the other workroom

dragon!Zuko ficbit: The Whistling Dragon

One day, while picking fish bones out of his teeth, Zuko accidentally discovered he could whistle by curling his upper lip and pressing his tongue along the back of his sharp front incisors.  Whatever he was doing in there somehow formed a channel through which came a whistle like a rough, low flute.

It was finally, finally something that didn’t sound like a dragon at all, and as stupid as it was he relished it.   He spent the rest of the day curled up on the bow of the cruiser whistling through his fangs, testing what he could do to change the pitch.

The crew seemed nonplussed by the whole thing at first.  But the look on Uncle’s face was worth it when Zuko clumsily whistled the old man’s favorite song, “Leaves From the Vine.”

Zuko hadn’t felt so okay in weeks.

The End of the Circle Post-canon continuation, my oldest ATLA fic, conceived and outlined before comics or LOK existed. Does some headcanon worldbuilding based on what was available at the time of the original series. Dragons and spirits and legends coming to life, oh my!

Status: outlined, some scenes written, firm endpoint, world built.

Summary: Roku warned Aang that he could not die in the Avatar State, or the cycle would end. Azula’s lightning killed Aang in the Avatar State. To their good fortune, Katara’s spirit water was able to bring Aang back to life, but there are Consequences—for the Avatar and for the world.

Wild Fire Canon AU/semi-rewrite. Also born before LOK was a thing so Druk doesn’t exist. It borrows some concepts from the idea of Toph and her badgermole family. It breaks some TLA canon around the edges but it’s all in good fun.

Status: outlined, many scenes, ending fully plotted.

Summary: The young Fire Prince was burned and disowned by the Fire Lord, cast away and abandoned on the hostile shores of the Earth Kingdom before his kindly uncle could aid him. Disfigured, angry, and lost, young Zuko finds solace in the wilderness when he is taken in by a most unusual protector: A dragon.

Phoenix Legacy Not-a-time-travel “time travel” fic. It was born after seeing Season 1 of Avatar LOK and...kinda liking it but not? (I mostly lost interest in LOK after S1.) And wanting to add some more classic feel to the season. No information from subsequent seasons was used to outline it (thus there is no Druk) but recently I have gone back and “fixed” Zuko’s daughter (giving her the correct name and appearance), and added her nameless daughter (Iroh II’s sister) for lulz. Basically a rewrite of LOK Season 1 with a TLA character along for the ride to shake everything up, because at the time I was disappointed that there was only Katara and no other Gaang members out there kicking the new Avatar into shape.

Status: outlined, a few scenes written, ending plotted; not to be a rehash.

Summary: A phoenix cannot die by fire—it can only be reborn. When Ozai claimed the title of Phoenix King, he had no idea what sort of spirit he might be invoking. When he lost his ancestor’s war and his crown, the spirit’s blessings were unknowingly conferred upon his heir: The hapless Fire Lord Zuko, determined to bring his nation to peace. Seventy years later, there’s a tragic explosion in a tea shop in Republic City, and exiled traitor Fire Prince Zuko wakes up to an unfamiliar world full of unfamiliar faces. The last thing he remembers is an Agni Kai under a Comet, catching lightning to protect a friend.

The Prince’s Prisoner Another ficling born before the comics or LOK were really a big deal and/or I didn’t know about them. Basically during TLA S1, rather than fleeing Prince Zuko’s clutches, Aang decides to remain his prisoner. The original reasoning for this was a kind of modified Peggy Sue: Aang effed up his final battle with Ozai for reasons, his soul is sorta sent back in time to do-over from his iceberg wakeup. The problem is that this is not a perfect process and he doesn’t actually remember everything, only some very important faces, feelings, and concepts. The idea of Zuko as a dear friend/teacher/trusted person is one of these things. Thus, in defiance of all visible logic, Aang trusts S1!Zuko with his life and keeps his promise to go with him. In spite of his Water Tribe friends continuously trying to rescue him, Zhao continuously trying to capture him, and Zuko himself continuously trying to avoid being befriended by his ticket home. (”I’m your prisoner, not anyone else’s.”)  Intended to be a funny and heartwarming friendship/journey story taking a different angle at the series.

