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Father John,” Héctor said quickly, stepping forward. “The fault is mine-- we just met, she was returning and… we were talking about old times.” He smiled, and suddenly he seemed perfectly at ease. Imelda almost smiled. There he was, the cheeky little liar she remember when they were kids. “Easier times, with fewer worries. We were children together, you see. We began talking - neither of us meant to be inappropriate. We didn’t think of it.”

“Oh.” Padre Juan hesitated, taken aback. Those unnervingly pale eyes shifted between the two of them, and he didn’t seem to take any notice of how Imelda had refused to lower her gaze. “... Of course,” he finally said, his expression and tone softening. “Omnia munda mundis.” Everything’s pure to the pure. “I do understand you meant no harm or blasphemy. However, it would be best to respect--”

“Of course, of course,” Héctor said quickly, nodding. “My apologies, Father John. The fault is mine - I did not think it through when we began to talk.”

He nodded, and looked at her. “Well then. The incident is closed. Shall I escort you back?”

Imelda gave a demure smile that hid her thoughts, half of which involved a blunt object and the gringo’s face. “If you please,” she said.

For the entire walk back, Padre Juan talked to Héctor of nothing but the upcoming celebrations for Easter, and said nothing at all to her as she followed them in silence. It was a relief.

And it was also incredibly frustrating.

***

“So you didn’t tell her.”

“I almost did, but--”

“But you didn’t,” Padre Ernesto muttered, leaning back in his chair. His head connected with the wall behind him with a dull thud, and he ran his hand through his hair. Had he been a bit less flustered, Héctor would have noticed he seemed the very picture of frustration.

“Yes. Father John got there just as I was about to tell her, and…” he sighed and looked down. The thought of the trouble he almost got Imelda into made him feel ill. She may have been the one to ask him to meet, but he was the reason why they had lingered there for so long: he’d just lacked the courage to get on with it right away.

As far as seizing moments went, he was a complete failure.

Unaware of his thoughts, Padre Ernesto grumbled. “Ugh, that gringo. Lectured you for being on your own with a woman, didn’t he?”

“Sí.”

He made a face. “Oh, of course he wouldn’t like that,” he muttered. For one absurd moment, Héctor wondered if he knew - but of course, that was impossible: he’d only told Imelda and Sofía that he was a convert, with no mention at all about his inclinations.

The thought he may have confessed as much did not cross his mind.

“Well, to be entirely fair, it’s what… most priests would say,” he pointed out, and shrugged at Ernesto’s unimpressed look. “You’re, uh, one of a kind. I am sure Padre Edmundo would have said the same in his place. Maybe not has vehemently, but--”

“It doesn’t matter what someone else would have said. He keeps sticking that pointy nose where it doesn’t belong, and I'll have none of that in my parish. Should do something about--”

“Maybe it was for the best,” Héctor said quietly, gaining himself several moments of silence and a look of pure disbelief. He squirmed a little. “I mean, maybe… maybe it would have been a mistake. Maybe it’s just not a good idea and I should just forget about it, take my vows-- she’ll take hers and--”

“And possibly regret a missed opportunity for the rest of your lives?” Padre Ernesto cut him off, and stood. “No. As your friend--” he paused, and blinked, as thought he’d just heard those words coming from someone else’s mouth. He looked back at him, frowning a little. “... We are friends,” he added. It somehow sounded like a statement and like a question at once.

Despite all the thoughts still storming in his mind - all that had just happened, Miguel slipping away, that war that threatened to strike Santa Cecilia any moment - Héctor smiled. “Of course.”

The oddly confused expression on Padre Ernesto’s face melted in a smile of his own, and he put a hand on his shoulder. “Great! Then take some friendly advice - don’t just give up. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been.”

That was… sound advice, really. The same he’d given him before, but maybe he needed to hear it again. “Right. I will tell her. Just… not right away. I’ll wait for--”

“The right moment, of course,” Padre Ernesto agreed, and it was reassuring, really. When he left his office, Héctor felt a lot better.

He never noticed the scowl on his friend’s face as the door closed behind him, nor he was there to see him storming out a few minutes later, heading for the chapel.

***

“Padre Juan. We need to talk.”

His words echoed in the empty chapel, causing the gringo to wince, snapped out of whatever bullshit prayer he was uttering. He glanced up, and one look at his face seemed to make him go, if possible, even paler. But it only lasted a moment: the next, that insufferable posh expression was back on his face.

“I am praying, Father Ernest. Whatever you have to tell me can wai--”

“Now, Juan,” Ernesto snapped. The posh expression was gone in an instant, wiped away like chalk from a blackboard, leaving behind something not far away from terror that he struggled to hide. He stood, slowly.

“If it’s something so urgent--”

“It is. We can discuss it here, or in the sacristy where we know no one will listen. You choose, Juan. And fast.”

“My name is Father Jo--”

“When was last time you confessed yourself, Padre Juan?” Ernesto cut him off. “I think I know the answer. I’d like you to tell me.”

Oh, that hit him like a blow. Padre Juan recoiled, and immediately glanced down; the look of shame on his face was unmistakable, as was the conflict going through his mind. In order to keep up his stupid act, he would have to lie… and of course, that was a sin.

“I… perhaps the sacristy,” he mumbled in the end, suddenly so meek, and Ernesto nodded before heading there with quick steps. He could hear Padre Juan walking after him, more slowly; by the time the door of the sacristy closed behind them, he seemed to have aged a decade… and his gaze kept resting on everything in the room except him.

“Very well.” Ernesto crossed his arms, revelling a little in the fact he could tower over him. “Easter is coming up.”

“I am aware.” The attempt at putting up a mask, again - at changing subject. “And I must say, this town’s fixation with pagan fetishes is positively barbaric. This whole… business of making an effigy of Judas just to burn it--”

Nope, not this time. Ernesto wasn’t going to let him turn the conversation away from the real issue there. It was time to knock the gringo off his pedestal. “Do you plan on taking part to the Eucharist on Easter, Juan?”

“I-- of course, how could I not--”

“Then you need to confess yourself, do you not? Last I recall you coming to confession, you rudely left midway.”

A very, very heavy silence followed. Now the color of chalk, Padre Juan kept his gaze fixed on the floor and said nothing; his eyes were wide and fixed, his hands gripping the crucifix hanging from his neck so tightly it was a wonder the skin of his fingers and palms did not break.

