Los Hombres de Paco | Pepa/Silvia | We Start And End Here
Cross-posted to pepa-silvia
Title: We Start And End Here
Author: frogfrizz (aka AsianScaper)
Pairing: Pepa/Silvia
Rating: PG
Warning: Angst, AU
Summary: In the aftermath of Silvia's death, Pepa finds solace in family.
Disclaimer: This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Author's Notes: This is dedicated to the community for being awesome (all the fic, the fansubs, the vids, the art, etc.). It may or may not turn into a series since tiny plot bunnies were hatching all throughout the writing of this; my muse will decide or the lot of you can, too. Unbeta'ed so all mistakes are mine. First piece of fic in ages so...yeah.
--
Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught,
And spent my little life without a thought,
And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim,
Should think of me, who never thought of him.
~René Francois Regnier
--
I have never been so divided, every part of me thrown out into the sea like shattered stars, splayed across the sky like thousands of painful piercings.
And I know that this is the long night. The groaning darkness that I see when I close my eyes during the day. The deep nightmare of black when I enter the threshold of our house. The murky waters that crawl up my knees as I touch the couch, the chairs of our dining room, the mantle of our fireplace, the all-too-neat covers of our bed.
I’ve been sleeping at the couch, Peliroja. I haven’t touched the quilts you’ve bought for us when we tried to comfort our niece. Nor have I forgotten that day, tucking every memory before and after. Now all I have are secret compartments deep in my heart that I open in the privacy of my sorrow.
There is a terrible aching, an aching that stretches outwards from somewhere below my chest, threatening to tumble outwards from my eyes, my mouth, my throat. It has robbed me of mobility, of my urge to walk or rouse.
I know Paco is worried because he visits every day, knocking at our door tentatively after he has left the precinct. When he enters, his eyes are nervous as he pulls in the details of our home. He is reverent when he fixes me a meal, touching the pots and the pans as though they were your arms or your fingers, his words gentle and cautious as though you were there between the woodwork, settled in the creases of brick and mortar and stone.
I hear the click of the stove as he finishes and then he would join me at the table, pushing a plate of hot food that I can’t see, or taste or even smell.
With the sun setting and the lamps easing us into twilight, the scene is overlaid with a fragile, almost iridescent film. It is glazed with the filaments of your touch, your laughter, your matter-of-fact voice as you tell me that the paella you’ve just made is your father’s recipe. I grab your hips, my fingers seeking the inviting break between your shirt and your jeans. Just as quickly, the scene shatters and I slam back into the empty house, the chair that we bought, the table we had almost argued over. I can barely see Paco from across me, my vision shrouded with tears.
Paco stares hard as though waiting to see if I would come out. He doesn’t wait for longer than what is necessary; instead, he brings Paco to his sister, sighing heavily as he picks up a fork, nabs a sliver of meat and puts the utensil in my hand.
“Eat, Pepa,” he says, lifting my hand with his.
My eyes flicker to him. As though seeing him for the first time, I smile and bring my hand to his face. I kiss him on the cheek
Then the fingers on his neck quiver and I choke out my words in a helpless rush as I let him go, “I can’t.”
He bites his lip as though to hold his tears at bay; his eyes are watery and with them I know that he is secretly telling me to leave this place: the house, the massive gestures of grief, the persistent pattering from one memory to another as I savor and then realize with horror that everything has changed.
“Please Pepa. Just three spoon-fuls this time,” he whispers.
I swallow, I nod. I put the food in my mouth because I love him, my brother.
“You’re welcome to stay with me,” he says.
“I know.”
“Pepa…”
I breathe deeply. “No. Not yet. My place is here.”
He breaks his gaze, looking sideways. He rubs his nose and blinks furiously as he tries hard to keep the tears from falling.
--
I’m doing my reports, struggling like I’m muddling through a bog, my fingers sinking into the letters of my computer and the rest of me in slow motion. I’m bent over like a ghost, the light of the screen washing over my face, a limpid reminder that the day has ended and that I am, once again, very much alone. That all the lights in my life have been artificial, illusory ever since…that day.
It’s a realization that does not go unnoticed and I feel my cheeks turn wet, then sticky as the tears dry on my face. Still, my fingers stretch over the keyboard and in every stroke, a dull pain tells me that everything I write, everything I do seems empty without you.
I force myself to keep typing. The report is due tomorrow and with the case closed, I should be celebrating. With you.