Status: tentatively outlined with very few scenes skeleton’d out, season 1 definite, endpoint undecided but can continue throughout the series. The premise mechanic is a bit flimsy; it’s less concrete since it’s supposed to be fluff, angst, and friendship.

dragon!Zuko AU fic Everybody has to write one of these, it’s like a law. Here’s mine: Ozai’s cruelty during the Agni Kai with his young son invoked the wrath of Agni, bringing down a magic from a time before memory and no one knows if it’s a blessing or a curse. When Zuko’s face burned, the fire didn’t stop there, and when the flames went out a young dragon was left on the floor of the arena. Uncle Iroh came to his rescue before the rest of Court could gather their wits, and then had to get him on a boat and out of the Fire Nation before Ozai could decide whether to make him into a pet or a trophy. Part 1: Rather than going on a mission to hunt the Avatar, Zuko and Iroh are on a road trip to keep Zuko alive and secret from the world (Ozai wants to usurp his brother’s title of Dragon). Iroh and his crew end up raising this stubborn angsty dragon prince; since he can’t turn back into a human he has to come to terms with being a dragon most of the time (which can’t talk), and he can often be Very Dramatic about it. Part 2: Years later, there’s rumors of the Avatar’s return and Zuko (who has sort of learned to take a human shape again) sees an opportunity to spare his own life and go home by offering his father a bigger prize than a dragon’s head...

Status: very general outline, some scenes conceived and a general plot/endpoint. Part 1 is in the 3 years pre-canon, Part 2 is during canon, including the grumpy dragon hiding out in Ba Sing Se.

Years Gone/Avatar kids AU S1/pre-canon rewrite. Some whim of fate cracks open Aang’s iceberg three years early (a storm, a passing boat, pure chance?) and he tumbles out into the world in the same year that Prince Zuko was banished. Despite befriending some Water Tribe children who would love to go adventuring with him, he’s got to get home to the Southern Air Temple and that’s where he runs into young, angry, raw-wounded Prince Zuko on his first visit. The tiny chase ensues up and down the entire temple. Aang will of course be friendly but escape. And this begins a probably-ill-advised adventure with a lot of kids who are entirely too young to be camping across the world on a bison (but it’s exciting!), chased by another kid entirely too young to be leading a manhunt. The Comet is three years away so there’s plenty of time for adults to tear their hair out over this. Zuko is a tiny ball of determination, rage, and tears. Aang feels bad for him and tries to make with the befriending even as he’s dodging the fire tantrums. Occasionally during adventures Zuko just gets scooped along for the ride in Appa’s saddle, no one’s sure how these weird truces get called, but Iroh sips tea and directs the crew on a new heading and they’ll pick up their prince at the bison’s next stopover most likely after the kid pendulums back the other way and remembers he’s trying to nab the Avatar again. So Zuko spends 50% of the time yelling and chasing the Avatar and 50% of the time sitting in Appa’s saddle learning tentative smiles and being offered berries and seal jerky, all the way from the South Pole to the North. (It’s slightly terrifying to realize that Aang and Zuko are currently the oldest kids in the party and are actually in charge of this terribly irresponsible expedition.)

Status: general outline, a couple of scenes written, particular S1 plot points, no endpoint yet. Possible bonus content: Toph and/or Suki come along for the ride because why not.

The Blacksmith of Ba Sing Se This is a very old Lu Ten Lives! story. Lu Ten always knew Uncle Ozai envied him, but secure in his position he didn’t really care about it until he took an arrow in the back during the final battle of the Siege of Ba Sing Se. With unknown assassins among his own ranks and no safe place to retreat in the melee, the wounded prince decides to fake his own death by hiding in the rubble, and then swapping clothes with a slain Earth Kingdom soldier half crushed in the ruin. At first, it’s only to get to safety until he can get to the bottom of this. But Lu Ten is picked up by the EK medic teams after the surprising withdrawal of the Fire Nation troops, and ends up spirited away into the heart of Ba Sing Se—where he discovers that it’s hard to escape. He also discovers a whole new world, and a whole new perspective, and, keeping out of the authorities’ notice, eventually manages to make a life for himself as Chang the Blacksmith, a humble craftsman with a wife and kids. This...is much nicer than war, death, and Court politics. Years later: refugee Zuko walking home from his job at Pao Family Tea Shop runs across a little boy crying over his broken toy in the dusty street...

Status: nebulous outline with a few particular sketched scenes. Takes place mostly in Ba Sing Se, outcome indeterminate. It could be mixed with the Lineages concept from below.