“I… did not…” he choked out, and finally looked up at him. The look on his face was suddenly so lost, so pleading. If he’d seemed aged by a decade when they walked in, now he looked all the world like a lost boy. Ernesto sighed, and put on his best Patient Padre voice.

“This charade has been going long enough, hasn’t it? I know it was you and you know that I know. Don’t lie to me and add another sin to the list. As the parish priest, I have a duty to--”

Father John Johnson burst crying. It was eerie, really, how fast it happened: one moment he was standing before him and the next his features twisted and he fell on his knees before him, still holding onto the crucifix and sobbing his heart out like Ernesto had just shot a baby in front of him.

It made things just a little awkward.

“Huh. I, er.” Ernesto shot a glance to the door, wondering what would… well, anyone think if they found them like that, but thankfully no one burst in, and he just crouched in front of the sobbing gringo. “Padre Juan?”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he choked out, words almost unintelligible. “God forgive me-- have mercy on t-this… s-s-sinner…”

All right, never mind knocking him off the pedestal. I changed my mind. He can stay on it.

Except that it was too late to take back what he’d said, so he’d have to suck it up. “It’s fine, you’re fine. Calm down. Let’s just-- finish the confession, sí? Then I give you absolution, you calm down, and we have a chat about what is going on with Hé--”

“Penance,” the gringo half-whispered, blinking away tears and trying, so hard, to stop sobbing. “I need-- I need penance.”

“Right, yes, I’ll give you-- I don’t know, some Hail Mary to say and--”

“It’s not enough, never enough! I deserve-- I need-- I tried! I tried every prayer, every penance!” With another sob, Padre Juan looked up a at him through a veil of tears, pale face all blotchy and red, streaked with tears. His nose was the color Ernesto’s old man’s would get halfway through his second bottle of the evening. “I try so hard to-- to make it stop! I am so sorry-- so ashamed-- I tried everything, prayed every saint, and I still feel this u-uh-unnatural lust!”

No chance I can hit him in the head and make him forget the past ten minutes, is there?

Ernesto groaned, running a hand through his hair before he stood and held out a hand. “Get up,” he said, only for the gingo to shut his eyes and shake his head, shrinking away from his hand. Ernesto clenched his teeth, drew in a deep breath, and forced himself to keep his voice even. “... Father John. Please. I am trying to help.”

He had no idea if the surprise of being called his actual name by him for the first time was what snapped him out of his hysterics, but either way, he did snap out of it. He stared up at him, blinking back tears, before he nodded and he stood - shakily, without taking his hand, but he did stand. Ernesto tilted his head towards the desk in the corner.

“Sit. I’ll get you something,” he added, and when he came back less than a minute later he was almost relieved to hear a shade of his usual petulance in his voice.

“Is that holy wine?”

“It hasn’t been blessed. It’s just wine,” Ernesto muttered. Truth be told, all of the holy wine was just wine since he wasn’t a real priest and his blessing didn’t count for shit, but that was a detail Padre Juan was better off not knowing. He poured it in a couple of glasses and pushed one towards the other man before sitting across him. “Drink.”

He did, if with shaky hands: emptied half the glass in a couple of gulps and, when he put it back down, both his hands and his voice were a bit firmer. “I-- thank you,” he murmured, without looking at him in the eye.

“No problem.” Ernesto drank as well. He’d wanted to confront him about his obvious desire for Héctor, tell him to back off and stop trying to get him to stick to vows he clearly was not meant to take only to keep him away from women, but he suspected that might just break him again now.

“So, uh. You. Never indulged.”

Padre Juan seemed to shrink in his seat and nodded, eyes downcast. “Never. But the thoughts… they are there. I’ve been fighting this for so long-- I want to heal, I truly do. I… it cost me everything before, but I found a new meaning to my life, a mission. I… I can’t lose it all again.” His eyes filled with tears again, and he rubbed them with a sleeve, almost angrily. “I should be able to… I was only a boy when…” he let out a long breath. “... I am a grown man now. And yet I am just as lost as I was then.”

Ernesto nodded. “Let me see if I can help.”

The gringo looked down. “You… it is kind of you to… perhaps I misjudged…” he swallowed. “Are you not disgusted?”

Ernesto de la Cruz, who had seen, felt and done so many things that would probably give Padre Juan a heart attack - don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks - shrugged. If that guy who beat himself up to that extent over thoughts he never acted upon knew anything about him, he wouldn’t say he’d misjudged him. He’d be more likely to physically pick him up and dump him in holy water. And maybe he’d keep his head under it. “I am here to help,” he said in the end. “Like the shepherd with the, uh, black sheep.”

Padre Juan blinked.

“... Right. Lost. The lost sheep.”

“That’s better.”

“Can we go back to your confession?” Ernesto asked, a bit more pointedly than it was strictly necessary, and the other man immediately looked down at his glass.

“I… I showed no sign of this… perversion, growing up,” he murmured. “I was not interested in girls as I grew - not even to look at them and laugh with other boys, as boys do, but… everyone assumed I was just being the son of the Past--” he trailed off, seemed to hesitate, and finally sighed. “This is… not a sin, I supposed, but I’d be grateful if you told no one regardless.”

“Won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“I mean-- the secret of confession is sacred,” Ernesto said, and took another swig. “Go on.”

A nod. “Right. I am-- a convert,” he said, entirely unaware that Ernesto knew it very well. “My family was not Catholic - they-- we were Southern Baptists. My father was the Pastor - a pillar of our community, in a small town not too far from El Paso.”

“El Paso, huh?”

He seemed to recoil a little. “... Yes. I am from Texas.”

“You mean northern Mexico.”

The comment caused his lips to curl into a pale ghost of a smile. “... I have heard that one before,” he muttered, and drank a little more wine. “Everyone assumed my disinterest in girls was simply… me being the Pastor’s son, thinking of duty and duty only. I was meant to follow my father’s footsteps. I helped at the church since I was old enough to walk, studied hard, and everyone expected me--” his voice broke, and he paused. “... My apologies,” he muttered, reaching to wipe his eyes. Ernesto refilled his glass, saying nothing, and he drank just a little more before he went on. “Things… didn't turn out the way they were meant to.”

