#bcs fic

He looks up at you, barely startled. He’s almost thoughtful while sitting on the barstool, his knees knocking against the cabinet. 

“I’m looking.”

You swallow. You’re too aware of the muscles of your throat. Every other muscle feels separate from you and just as overaware. 

“At what? The knife?”

“I’m looking at its point.”

The need for one hand to hold the other is instant as the static that washes over your pulse. You keep your eyes on his small hands. On the blade. 

On the way his fingers are much too close to the edge. 

No. No. He’s just—he’s just too young to not understand how quickly metal can punish his curiosity. Well…you learned at a young age, but it’s your responsibility that he doesn’t. 

“Okay,” you walk with soft steps toward your son. “I need you to hand that to me now, sweetheart.” 

You don’t like how your skin prickles at the way he looks down at it again. He’s very reluctant. That…that’s okay. He’s just a boy. 

“I know how to use it.”

“I know you think you do, but—

“No.” He glances up. You think he’s offended at your claim. “Papa showed me once.”

…Well, of course, Lalo did. 

You want to ask your son if he means that Papa taught him as a lesson. If there was any formality to it. Maybe Lalo taught him how to handle sharp things, and that they’re not toys, and that he’s just a boy who decides not to listen. 

For the sake of your body that you’re sharing with a baby that you hope looks like their papa, that’s what you’ll believe.

You force yourself to crouch to his boy’s eye level. 

“Even if you know how, you are not supposed to touch knives without Papa or me.”

He blinks. 

“I need one.”

He says it very quietly, unlike the heartbeat that’s sounding out in your eardrums. 

“Why?”

He shrugs. 

“In case somebody hurts you. If somebody makes you cry or yells at you. I’ll kill them.”

…He says it so simply. Matter-of-factly.

You almost say what? What the hell do you mean, baby? Where does this come from?

But the word would only be for you, not for him. He knows what he said.And you know where this is coming from. 

You’re heavy with the answer. Both in your heart and your stomach. 

It’s in his dark eyes, too serious for his age. 

“No,” You try to sound firm. “You do not ever hurt somebody for me.”

Your hands find your son’s knees because if you don’t touch him, you might drift out of your own body. You can see other things swim in his eyes, you think shock from where he expected praise. 

“I’m s’posed to protect you. Papa would.”

“Papa is a grown man…and—and even Papa…”

You think this is the first time you’ve ever truly lied to your son. You feel sick at the idea. You’ll blame it on the baby inside you.

“He doesn’t get to decide who lives or dies because someone hurts me.”

What he’s telling you, they’re only echoes made out of things overhead, Lalo speaking through him. The knife is not a game. You wish it was.

Lalo decides everything, and he’s decides how he exists in his son. In miniature. With a soft-pitched love.

What are you supposed to do with that, except grieve?

…Grieve over how you don’t feel the need to. Don’t lie about that, but maybe don’t say it outloud.  

“You are supposed to be a little boy.”

He frowns, hurt. You’ve hurt him. Why is necessary hurt apart of motherhood? At least you know why you only learn that it is as a mother. 

“I’m not little.”

“You are to me.”

“No.” Your son’s mouth trembles. “I’m strong. I’ll kill anyone who hurts you. Papa will let me.”

You make a soft sound when he throws himself into your arms. He’s only warm, tiny limbs as you try to hold him tight. He presses his face into your neck. 

“I’ll want to even without the knife. I’ll find a way!”

The hot pain in your stomach is the result of the first thought that comes to mind of what your son cries out against you. 

…Your papa found a way with my papa. How are you so much like him? Why can I not bring myself to keen over this?

“...You don’t have, baby. Please. Don’t. Don’t for Mamá.”

“I can’t hear you, niña,” Lalo quirks up an eyebrow, tapping his finger to boop your nose. You have a cute nose. And cute lips. And a cute face.

“Nothing’s wrong, Lalo. Just tired.”

Mm. Your lips are still cute even when you’re lying.