Lineages / not Ozai’s kid AU Not really a concrete plot so much as a campy idea from long before the Avatar comics blundered through Ursa’s backstory. There was a phase in the fandom (I think the Search comics drew off of that) where it was popular to imagine almost anyone else than Ozai as Zuko’s Secret Real Dad (the boy deserves a better father) and Iroh was often selected as primary candidate. (I know, Iroh is already the real dad and stepped into Ozai’s cold empty shoes like a pro.) Me, deciding that I had to be different, decided to offer up Lu Ten on that altar. Justifications: Iroh and Ozai looked to have a pretty extreme age difference and there was no solid age for Lu Ten at the time of his death, but his picture looks mature enough. Deals with family secrets and the political issues of muddying the lines of inheritance in the middle of a war. Also takes a crack at Ursa having a clever hand with Azulon’s last will and testament on Ozai’s behalf, with provisos.

Status: nothing really more than a vague concept without enough plot to stand on its own. Without a viable framework, it could work better/well folded into The Blacksmith story, above.

*****

Héctor came awake to a warm, heavy weight on his spine, preventing him from sitting up without taking himself apart.  When he got his eyes open at last and peeked under the blanket, he found Miguel asleep across his middle, where his stomach would've been if he still had one, curled halfway into the space between ribs and pelvis like a kitten trying to snuggle as close to him as possible.

It certainly gave him an interesting profile under the blanket.  His laugh was little more than one brief, lazy huff of breath, one hand finding its way to Miguel's soft hair.  Too sleepy to bestir himself anyway, he let the blanket fall along with his eyelids and slipped easily back into dozing.

He woke again to the sharp rap of Imelda's rapid footsteps in the hall, and was blinking just in time for her to fling the guest room door open.

"Héctor, get up—Miguel's gone missing again, we need to—"

"Shhh..." Still half-asleep, Héctor didn't budge, gently patting the lump in his middle.

Imelda glowered at him for another beat before her brows went up.  "He's...?"

Héctor let himself smile sleepily.  "Now I think I know what you meant, about the baby sitting on your spine..."

She rolled her eyes at him, but it was with a snort he knew was laughter and that tiny victory made his ethereal heart dance in his ribcage.  She came over and lifted one corner of the blanket, and the way her face softened when she saw the sleeping child made that same heart thrill with affection.

She was harder and sharper but underneath she was still his Imelda, fierce and loving.

"Don't you two lay about all morning," she told him quietly when she let the blanket fall.  "We'll have breakfast for him in half an hour."

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

*****

Part 8 - (Interlude) Lost Boy

Imelda was exhausted.

Technically, it shouldn’t be possible for a Well-Remembered skeleton in the Land of the Dead to be tired.  She had her entire living family proudly Remembering her all year long, she had no need for food or sleep or even air, she had no real joints to ache or muscles to strain; indeed, under most circumstances she could power on for days at a time, keeping watch over her family as she always had.

She’d started the week thinking that everything was going to be ordinary, as it had been for decades.  And then that pendejo músico who had been her husband showed up out of the blue (she’d been enjoying years of peace in his absence, without him constantly popping in to pester her with his simpering and whining and caterwauling) and dropped an absolute perfect storm of a nightmare in her lap.

She wasn’t really angry with her little Miguelito.  If anything, the child was the most innocent person involved in this entire debacle, despite their difficulties.  She wasn’t entirely sure who or what was to blame for this, other than the dubious ghost that may have been in the Santa Cecilia river, but she suspected that part of it was because of that ridiculous, obnoxious alebrije which refused to be parted from her great-great-grandson (though she knew better than to try to separate them; Pepita would tear down walls if she thought her chosen soul was being taken from her, and Imelda didn’t want to find out what mess a stupid dog might make of her house by attempting to climb in the windows or dig under the door).

She was also fairly certain that something about Miguel’s presence in the Land of the Dead was Héctor’s fault.  She just wasn’t sure how.

It had been simple enough to take in her grandson and get him some food; they still had a few things left over from last year’s Día de Muertos, since everyone tried to make it last until the next, and her brothers always kept a stash of cookies in reserve.  And of course, everyone was delighted to have Miguel in their home, to be able to talk to him and embrace him after years of merely watching him grow through annual visits.  Rosita was practically beside herself to have a child in the house to dote on again.