Ernesto nodded, his lips pulled into a tight line. He knew something about life plans going to hell; how the future he had imagined for himself - singing and playing for crowds, traveling through Mexico and then maybe the world, beloved wherever he went - had been put on hold, and maybe taken away for good, once he’d been drafted into the army.

He’d played from time to time to lift spirits, sung along with other soldiers, but soon enough the gunshots and screams and blood had become louder than the cheers - ringing in his ears for hours - and music had been lost. Only now, in that small town, did he get to enjoy it once more.

This war ruined everything. This is not how I was supposed to go, not where I was meant to be.

He emptied his glass and went to refill it. “I understand. Sometimes--” goddamn Victoriano Huerta “--God decides otherwise.”

Padre Juan lowered his gaze and sighed. “I still don’t know if it was God’s plan or the devil’s interference in it, but what I know is that, when I was five-and-ten, things began to change. I began having… thoughts… about a dear friend of mine.” He lifted the glass, downed all the wine and, under Ernesto’s surprised gaze, he held out the glass for more. He raised an eyebrow, but filled it again without saying anything. As long as it kept him from sobbing like a baby again.

“My family… I had a notebook they gave me. I was meant to write my failings on it, every day, to better reflect on them. So I did-- I was ashamed,” he added, his voice thin, and he looked up at him. “And so scared, you cannot imagine.”

Ernesto thought back of his old man in one of his bad days, and tried to imagine his reaction if he’d known of some quality time he had spent in a back alley with a bricklayer who worked just a few houses away, when he’d been eighteen or nineteen. He made a face. “... I think I can,” he said slowly. “Must have been horrifying.”

“But I was determined to find a cure, to resist - whether it was a trial God put in my way, or the devil tempting me, I would get through it. I prayed, and punished myself for my unholy thoughts, until… until…” his voice broke, and he shut his eyes.

Well. At that point, it was an easy guess. “They found out.”

A shuddering breath, and Padre Juan nodded. “... The notebook should have been private, between me and God. But… they noticed something was amiss. I returned home one evening and… my siblings were not there, nor were the servants. Only my parents, sitting in the living room… waiting.” He swallowed. “They were pale as death, and so quiet. I knew that they knew as soon as I lay my eyes on them, before I even saw the notebook in my mother’s hands. My father stood, and I--” His voice shook, and his left hand reached beneath his right sleeve. “I fell on my knees, begged for forgiveness. It was… not enough.”

Ernesto said nothing, but he reached to pull up that sleeve, and the gringo did not stop him. Across his forearm there was a long, thin, raised scar. “... Didn’t hold back, did he?”

“It was my fault,” he said plainly, pulling the sleeve down again. His expression was almost serene, disturbingly so. Did it make him feel better, taking on all the blame? Was it that horrifying, admitting that some things were simply beyond his control? “I was foolish. I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment.”

Ernesto leaned back on his chair. It took him an effort to unclench his jaw. “I’m amazed they didn’t kill you.”

“They said they would, if I ever returned.” A long, heavy silence followed. With a deep breath, Padre Juan reached up to rub his face. His voice was firmer, now, almost emotionless. “They did the right thing.”

"Like hell they did."

"Father Ernest! Language!"

“You were fifteen.”

“Almost sixteen - almost a man, and a dangerous one at that. You know what-- sodomites are like. They must have worried I could harm my sisters, my little brother. Infect them.” His voice shook again. “I’d have died before I allowed a such thing to happen.”

Ernesto suspected Padre Juan was as likely to harm a kid as he was to spread his arms and take flight, but he said nothing. He got away with a lot while being considered an eccentric but charismatic young priest; however, saying anything that would go against the Catholic Church’s stand on the matter was too dangerous for his cover. So he just nodded for him to go on.

“... There isn’t much more to say. I left and…” Another pause, one that told Ernesto that there was more to that story than what he was about to hear. “Well. I found refuge in a church in El Paso. Father Joseph took me in,” he added, and smiled. It seemed the fondest smile Ernesto had ever seen on anyone’s face.

“A Catholic, huh?” he muttered. That was something they had in common, it seemed, running into priests while wandering aimlessly. Only that he didn’t think John had to shoot this Father Joseph in the head to put him out of his misery.

“Yes. He was a Jesuit, and cared for me like a son. He taught be about the only true Church - our Church," he murmured. His hand went to the crucifix hanging from his neck. "This was a gift from him, and I felt so unworthy, but promised I would deserve it. As soon as I was well enough, I went to seminary,” he added. He paused and emptied the glass. This time, he did not ask to have it filled again. “Perhaps he was too kind to me, too forgiving of my… defect. But I owe everything to him, and the Catholic Church. It gave me a new path, new purpose. I decided I would repay all of that by taking the vows, and travel to educate the still pagan masses on true Catholicism - spread the teachings that saved me.”

Fighting back an urge to break the bottle over his head - weaker than usual, yes, but it was still there - Ernesto nodded. “I see,” he said. Idiota, he thought. “... Is it all?”

“Huh?”

“This is meant to be a confession. Any more sins?”

“Oh. Right,” Padre Juan had the good grace to look and looked away. “I… I really have misjudged you, in my… in my pride. I suppose that is my second great failing. Father Joseph did warn me I was too prideful.”

Ernesto nodded, quickly considering if he had enough cheek to reprimand anyone over their pride and coming to the conclusion that no, he did not. He came close enough, but… no. “I see,” he just repeated. He was about to utter the formula for absolution when Juan spoke again.

“I am sorry, for… for that woman. For what I told her,” he managed. “My advice followed the scriptures, but lacked compassion. I was shown compassion when in need. I should have, too.”

Well. That was… some progress, at least. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Ernesto smiled. “No worries. We fixed that oversight.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t think you should have gone there with the intention to--”

“Nu-uh, having none of that,” Ernesto cut him off, lifting his hand. “Your confession, not mine. If that will be all, I’ll give you absolution and--”

“No… no penance?” Juan asked. He somehow sounded relieved and somewhat disappointed all at once, and Ernesto shook his head.

“You gave yourself enough penance. And it didn’t work, did it?”

“... No. But how else am I to heal this perversion?” he asked, anguish plain on his face.