Lalo sucks his teeth. The hand that booped your nose moves to the back of your head, and he’s really looking at you now. Through his eyelashes, with his mustache and mouth a hard line. No smile. No laughs. Just looking.

“Try. Again.”

“My boss. He was just being a little meaner than usual today, that’s all.”

That’s all? Someone–some waste of life, a hombrecito estúpido–was mean to you, and the only thing you say is that’s all?

“Mean how?” The question is short and sharp. Harder than he usually speaks around you, but he can’t help it. His jaw sets tight after he asks, and you feel the hand behind you squeeze into a tight fist. When you don’t answer quick enough for his liking, always so slow his girl is, he grabs your chin and forces you to look into his eyes. “Mean how?”

You shuffle before answering. He doesn’t let you look away when you speak.

“I don’t know-“

What’s with all the lying today? Damn, you really are in an off mood.

“Yes, you do, so tell me. Now.”

Your mouth and eyes shut as soon as you feel the moisture well up. A huff leaves you because you should’ve known that the blubbering you did during the drive wasn’t enough to get all the tears out.

Lalo tilts his head and just stares. His eyes are dark, teeth finally unclenching. A quick sigh blows from his lips, and he pushes the rage running through every one of his nerves to pull you into his chest.

You melt into him instantly, so quick that it almost catches him off guard. A short, humorless chuckle gets stuck in his throat. He squeezes you, fingers rubbing tenderly across your shoulder blades. He feels your hands bunch the back of his shirt and squeezes even tighter. Both of you, holding on for dear life.

You’re really crying now, and shaking, too. Dios mio, what did this rat do to make his sweet, little star like this?

Part of him wants you to tell him. For your sake. Just to get it out because he can feel how tense it’s making you. Additionally, for himself. So he can figure out when, where, and how he’s going to make the guy pay.

Not apologize. Pay. Well, no. First, an apology. Then pay. Then he’ll take you out for an ice cream or something like that. Or to that corner store you love with the, what is it? Some little candies you can only get at that particular place. Just–whatever you wanna do. Whatever will make his girl smile and forget that your rat boss exists.

Because soon, he won’t. Lalo knows it’d be smarter to get someone else to do it (did someone say Nacho?), but you make him–and he can’t believe he’s saying this–stupid.

Lalo hums from somewhere deep inside his chest. Little shushes pepper out when he feels you hiccup against him.

“It’s alright, my girl,” he promises lowly, rocking you back and forth. Jeez, he’s getting soft. “It’s gonna be alright, okay? I’m gonna make it alright, just need you to stop crying and tell me what happened. So I can make it better.”

It takes you a good five minutes to collect yourself, and even then, your breath catches a few times.

“H-he was just being mean,” you start softly, watery eyes trained somewhere on Lalo. Your vision is too blurry to figure out where. “He said that I should be ashamed of myself because I let someone walk out without all of their bags. At first, I thought he was kidding and started laughing. But he wasn’t, and I tried to explain that it was an accident, but he wouldn’t listen. Then he got upset again and yelled at me in the back room after a customer told him that I gave them the wrong change and that I don’t pay attention. Even though I didn’t give him the wrong change, the guy–the customer–just counted his money wrong, and blamed it on me–”

“Breathe, estrallita. Breathe,” Lalo orders, cutting off your messy rant. He needs you to breathe because he isn’t. His lungs are stopped and frozen in hot anger. He can barely see you through the red blinding his stare, voice low and steady despite the way his insides twist.

For now, Lalo waits. You’ll tell him the rest later–he’ll make sure of it–but first he needs you to calm down. A bath should help. With bubbles. It’ll get you to stop crying, and he gets to see you naked? Score.

He’ll sit on the edge of the tub and rub you down with suds. All while you close your eyes and rest and breathe. No stupid customers. No dirty groceries. In fact, Lalo doesn’t think you’ll ever walk back in there again. He’ll make sure to tell your boss, that sad sack hijo de puta, right before he skins him alive.

Sure, he’s soft. But not soft enough to stop himself from going after your boss. Risky, maybe, but then again…

…no one mourns a dead rat.