Despite the quiet, wary boy, breakfast had gone smoothly.  So had getting Miguel cleaned up from the filth Héctor had brought him in with, though the child refused to let her throw away the tattered rag of a poncho he’d worn (and Rosita had coddled him by promising to wash it).  They’d also managed to get some questions answered and made some more introductions, though Miguel remained sullen most of the time.

The real nightmare began after all that, when she and Julio (Miguel’s closest deceased relative) had marched the boy down to the Department of Family Reunions to find out just how to send a living child back where he belonged.  After that, she no longer had time to dwell on her irritation with Héctor.

The Department had no record of his entry into the Land of the Dead, therefore it was certain that Miguelito was not in any way deceased (gracias a Dios).  They also had no idea how a living person could have arrived in the Land of the Dead without dying, or without crossing over the Marigold Bridges during Día de Muertos due to some supernatural influence (something which hadn’t happened in a couple of centuries, by the Department’s best reckoning).  The awe-inspiring cempasúchil spans used to pass into the living world on the Day of the Dead did not even exist outside of that hallowed eve, rising mysteriously from the fog and wind near the Veil at sunset and vanishing into golden dust on the breeze the moment the sun rose the following morning, closing the gates between realms for another year.

The only creatures capable of passing through the Veil year-round were alebrijes, and they could take nothing with them from either world when passing from spirit to mortal form and back again.  The clerks and researchers in the Department were doing a great deal of head-scratching about how Miguel had ended up on this side at all, much less how to send him back.  Living souls fell naturally into the afterlife when their bodies stopped functioning; leaving it took a great deal of magic.

They’d spent the remainder of the day at the Santa Cecilia Department office, with personnel running to and fro carrying books, folders, and clipboards, searching through archives and looking for records of any Remembered soul old enough to recall the ancient days when the worlds of the living and the dead brushed shoulders more often.  They’d had both Imelda and Julio attempt various curse-breaking rituals for hours, from the modern to the arcane, including everything from precious family objects to dried and fresh marigold petals, just to see if there was any way to send their grandson home, but in the end they had to admit defeat; Miguel was not cursed and there was no spell to break.

All the while, that stupid alebrije-puppy sat at Miguel’s side, panting and grinning a doggy grin as if nothing was wrong at all.

When it grew terribly late Imelda called a halt to the frantic testing (Miguel was already sullen and upset and wanted to go home to his parents, and with the constant poking and long hours of waiting he was rapidly moving toward cranky) and took her grandson home to rest.  The child was tired and hungry and Imelda was done with ineffective bureaucracy fluttering around like pigeons.

Then, when they fed Miguel dinner, Imelda had a terrible realization: Their boy would need to eat a sufficient amount of food two or three times a day for as long as it took to find him a way home, and two meager (and rather unhealthy) meals of cookies and sweetbread had already half decimated the Riveras’ modest stores of snacks.

She wasn’t going to have enough food for her grandson to last a few days, much less a week.

It was a chilling, hollow awareness that brought to mind the time before she’d started making shoes, when she wasn’t sure she’d be able to put food on the table for Coco from one day to the next, waiting for another envelope containing meager pesos to arrive.  Only this time it wasn’t a matter of money, it was a matter of wondering if sufficient food even existed in the Land of the Dead.

Imelda asked her granddaughter, who knew what seemed like almost everything, how much time they might have, and Victoria gave her the Survival Rule of Threes: Miguelito might live three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food.

And three weeks was the outermost limit before he went into a coma and died; infirmity and severe illness would set in long before that.

By the next day, the twins and Rosita were canvassing their neighbors for donations of food and supplies for their lostling living child.  Imelda and Julio took Miguel back to the Department office to harry them for answers again, or at least some solutions to their problems.  And suddenly there were a lot of problems.

They’d all long forgotten how much work it was to stay alive and healthy, when in the Land of the Dead they needed so little.  Miguel had to eat sufficient food and use the bathroom regularly (one of the archivists had found an old chamber pot in the basement like Imelda hadn’t seen used since her girlhood, and placed it in an empty office) and would need to bathe and brush his teeth. Obviously skeletons didn’t need to eat, and especially didn’t need to eliminate after they did; bathing was something done rather rarely and only when there was need (there was no skin to sweat with, no oils or odors to worry about).