“Well… let me have a think. We’ll work something out,” he said, and as Father John Johnson nodded - doubt and hope battling on his face - Ernesto spoke the formula of absolution, not realizing he’d forgotten to even tell him anything about staying away from Héctor

***

[Back to Part 8]

[On to Part 10]

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 2

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

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Things Ernesto can do: charm people. Things Ernesto cannot do: say mass in Latin. But hey seize your moment, who needs a plan when you go charisma, am I right.

***

Chicharrón had been Santa Cecilia’s gravedigger for as long as Héctor could remember.

He seemed to have hardly aged since the days when Héctor had been just a little boy running wild in the streets along with other orphans, but not because he’d aged well: it was more that he’d always looked old, and a decade or two made hardly any difference. He was perpetually in a bad mood, always scowling unless he was well in his cups, telling somebody how he’d lost his leg – and slamming his wooden leg on the closest table for emphasis – or playing his guitar.

It had been the guitar that had first lured Héctor to the old hut he lived in. Like most children, he’d been scared of him; getting close to him before darting off had been a common game to prove their courage. But one evening, when Héctor had been hanging in the cemetery to avoid an older kid who’d promised to rough him up - Héctor had really wished he had an older, bigger friend to help him out at times like that - there had been music.

Later on he wouldn’t quite remember the words, but the sound alone, and the melancholy in Cheech’s voice, had drawn him closer. Playing with his eyes shut, Chicharrón hadn’t noticed he was there at all until he’d stepped over a freshly-dug grave – for el señor Delgado to be buried in the next day, Cheech had explained later – and fallen in it with a cry. The music had stopped, and Héctor had climbed out to see Cheech glaring down at him, a stick in his hand.

“Well, look at that. It lives. And you don’t belong here if you’re alive, muchacho,” the gravedigger had scoffed, and lifted the stick. “Now get out of here, before I change that and bury you--”

“Can you do that again?” Héctor had blurted out, catching the man by surprise. He’d blinked down at him, clearly confused.

“What?”

“Play the guitar,” Héctor had said, brushing some dirt off his clothes, still looking up at Cheech in stunned fascination. “It was good.”

That had definitely caught old Chicharrón by surprise. “Are you pulling my leg now?” he’d asked, and Héctor’s eyes had shifted to the man’s wooden leg. Cheech had followed his gaze and, suddenly, laughed. Coming from him, it felt almost as alien as singing. “Hah! You know what I mean. Are you mocking me, kid? Because if you are--”

“I want to hear that song again!” Héctor had insisted, and grinned up at him, giving him the kind of endearing look that usually gained him a smile from passerby and, if lucky, even an apple or a tangerine. Cheech was definitely not going to give him either, but at least he didn’t smack the look off his face. “Por favor? I didn’t know you could sing.”

Cheech hadn’t been that easy to convince, but in the end he’d given up, and played a couple of songs for him before telling him to get lost. The same had happened when Héctor had returned the next day, and the next and the next.

A week later Héctor had asked him to teach him how to play, no longer content with just listening. Chicharrón had mumbled, huffed, grumbled and complained… and then he’d taught him all he knew about music. Well, almost: Héctor already could sing, kinda, because the sisters at the orphanage had him and some other kids singing in a chorus at church from time to time, and on special occasions. But it had been Cheech to teach him how to coax melodies out of a guitar’s strings and how to read a music sheet.

A few months later, he’d written his first song. It had been about the dead coming out of their graves for Día de los Muertos and then getting confused over which grave was whose, forcing the gravedigger to herd them back and forth across the cemetery and into the right grave before sunrise, beating them up with his wooden leg if they got too stubborn.

It would have horrified Padre Edmundo and the sisters at the orphanage, and it had made old Cheech laugh so hard he’d almost spat out a lung, or so he’d claimed. Héctor hadn’t been sure if spitting out a lung was actually possible, but getting even a chuckle out of the gravedigger was an accomplishment.

“Hah! Now this is what I call poetry. You’ve got a gift there, muchacho,” he’d said, and had ruffled Héctor’s already messy hair with a calloused hand. For all the gentle words the sister always had for him, for all the kindness Padre Edmundo had always shown him, somehow Héctor hadn’t been prepared for that… and Cheech clearly hadn’t been prepared to see the boy in front of him burst in tears.

“Oye, oye, what’s that? Are you loco? I don’t get you, kid,” he’d said, his voice gruff as ever, but he’d crouched down before the sniffling boy and given him an awkward pat on the shoulder. Héctor had wiped his eyes and wished he’d ruffle his hair again, but he hadn’t. “Stop wailing. You’re here to sing, no? Very well, let’s sing. See if you can give a grito as loud as your wailing...”

They had, and it had been fun, but Héctor had left feeling embarrassed of his outburst – so embarrassed that he hadn’t visited for a few days afterwards. And when he had, Cheech hadn’t mentioned the incident: he’d just handed him a guitar all of his own.

“I found it among my old junk. Was about to throw it out, but maybe you could put it to some use,” he’d muttered. It looked like it had been built out of the remains of a broken guitar and a few more scraps, and Héctor - while really struggling not to cry again - had pretended not to have noticed the cuts and splinters on Chicharrón’s hands… but he’d never forgotten, and he still had that guitar.

“You should throw away that piece of junk and get you a new one.”

Héctor held back a grin at Cheech’s grumble. “It serves me just fine,” he said, strumming the guitar. “Whoever made it knew what he was doing.”

“Hmph,” Cheech muttered, and suddenly seemed very focused on the old spade he was getting some rust out of. Next to him, his equally foul-tempered pet rooster - Juanita, he called it, and no amount of telling him the rooster was male had seemed to matter at all - was glancing around like a guard dog, head bobbing.

Only a few steps away, next to the shack Cheech lived in, there was a coop with several chickens and plenty of chicks in it, peeping incessantly. The old gravedigger kept a lot of chicks, claiming to be waiting for them to grow and fatten before eating them, but Héctor had yet to see him butcher a single one; he grew attached, the old grump, just like he’d grown attached to him.

Not that Chicharrón would admit as much if he had a gun pointed at his face.

“I didn’t get you then and I still don’t get you,” he was saying now, still not looking up from the spade, obviously unsatisfied with the results his effort to get rid of the rust were yielding. “Especially with this priesthood nonsense.”

“Heh! You mentioned only a dozen times, or a hundred. Aren’t you happy to see me on the straight and narrow path to the pearly gates if heaven?”