Imelda had been horrified to learn that the water piped into their houses for washing wasn’t clean (why would the dead need it to be more than barely filtered?) and this was what she had been giving her grandson to drink.  The Department heads immediately began to fall over themselves to work out water sanitation (they had the tools and materials but no one had ever bothered).  There probably weren’t any bacteria in the Land of the Dead, as there was no way in and nothing really for them to live on, but Miguel was a source of them himself and if he was weakened by dirty water or rancid food he might still take ill.

They would need changes of clothes and bedding for him, and ways to wash those things.  He would need combs, toothbrushes, toilet paper and towels.  He would need a near constant supply of clean water, sufficient calories and nutrients each day, a place to eliminate waste and keep it sanitary, at least eight hours of sleep per night, and ways to keep his mind busy.  The frantic air in the Department of Family Reunions gradually shifted from “How can we send the child home?” to “How do we keep the child alive and healthy until we can figure it out?”

Some members of the Department, faced with seemingly insurmountable troubles for just one kid, wanted to give up; by their logic, it wasn’t the end of the world if one child among millions died and he’d be much easier to care for then.  Imelda wouldn’t hear of it (chasing one vocal individual out of the room with her boot), and took her sniffling grandson home again, leaving the clerks and workers with a stern admonition to keep trying.

At least her fierce defense of the boy’s right to continue living seemed to make him glower at her a little less.

By the day after that, the entire neighborhood around the Rivera home was in a quiet uproar, having heard the news of the living boy and responded with disbelief, amazement, and concern.  People were dropping in at all hours of the day to bring food, spare clothes, extra toiletries, anything they had.  They gave freely, asking after Miguel and expressing their hopes for his safe, swift return home.  Imelda had never felt prouder of her community, nor more grateful for the good friends her family had made in the years here.

The Department pulled itself together as well, not entirely due to Imelda’s shoe threats; there were decent folk there as well.  Technicians arrived to set up a filtration system under the Rivera house so that Miguel would have assuredly clean water to drink and bathe in.  There were a great many things that skeletons didn’t use which were thrown into piles at the bottom of the towers of the Land of the Dead, and some enterprising interns had found and cleaned up an abandoned set of those portable plastic outhouses (suddenly these were much less silly and disgusting things when they were so desperately needed).  One was placed in a corner of the Rivera courtyard near the gate (Rosita immediately set about putting up colorful curtains and screens to make that corner more pleasant and private for their boy), and the Department promised trucks would come by regularly to switch it out for a fresh one.

They had water aplenty, and sundry supplies in forgotten dumps, warehouses, and basements from decades of not being needed by the dead, but they were desperately short on food—the rarest, most vanishing resource.  And Miguel could not live on conchas and chocolate alone.

To Imelda’s surprise, however, more than just her family, friends, and neighbors wanted to share what they had with the mysterious living child.  As the rumors spread day by day, more and more skeletons showed up on the Riveras’ doorstep with bags, boxes, baskets, and armloads of everything they had left over from the last Día de Muertos.  Some had to see Miguel for themselves before they were entirely willing to part with their gifts, but all of them brought something edible.  Most of it was baked goods and sweets that could keep long-term (Imelda and Victoria despaired of turning the poor boy diabetic before they managed to get him home), but sometimes there was hard cheese or jerky—precious protein.

Seeing how willing even perfect strangers were, the Department clerks finally got the idea through their collective idiocy to put out an official announcement about the living boy in their midst and his desperate need for nourishment until he could be returned to his home.  In the time that followed this broadcast through television, radio, and newspapers (complete with a picture of Miguel looking suitably sad and frightened), the entire Land of the Dead pulled together in a stunning display of both shock and care.  There were millions dwelling in the afterlife and most of them had access to one ofrenda or more; everyone was dropping extra food off at Department offices, community centers and churches.  Celebrities made great shows of bringing large loads of gifts.  Even deceased youngsters started taking up food drives in their neighborhoods with little wagons and baskets.

In a matter of days Miguel Rivera was the talk of the afterlife, like a news story about a baby in a well or whales trapped in the Arctic.  Everyone had heard about him and wanted to help.

Enough food arrived that Imelda felt somewhat better about Miguel’s chances, even if it opened up an entirely new can of logistical difficulties.  It was impossible for food to actually mold in the Land of the Dead (mold spores, it seemed, didn’t grow there any more than anything else did), but it could very well go stale or rancid if left out too long. The Department helped her family set up as many refrigerators and freezers as could fit in the pantry, to hold as much of the offerings as they could for Miguel’s daily use; the rest was kept in the care of the Santa Cecilia Department office.  The family’s kitchen was also provided with a larger stove, a toaster oven, and even one of those noisy, new-fangled microwave things (and a stern warning never to put anything metal inside it).

Oscar and Felipe were already tinkering with things to help with food storage and making toys for Miguel.  Rosita was thrilled with cooking for real on a regular basis, even as limited as their menu was, and took up overseeing baths and bedtimes since Miguel didn’t trust Imelda.  Julio worked twice as hard, keeping his duties in the shoe shop and looking after setting up Miguel’s living quarters and sorting out his clothing.  Victoria read up on child care, nutrition, and first aid, eager to help in her own quiet way.  Imelda shook her fist and her shoe at the Department of Family Reunions and demanded day after day that they find a way to send her grandson home.

After long, tiring days of trying and trying every little thing that anyone could find or even think up, from ancient dances to a memorably chilly boat ride, one by one the heads of the Department began to give up.  There was no spell or curse or astral projection; Miguel was physically present in the Land of the Dead and they could find no way to send him back.  In the end, they were sure of only one path back to Santa Cecilia: Día de Muertos.  When the Bridges returned and the gates to the Land of the Dead opened, they would have at least one sure way to take Miguel back to the living world.

The problem was that the Day of the Dead was over two months away.

Imelda wasn’t happy with how long that would take.  Her grandson would have to survive with their makeshift preparations and inadequate food supply for better than nine weeks, and on the other side his living family had to be worried positively sick for him.  She knew how distraught her daughter would be with their precious littlest grandson missing, and in such tragic circumstances; it knotted her nonexistent stomach to picture Coco weeping for the lost child, thinking him dead in the river.

But Imelda would get Miguelito home to Coco, she swore it on her family’s love and honor.  All they needed was to hold on until Día de Muertos.  Just that long, and then they could walk Miguel across the Bridge to Santa Cecilia and take him home.  Oh, what a joy and relief that would be at last!

Miguel himself was...a challenge, to say the least.  He was already upset in general over Héctor leaving him with his family (really, the boy shouldn’t have been surprised; leaving was what her husband did), people he only knew from pictures and stories.  He was sullen when Imelda was in the room and shy with most of the others, and had a decidedly irritating habit of asking when he could see Héctor again.  The others would uncomfortably deflect the question when it came up, but Imelda would tell him the truth, and that only seemed to make the child more and more mulish every time.

Imelda had to admit that she didn’t know her great-great-grandson as well as she thought she did.  She remembered a sweet but bored child during the quiet Día de Muertos feasts at the living Rivera home, Elena feeding him and shushing him, and his young mother keeping him in arms to prevent him running about the cemetery during candlelight visits.  Nothing in those encounters had done anything to prepare Imelda for the energetic, messy, loud little boy who could go from sunny grins to surly scowls in a heartbeat and tended to leave a trail of dust, clutter, and sheer noise wherever he went.

If there was a mess, the boy was sure to be right in the middle of it.  If there was something that could be knocked over, Miguel would discover a way to bump it.  If there was any object that could make sound, the child would rap, puff, strum, or tap almost without thinking.  With his silly alebrije at his heels, he could do all of this nonstop, from the moment he woke until the moment he collapsed into bed.  Poor Julio couldn’t keep up with him in the least, and they could hardly go an hour without Rosita’s high pitched shrieks and squawks as yet another thing went awry or another mess was found.  Imelda’s brothers were entirely too distractable to be good babysitters, but they were the only ones who could match Miguel’s pace when Imelda was busy.

And Miguel could be as moody and stubborn as he was kind and shyly cheerful.  He tended to be quiet around Imelda herself, frowning and only grudgingly responding to her, but he was obedient, even agreeable to the others.  He knew the routine of a shoe shop, and he tried to do what his Papá Julio asked him to when he helped, even if the results were clumsy.  He even tentatively tried to assist Rosita in the kitchen, though that often just made the messes worse.  He missed his living family terribly, and he wouldn’t accept Imelda’s comfort; she would often find him later, curled up next to wherever Victoria was reading a book, sniffling quietly while his great-aunt absently petted his hair.