“Pah! Straight, narrow, twisty, a goddamn maze, whatever. Any path leads to nothing but that,” Cheech had muttered, tilting his head towards the graves. “And you’re not priest material. I’d like to have words with the nuns who put that idea in your head.”

Hector shrugged. “Well, to be fair I can’t think of much else I could do. No family, no properties, no nothing. They did keep me from dying on the steps of the church, fed and clothed me. This is how I can repay the favor, I guess. I rather like being alive, you know?”

“Not letting a baby die is basic decency, idiota, not some feat to celebrate or reward. I wouldn’t have let you starve or run around naked, either. That’s one low bar,” Cheech muttered, causing Héctor to laugh again.

“I think I’ll be fine. I like it here, and I like helping people out. Someone’s got to look after all those kids. Got to make sure they don’t get in too much trouble. Like me,” he added, and strummed his guitar again before looking around. “Any idea where Miguel is, by the way?”

“Not the foggiest, and you’re not the first to ask,” Chicharrón grumbled. “Those two troublemakers came looking for him, too. Almost hit one of them with the spade, and Juanita gave the other a good peck on the shin. What do they think they’re doing, slinking around like that? They’ll send me to an early grave and if so I’ll make them dig it first.”

“Those two-- You mean Óscar and Felipe?”

“Sí, sí. The brothers of that novice, Imelda. That’s another one I don’t get. God knows if her becoming a nun would be a waste,” he added, and thankfully seemed to entirely miss the way Héctor bit his lower lip. “Anyway, haven’t seen Miguel. A bit odd. He’s usually here to annoy the hell out of us both. Just like you when you were his age, that kid. Hope he won’t get roped into the church, too.”

That was a bit off, Héctor had to admit. Where was he off to? Had he gotten in trouble with the sisters and found himself grounded? Maybe it would be best if he went to check, just for his peace of mind… and possibly to put in a good word for his early release, if need be.

As it turned out, it wasn’t needed.

“Héctor! Cheech!” Miguel’s voice rang out through the cemetery, causing both to turn. The boy was running up to them and skidded to a halt a few feet away, panting a bit but grinning from ear to ear.

“What is it, chamaco? Did you find Sister Marilena’s secret stash of chocolate?” he asked, and Miguel laughed, shaking his head. His hair was sticking out in all direction, and suspiciously damp.

“No, still looking for that. But that’s not-- the new priest is here,” he said, and his grin widened. “And he’s the best priest.”

***

“So, that’s the new parish priest?”

“The one talking with the Cordero widow?”

“Do you see anyone else dressed like a priest?”

“He’s… young.”

“And handsome, unless the beard is deceiving.”

“Sister Sofía.”

“I’m saying it how it is, Imelda. I’m saying it how it is.”

“You should be calling me Sister Gabriela,” Imelda pointed out, but she already knew it was pointless. Hardly anyone but the Mother Superior and a few of their older Sisters ever bothered; Sofía kept saying that she’d only use it when - and if, she’d add with a wink - Imelda actually took the vows.

There were a few moments of silence as they watched the new priest - he was quite young, yes, in his mid-twenties at most, and Imelda imagined most would describe him as good looking - laugh at something the old Cordero widow was saying, showing pearly-white teeth that seemed all the more blinding in the middle of that black beard. That didn’t escape any of them, either.

“... He is very handsome.”

“Nice laugh, too.”

“Almost a waste, for that one to have taken the vows.”

“Et tu, Sister Antonia? I thought your interest lay in the fairer sex.”

“What? I just so happen to have working eyes.”

“So does the old widow.”

“Are we quite done? It wouldn’t look good, you know, if he spotted four nuns--”

“Three nuns and a novice. You’re still on time to change your--”

“Do not finish that sentence. It still wouldn’t look good if he turned and saw the four of us--”

“Ogling?”

“... I was about to say ‘staring at him while chattering like old crones’, but I suppose ‘ogling’ describes it best. Three nuns ogling at a priest as the novice tries to be the voice of reason.”

“Well, we do have eyes to admire the wonders of God’s creations,” Sister Sofía said lightly.

“Never seen you looking at a sunset like that,” Imelda muttered, but precisely none of them seemed to hear her. She was about to add something a bit more scathing, but she spotted a movement out of her eye… and she wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, there’s novice Héctor!”

“Talking about waste.”

“Padre Edmundo did women everywhere a disservice by leading him to priesthood. But it’s not too late yet, Imel--”

“I am not hearing any of this from the mouths of brides of Christ,” Imelda said, rolling her eyes, but her lips did quirk upwards for just a moment as the nuns chuckled. Still, she made a point to turn away without another look towards the new priest… or Héctor. “Since you’re all so busy, it seems someone should go back and tell Madre Gregoria that our parish finally has a new priest.”

“Oh, good idea. I’m certain she’ll be happy to meet him.”

“She’s old enough to be his-- oh, I’ve had it with you,” Imelda huffed, and left with quick steps, doing her best to ignore the resulting, barely muffled laughter.

***

Seeing the new priest standing on the steps of the church, where he’d seen Padre Edmundo greeting his parishioners for so many years, felt… not quite wrong, but not right either. For the lack of a better word, it felt jarring.

Padre Edmundo had been old, with a back that had begun bending under the weight of his years, very little white hair still stubbornly clinging to a leathery bald head, and a few missing teeth. This Padre Ernesto was much younger - maybe only a handful of years older than Héctor himself - with a full head of thick black hair, back straight as a rod, and all teeth still in place. They were showing just now, she he smiled at the old Cordero window and waved her off before she walked down the steps of the church, clearly looking to tell more people about the arrival.

It wasn’t hard to see why Miguel, who was right at his heels, had been so impressed with him… and yet Héctor had to keep chasing away the unfair thought that no matter how good he may turn out to be, he simply could not replace Padre Edmundo.

“He has a horse, too,” Miguel was saying. “His name is Dante and he’s so big! Barely fits in the old stable where we used to keep the donkey. Padre Ernesto let me ride with him, you should have seen Óscar and Felipe’s faces when they saw us!”

Héctor hadn’t seen their faces then, but he definitely could see the expressions of plenty of bystanders who were beginning to gather around the church, clearly eager to take a look at their new parish priest. It was easy to tell Héctor wasn’t the only one who had been expecting someone… different.