However, there were a few points the sweet, likable child would set his feet and refuse to budge on, becoming a surly little stone wall, and one of those issues was Héctor, something that never failed to make Imelda lose her patience.  Every negative response from her just seemed to make Miguel scowl more, even if he didn’t directly challenge her.  He clung to the tattered (but clean) wool poncho he’d arrived in like a security blanket and stayed as far from Imelda as he could get.

Coco had been a stubborn girl in her own quiet, sweet way, but she had been far more cooperative and respectful than Miguel.  Imelda’s granddaughters had also been much more agreeable children; Victoria had plenty of her own ideas, but she was obedient and thoughtful.  Elena had of course been quite loud and willful, but in the end she seldom actually disagreed with her family and always did as her mother and grandmother bid her.  Even Elena’s oldest boy, Berto, had been a cranky but compliant baby when Imelda had known him briefly in life.

Miguel was in a class by himself, and half the time Imelda was at her wits’ end.  Equal parts precious and infuriating, the little boy had her by turns melting and tearing her hair out multiple times a day, and the shoe shop soldiered on under Julio while she ran after the child.  Miguel did not seem to like his great-great-grandmother at all, which didn’t help matters when she had to scold him for one thing or another (depressingly frequent).  She’d never had to bark “No music!” to anyone in the family so often as this child, but on the other hand she’d quickly learned that when he got quiet there was usually a disaster waiting to happen.  He knew how to use puppy-dog eyes to great advantage (Rosita had no resistance whatsoever) and would often go right ahead doing something he was told not to do as long as he thought no one was looking; “No” didn’t mean “No” to him; it meant “Go around.”  He was kind-hearted and well-meaning but obstinate and artful and terribly clever for his age.

It was all so wrenchingly familiar.  There were moments Miguel was so much like Héctor had been in their youth that it made Imelda want to scream in fury or just sit down and sob.  Victoria would say something sternly to the boy and Miguel would grin apologetically and clutch at one arm and his entire posture would make Imelda’s ethereal gut clench.  Rosita would call him to the kitchen for a meal and Miguel would dance and skip along to a rhythm only he could hear and Imelda’s hands would ball into fists at the phantom sound of her husband’s whistling.  Julio would ask Miguel to help clean up in the shop and the little boy’s thin limbs would flail as he tried to catch something he dropped, and Imelda had to grit her teeth against the memory of Héctor’s well-intentioned clumsiness.

With plenty of his very own looks and personality, Miguel wasn’t a tiny Héctor (thank all that was holy), but that just made the myriad parts of him that were all Héctor leap out at her like a jaguar pouncing from a tree—unexpected, all-consuming, and painful.  It shouldn’t have been possible, this many generations away, for any of her great-great-grandchildren to take after that pendejo músico so clearly (they all had their little traces, but Imelda could ignore sporadic flickers like so many short-lived fireflies).  It wasn’t Miguel’s fault, blood was blood and no one could change that, but it was so strong in him that there were overwrought moments when it was all she could do not to snarl at the innocent child as she would have her accursed husband.

As it was, she could snap at him sharply enough to send him running angrily to hide in his room under that dratted poncho, the damned alebrije-dog giving her reproachful looks as it slunk after him.  She always regretted her tone when she’d calmed down, but Miguel’s sullen defiance made apologies impossible.  Very unlike Héctor, her grandson didn’t abandon his disobedience when she reprimanded him; he only retreated to nurse his childish grudges in private, regardless of her authority or the logic of her arguments.

To add insult to injury, he continued to ask about Héctor—when he would see him again, when Papá Héctor would come back.  It only made Imelda more furious with her walkaway husband; that man had always possessed an uncanny talent in utterly charming young children, like a guitar-strumming pied piper.  Of course he would find it far too easy to lure in a small boy who was so like him, capturing a trusting little heart like a dove in a net.  Miguel was stubborn enough to hold on to that faithless man, just like Coco had been as a girl, and it left Imelda’s chest aching.  Despite the decades she’d spent trying to keep him away in life and in death, Héctor had selfishly caused yet another of her family to fall in love with him and then left her to pick up the pieces.