Still, maybe a priest so young would be good for their parish, and Héctor had a duty to help him for as long as he could. Then he would take his vows, and he would be sent… wherever the Church saw it fitting to send him, he supposed.

I still think you should be our new priest, Miguel had said a couple of days ago, and Héctor had laughed it off, but the truth was that he’d hoped he could be just that, someday; that once he took his vows, he may be allowed to serve at the parish of Santa Cecilia after Padre Edmundo grew too old or passed away. He loved his town, loved its people, and had no wish to leave - but Padre Edmundo had died, his novitiate had yet to end, and the town needed a someone to lead the parish. They couldn’t just wait for him to be ready.

As he walked up to the church’s step, barely listening to Miguel’s words and pretending not to have noticed Imelda walking away just as he approached, he told himself it was probably for the best. Maybe some time away without-- Imelda -- distractions would do him good. Maybe he’d even get to travel, and have a wealth of stories to tell when he returned. Miguel would be sorry to see him go-- maybe so would Imelda -- but he’d be happy to hear what he’d been up to when he got a chance to visit, or at least so Héctor hoped.

But he’d worry about that later. He was still a novice, and he had work to do there.

Héctor was only a few steps away from Padre Ernesto and had already opened his mouth to introduce himself when someone passed him by quickly, almost making him fall down the stairs when he shouldered him. Héctor regained his balance just on time, and Miguel gave an angry yell.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, pendejo!” he exclaimed. It would have normally gained him a threat of getting his mouth washed with soap, a scathing retort on how much worse nuns had gotten at teaching proper manners to street urchins, plus a comment on bad role models while glancing meaningfully at Héctor - but this time Gustavo didn’t seem to notice either of them: he was already in front of Padre Ernesto, talking and gesturing, nearly oozing slime.

“… Truly blessed to welcome you here,” he was saying. “After Padre Edmundo’s unfortunate passing, Santa Cecilia has gone too long without a proper priest,” he was saying, and Héctor had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Oh yes, he had noticed him there all right. Jabs like that were typical of Gustavo: the parish sexton had enjoyed poking fun at Héctor since they were both boys, and had only grown more ill­-spirited as years passed, to become worse than ever since Héctor had decided to take the vows. Héctor had learned to ignore him most of the time… but sometimes he wished he didn’t wear the cloth he did so that he could sock him in the jaw without consequences. Not that he would ever admit that aloud, especially in front of Miguel, who was still bristling.

“… A tiring journey, but uneventful, thankfully. I mean, thank God,” Padre Ernesto was saying. He had a pleasant, warm voice. He crossed himself, and Gustavo did the same.

“Thank God,” he echoed. “Is there anything you require, Padre?”

“I would be grateful if you could see to my horse. Some food and water for myself as well, if you please. Oh, and a razor,” he added with a laugh, reaching up to rub his beard-covered cheeks. “The sooner I can get this thorn bush off my face, the sooner I’ll feel like a human being again.”

“Of course, Padre, leave it to me. Out of curiosity, which order do you belo--” he began, only to trail off when Padre Ernesto abruptly glanced behind him and his gaze found Miguel. He smiled broadly.

“Ah, here’s my little guide!” he exclaimed, winking, and stepped past Gustavo. He reached to ruffle Miguel’s hair before looking at Héctor. “And you’re Hé-- Brother Héctor, I suppose? I heard a lot about you before we even made it to the church.”

Héctor smiled, glancing sideways at Miguel. “Good things, I hope.”

“For the most part,” Padre Ernesto chuckled, and Héctor decided that yes, he liked him already. He could see why Miguel did, too.

Behind Padre Ernesto, Gustavo was rolling his eyes. Miguel noticed and spoke, all sweetness and light. “Why don’t you go tend to the horse like Padre Ernesto said, Gustavo? Poor Dante must be so tired after the long journey.”

That earned him a glare to which he answered with a grin, but there was nothing he could retort right there and then, and in the end he did as asked, mumbling something Héctor didn’t quite grasp. Not that he cared to, with Padre Ernesto clapping a hand on his shoulder and speaking again - or trying to. By then a small crowd had formed outside the church, and people were beginning to approach in small groups, speaking all at once.

“Padre! Welcome to Santa Cecilia!”

“I need your blessing, Padre.”

“I need to confess, it’s been two months since my last confession!”

“Confess-- oh. Oh! Of course!” The slightly hesitant expression that had crossed Padre Ernesto’s face faded within moments, so quickly that Héctor wondered if he’d imagined it. He smiled, and gestured towards the church. “I’ll be happy to confess and absolve all of you, uh, later. I first need to rest, lest I pass out in the confessional booth, and that would do good to precisely no one, no?” he added, and his smile widened.

Héctor didn’t think he’d ever seen some of those old battle axes even smile before that moment, and yet there was a collective chuckle.

Well, look at that. And here I thought an outsider would have trouble winning them over.

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and Padre Ernesto somehow managed to make even la Madre Superiora smile when she arrived, an old woman who was tough as leather and heavy-handed as they come with misbehaving children and adults alike. It was no accident that Miguel had vanished as soon as she’d come up the steps.

“We do look forward to hear Mass from you,” Madre Gregoria was saying. Padre Ernesto’s smile seemed to waver for only a moment, a hand clenching on the crucifix hanging from his neck, and Héctor supposed it may be nervousness; he looked young enough to have never served as a parish priest before. Then the moment passed, and the smile was back.

“I look forward to it as well,” he said. As they spoke a few more nuns - Sister Sofía, Antonia, Luciana and María Fernanda; no Imelda - approached to greet him. Knowing Sofía as well as he did - though not as well and others, really, which was to say not biblically - Héctor wasn’t surprised to see she was looking at the breadth of his shoulders rather than heeding his words. When her gaze wandered to him, Héctor raised an eyebrow.

En serio?

Sister Sofía’s lips quirked. Héctor tried not to roll his eyes and turned his attention back on Padre Ernesto, who was talking about his journey to Santa Cecilia and how good the Lord had been to keep him from harm, no hint of nervousness left in his voice despite being the center of all attention and curiosity, with such a responsibility to the town on his shoulders.

Héctor wished he could be half as confident.

***

“I’m fucked. I am fucked. I am so fucked.”

Flipping frantically through a Bible entirely in Latin, Ernesto allowed himself a few decidedly unpriestly curses that may or may not have called the integrity of Virgin Mary into question. Not sermon material, he knew at least that much, but he suspected knowing what not to say wasn’t a good enough basis to hold mass.

Nor were his vague memories of attending mass, which went back to… about a decade earlier, actually, for his Confirmation. Even up to then, he’d mostly snoozed through them; the only exceptions had been the times he’d sung in the choir, which meant he was too impatient to get singing to pay attention to anything said.

He rather wished he had now but, as his current predicament showed, foresight was not among the many gifts of Ernesto de la Cruz, only son of a miner and a seamstress from slightly left of the middle of nowhere, Mexico. He hadn’t even realized he would be expected to say mass, in Latin, until he’d found himself trying to recall exactly what a priest is supposed to say to give absolution after a confession.

Well, this is it, he thought. He’d originally planned – bit of a strong word, that – to keep the act up for maybe a couple of weeks, as long as it took for the army to hopefully move up north, and then leave again… possibly at night and possibly with some food as well as money for his trouble, courtesy of the parish’s box of offerings. After all it was money meant for the poor and, at the moment, Ernesto owned little other than the clothes on his back, a pistol, a handful of bullets, and his horse. If that didn’t count as poor, he couldn’t imagine what would.

Now it looked like the ‘take the money and run’ part of the plan would need to be enacted much sooner than that. The thought of telling the truth crossed his mind, but he dismissed it quicky; the vast majority of people, probably including those of Santa Cecilia, hated the Huerta government, and he’d been fighting and killing for it until just the previous week. Perhaps they’d welcome him for deserting the Federal army - he’d been drafted against his will, like so many others, maybe they’d understand - or perhaps they’d hang him for having ever been one of them. He wasn’t going to risk it.

He’d keep up the charade and stay a couple of days, Ernesto decided, enough for him and Dante to eat and rest. His horse was hungry and exhausted and so was he; he was desperate to sleep in a proper bed, and have a decent meal - or two or three - after eating hardly anything but strips of salt beef for three days and then nothing for the past two, aside from one stupid bird he’d managed to shoot down.

He could avoid saying mass until then, Ernesto thought, tossing the Bible on the bed. He’d pretend to be sick, maybe fake a splitting headache; after traveling all the way there under that sun, no one would be surprised.

Sun’s packing a good punch today, eh, Nesto?, Alberto had muttered only a few days earlier, riding slightly ahead of him as they scouted well ahead of their unit as instructed, to ensure no revolutionaries were in wait among the rocky outcrops. They found no one; no revolutionaries, no soldiers… no witnesses.

Beats harder than my old man, Ernesto had agreed, his face blank as he pulled out his pistol and took aim.

One shot at the back of the head had cut off the other man’s laugh, and granted him a way out of the army. It had been nothing personal: he’d even liked Alberto, who had joined the army the same day Ernesto had been drafted and often asked him to sing to pass time. But he’d been a supporter of the government, would have never agreed to run off or keep silent if he did and, in that moment, he’d been the one thing  between him and freedom – so he had to go. Ernesto had been handed a way out, and seized his moment when he had to. He’d keep doing so until he was safe from that stupid war, and the damn army.

They don’t get to complain. They put a gun in hand, taught me to use it, made me use it, made me a murderer. I’m trying to survive. Nothing more.

Reassured that he still had the situation firmly under control, Ernesto went to the basin of water on the small table at the far end of the room, where Gustavo had left a towel, soap and a razor as requested. He threw some water on his face, and looked up into the small mirror to see his reflection for the first time in days.

Maybe it was the thick beard or the dark shadows under his eyes, or the tired look now that he had no jovial act to keep up, but he found himself thinking he looked at least a decade older than he was. But it was all right: the beard would go now, to make him less recognizable in case soldiers just happened to come to Santa Cecilia, and a good night of sleep and a meal - whatever priests were allowed to eat during la Cuaresma would seem like a king’s dinner compared to what he’d been living on - would take care of the rest.

Humming to himself, Ernesto lathered his face with soap and began to shave, careful to leave a mustache so that his face wouldn’t look too naked. By the time he was done and smiled at his reflection in the mirror, he felt a lot better. He could charm those idiots for a couple of days, and that was all he needed. After all, Miguel had described Santa Cecilia as an utter bore of a town.

What could possibly change in two days?

***

“Oye, Imelda. May I come in?”

“... You already let yourself in, so I guess.”

“Thanks. Chocolate?”

“We are supposed to be fasting and giving up on luxuries throughout la Cuaresma.”

“We are also supposed to be committed to lifelong chastity.”

“I am.”

“That’s why I brought you chocolate,” Sister Sofía said lightly, placing the dish with bits of dark chocolate on Imelda’s desk. She rolled her eyes, but then her stomach grumbled and she reached to take one. They weren’t fasting in the sense they ate nothing, of course, but their portions were smaller and, well, she was hungry.

“Isn’t Sister Antonia available to entertain you tonight?”

“Guess what she gave up.”

“Unfortunate.”

“I’ll find something to distract myself. I’ve been picked to help out at the parish, since Gustavo won’t bother to touch the laundry, dust or make meals,” she added, looking entirely too pleased with herself, and popped some chocolate in her mouth. Imelda sighed.

“And I suppose this isn’t due to a newfound passion for laundry, cooking and cleaning.”

“It’s due to curiosity, mostly. We already do all that at the orphanage, anyway.”

“I have serious concerns as to what you’re curious about,” Imelda said drily. “And what made Mother Gregoria pick you of all people? She’s not so stupid she cannot guess--”

“She reaaally wants that donation my papá promised.”

“... Of course,” Imelda muttered. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Sofía’s family’s wasn’t precisely rich, but they owned land and were significantly more well-off than most others. “They came to visit you last week, didn’t they?”

“With a list if potential husbands, and someone ready to write to the Vatican to free me from the loving clutches of the Catholic Church.”

“And none interested you?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Her own family had been questioning her choice, arguing that it wasn’t a matter of religious calling but rather her ‘womanly stubborness’ to be picky over her marriage perspectives.

Which was, truth be told, absolutely correct, but Imelda would eat a live scorpion before admitting as much. There was absolutely no one-- no one available -- in Santa Cecila whom she could imagine herself married to.