She wasn’t truly angry with her Miguelito, despite how infuriating the boy could be.  It was Héctor’s fault, inspiring both Miguel’s stubborn faith in him, and the inevitable crash and burn that would come when their grandson finally realized that man was never coming back for him.  It would hurt him, just like it had hurt Coco, and it was one more log on the fire of Imelda’s anger on top of all the rest of the stress.

Ten days after Miguel arrived on her doorstep (and they still had two months to go, por Dios), Imelda was exhausted, emotionally drained, and ready to wring Héctor’s neck with a fury she hadn’t experienced since the first year after he’d left home.  Back when she’d had little money from week to week, fingers worked to the bone on leather and stitching, and only cruel answers for her daughter’s tearful demands to know when Papá was coming home.

She had only cruel answers for Miguel, too.  Héctor wasn’t coming back because leaving was what he did.  Héctor wasn’t coming back because Imelda would not allow him to return only to break their family again.

She was not prepared to acknowledge the care she had seen Héctor take with the boy in her courtyard, the gentleness she knew all too well from his time with their daughter.  Anyone could be kind to children, and he just happened to be especially good at it.

She was not prepared to contemplate the rare courage he’d shown, standing firm in the face of an alebrije he’d always seemed terrified of, or the way he’d pushed back for the first time when she swung her boot at him.  She could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever raised his voice to her, and the memory of the bite in his tone that day still gave her an uncomfortable pinch in her chest.

She was not prepared to think about the way he’d turned his back on her, the wooden expression on his face, the way he’d spoken as if they were strangers.  She should have been happy it seemed like he’d at last given up.  She wasn’t prepared to think about it, but no matter how she tried she could not forget the shattered look in his eyes.

Even walking away from her and Coco had not left him looking that broken.  She couldn’t understand it.  At this point, she hadn’t the energy to try to understand it.

Ten days in.  Two months to go.  And she’d just come from yet another unpleasant altercation with her grandson, once again over the music the child couldn’t seem to stop producing.  She’d scolded, he’d scowled, and the very next thing she knew she was snapping at him and he was accusing her of making Papá Héctor go away because she hated music.

No one had ever called her mean.  Not her family.  Not to her face.

Miguel had fled from her and was hiding in his room with that damnable poncho again, possibly under the bed this time.  Imelda was sitting in the sala with a cool damp cloth on her forehead, ignoring the passing of time, wondering where all her child-rearing skills had gone and how she was going to survive eight more weeks of this stubborn, surly, uncooperative little boy she loved so much—

“Oye!  Imelda!”

That was Oscar or Felipe.  It didn’t matter which had yelled; where one went, the other was right behind him.  Imelda plucked the cloth from her head and sat up to glare at her brothers as they tumbled into the room.

Felipe waved his arms frantically.  “Miguel’s gone!”

“What?” she snapped.

“Rosita went in to check on him after a while—”

Oscar took up the explanation.  “—because a treat can sweeten him up a little—”

“—you know like she always does? And—”

“—the bed’s empty, that raggedy security blanket is gone—”

“—and the crazy dog is gone too, and Dante—”

“—never goes anywhere without Miguel...!”

Instead of leaping into action, Imelda paused a moment to lean back, drop the damp cloth over her face, and resist the urge to let out a string of dire, blue-air curses that would have shocked even her brothers who knew her younger days well.

“Ave María Purísima...does it never end?” she muttered instead.

Then she stood up, faced her brothers, and took charge once again.  “Close the shop.  Gather everyone and get ready to search.  Send Julio to the Department office to notify the authorities of a missing child.  I will get Pepita.  Vámonos!”

(tbc)

I still really don’t like this whole part, but at this point I have to throw up my hands and post it or it just won’t happen. Can’t seem to tweak it any better.

I had to cram a lot of information (10 days’ worth) into it that would have been much too dry for non-interlude chapters and wrong from any other POV than Imelda’s. She’s in charge of the family after all, and she’s appointed herself head of the shoe business, as well as head of Getting Miguel Home Safely and head of Looking After The Living Child Day To Day.

Think she’s bitten off more than she can chew this time?

I do think she tries to do too much, and doesn’t stop to think about the consequences other than the practical, determined to protect her family for their own good. (Imperfect narrator.)

Miguel’s bad first impression of her is not making anything easy.  He misses his parents a lot and he’s an angry, scared little boy who has a very hard time trusting his primary caregiver who in his mind is hostile to music and hates/drove off the best friend he’s made here.