She could have simply stayed unmarried, but the prodding would have never ended; her brothers seemed to be the only ones who didn’t care whether she married or not. Eventually, she’d figured taking the veil would shut them up. It hadn’t quite silenced them yet, but that should change once the novitiate was over and she took her vows.

And then, perhaps - once the Revolution was over - she could sign up to go on missions, to travel, to see places. She would like that. It had been one of the perspectives that had convinced her to take the veil, along with that of a better education. She would have loved to stay at home, in Santa Cecilia… but not at their terms.

“I have standards, Imelda,” Sofía was saying, unaware of her thoughts. “Admittedly low ones, but I have them. Let alone if it’s about something I’d need to endure for more than a night, or however long it takes me to get my hands on arsenic.”

That caused Imelda’s lips to quirk. “Thou shall not kill.”

“A nice suggestion. Are the rifles and bullets in the basement meant to water flower beds?”

Imelda’s smirk faded within a moment. “Not so loud,” she hissed, giving a quick glance towards the closed door of her cell. She turned back to Sofía with a scowl. “I told you, it’s only for a week. They will send for someone to take them soon.”

“I sure hope one of those bullets finds its way into Huerta’s heart, for all the trouble they are,” Sofía muttered, but she did lower her voice. “I’m amazed you haven’t joined the fight, really.”

“I’ll be of better use to the Revolution here,” Imelda replied, and it was true. She could hide weapons, pass on messages, occasionally find a hiding place for someone, and smuggle them in the infirmary if wounded. “They need as many friends in the clergy as possible. Padre Edmundo turned in a blind eye--”

“No, he just really didn’t realize a thing. Trust me.”

“... But we don’t know where this Padre Ernesto stands,” she added, and a sudden thought hit her. She turned to Sister Sofía to see she was grinning. “Oh. So this is what you’re looking to find out by serving at the parish.”

Her grin widened. “Among other things, yes. I’ll report my findings. All of them.”

“Stick to the ones relevant for the cause, if you don’t mind,” Imelda muttered, causing Sofía to chortle before she gave her an oddly serious look.

“Perhaps it is time we involve brother Héctor. He may not be the parish priest, but--”

No, Imelda thought. No. Too dangerous. “Sofía,” she said slowly. “Look at me in the eye and tell me you really think he could keep a secret without it showing on his face clear as day.”

“Oh, I think he’s a better actor than you give him credit for. It’s only his helpless love for you that he cannot hide,” Sofía added, the grin back, and Imelda regretted even replying to her.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she muttered pointedly, and focused on the book in her hands. Not religious reading, but the Lord could forgive her, or mind His own business for once. “I’d like to be left along with my thoughts,” she added, and to her relief Sofía did not insist.

“All right. I’ll leave some chocolate for you here,” was all she said before taking the dish and walking out, leaving Imelda alone with a novel she now couldn’t possibly hope to focus on.

***

“Madre de Dios, Padre, are you really that desperate to meet the Lord early? You need rest. I will let you have a room for another night.”

“If He wills it, I shall gladly meet Him. I must be on my way.”

“It’s a long road to Santa Cecilia. What are you seeking so urgently?”

“Salvation, if I may have the presumption to ask for it. Is this enough for the churro?”

“Qué?”

“The… the burro, I apologize. My Spanish is not… is it enough for the donkey?”

“Sí. You, uh. You may want to take my hat, Padre. The sun beats hard these days, and you’re very... well…” Pablo paused, not quite sure of what he should say. Very white, he’d been about to say, but that wouldn’t be quite correct at the moment, given that the gringo’s face was decidedly reddened by the sun already. “... Sunburnt,” he finally said.

Father John Johnson - what an exotic name, Pablo had thought when he’d introduced himself - turned away from the satchel he’d been trying to the donkey’s saddle, and smiled.

He was already sweating, ridiculously light blond hair plastered to his forehead. He looked young, with a scraggly blond beard along his jaw, but there was something in the thin line of his mouth and the somber expression in the watery blue eyes - a bit unnerving, those - that made him seem strangely old, too.

Then he smiled, and he suddenly didn’t look a day past thirty.

“That would be very kind of you, Paul,” he said. “You truly are a good Samaritan.”

“Pablo. That’s my christian name,” Pablo pointed out, unable to keep some annoyance out of his voice; he had done that before, and kept referring to his son Eduardo as Edward. But he’d caused no trouble and blessed his home as well as paying for his stay without trying to haggle for a lower price, and it was more that could be said of some people. He took off his hat to hand it to that crazy, crazy gringo.

He had to be crazy to be there at all. Mexico wasn’t a good place to be those days, with Huerta’s iron fist on them all and revolutionaries fighting it with all they had, and it could be especially dangerous for an American, depending on who he met on his way. There was no love lost between Huerta and that country, who refused to recognize his regime as legitimate… and as a whole, truth be told, not many people liked gringos for a host of excellent reasons, the theft of their land up north still too fresh in their memories.

Had it not been a priest, and had he not been a God-fearing man, Pablo wouldn’t have let him in his inn - much less give him directions to Santa Cecilia and sell him a donkey, no matter how much money he offered.

“I wish you a safe journey, then,” Pablo said as the priest climbed up on the donkey, a bit clumsily. Not that Pablo had expected him to hop on effortlessly: he was a bit on the pudgy side. The previous night, his wife had quipped that his face looked like a ball of raw dough.

“Thank you,” Father John said, reaching into a satchel as though to check for something. He pulled out a worn-out copy of the Bible, and opened it briefly; Pablo got a glimpse of a piece of paper tucked between the pages, as worn as the Bible itself, like it had been handled and read many times over. The man’s features twisted as if in pain for a moment before he closed the Bible and put it back in the satchel. He nodded at him.

“God bless you, Paul.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. With a sigh and no small amount of effort, Pablo decided to ignore it. “May I ask what you plan on doing in Santa Cecilia, Padre?”

The smile faded a little, and John looked suddenly older again. “The Lord’s work, if He finds me deserving,” he said gravely, and got the donkey moving. “The Lord’s work.”

***

A/N: a note about the OCs: I fully take the blame for Sofía, but it should be known that John is pretty much a collective creation of the Coco Locos server. I only take about 25% of the blame for his pompous ass.

***

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