Oh, my Peliroja.
“Inspector Miranda-Castro.”
The rough voice of your father breaks the silence like thunder. I nearly jump out of my skin, taking hold of the gun in its holster draped over my seat.
“Don Lorenzo,” I acknowledge as he emerges from the shadows, relaxing considerably.
Despite his tone, his presence is tender like the comfort of a small flame in a dark, empty cave. But like a small flame, his presence glimmers and fades into the cold. I squint as he flips the switch to the light in the foyer and glances with disapproval across the twilit house.
“You’re going to destroy your eyes.” I know he is talking of something else as grabs a chair and places it gruffly beside me.
He has taken the liberty of borrowing the house’s keys from Paco. He fishes them out of his pocket and drops them beside the humming monitor. As he does so, he places a kiss on my forehead before his body settles into the chair.
“I wanted that on my desk yesterday,” he says, gesturing to the report with his chin.
“Don Lorenzo…”
He raises a hand to stop me from speaking. “I brought some tapas from the tavern.”
“Leo,” I managed to say, my smile faltering into the half-grimace associated with mentioning anyone who reminds me of you.
“She told me to bring them to you. I left them in the kitchen. I’m surprised you didn’t notice me coming in.” His tone is almost reproachful but it is something I’m used to. By now I’ve realized that it is his way of telling me that I am important enough for him to fuss over.
“I haven’t been…”
“Yourself,” he interjects.
He eyes me up and down, nearly scoffs. He has seen me dress like a punk but I doubt he has ever seen me so appallingly defeated in a simple shirt and draw-string pants. But despite his gruffness, his gestures are gentle and awkward like a giant careful with his surroundings for fear of destroying them or offending its inhabitants.
“Pepa, you can’t keep living like this.”
“Like what?” I laugh derisively.
He chooses to shrug, his gaze about to tip over to one of righteous anger. But after a few seconds of looking at me, of being reminded that this lady was a Castro inasmuch as a Miranda, his cheeks move into a half-smile and he hides his face in his palm.
“I got a call from Interpol,” he began, peering at me intently.
Indeed, from all the murkiness of the days before, this bit of news is like a shot of adrenaline and I could feel my ears prickle in curiosity. My silence and the fact that I’ve stopped typing signal him to continue.
“They’re asking for you.” He raises his hands as I look at him in inquiry. “I have no idea why. It seems as though they picked up your file, liked what they saw and now they want to meet you.”
“They?”
“They were a pair,” he intones in a way that tells me I should have guessed that bit. “They came by the precinct just this morning, which is why I paid you a personal visit. An Agent Lilia Renatus and an Agent Carlos Caton.”
“Sounds like an odd pair,” I try to joke.
He snorts but he knows that this is the first time I seem interested in police work since…that day.
In the few seconds that he has mentioned the International Criminal Police Organization, I feel some of the cobwebs that have been slowing my insides drift apart. I continue, “Do you want me to come to the precinct tomorrow?”
“No, they’ll visit you here tomorrow morning.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“The Interpol wants to keep this quiet.” He rubs his chin in thought. His body language tells me that he is cautious of our visitors and at the same time, hopeful that their visit would bring much needed expertise which the precinct does not have. “I’m told it has something to do with the terrorist threats back in Italy. Unfortunately for San Antonio, they’ve traced some of the perpetrators here. I’ve been advised by the higher-ups to give them what they want.” At the mention of authority, he looks at me pointedly, “You must know cariño, that there are some forces in this world that I can’t defy.”
“Good on you, Don Lorenzo,” I tease.
He waves my words away, his perpetual frown easing into an expression of relief as he realizes that my humor has not left me. “They seemed very anxious to speak with you and would’ve come here tonight if I had advised them otherwise. I wanted to make sure you were prepared for them before they came to your home.”
I am grateful for the warning and I tip my head to him to acknowledge his thoughtfulness.
With that, he stands abruptly, working his way to the kitchen. He flips the switches as he goes like an old god drifting from one dark room to another with the sun in his hands. The house has never been this bright since you walked out the door for the very last time but I am comforted rather than dismayed and your father once more uplifts when he arrives with my favorite box of tapas.
Just like the ones you used to bring me during a stake-out or when we were both too lazy to cook, those little packets of temporary bliss that acted as preambles for conversation, love-making or even quarrels. I feel my guts wrench and my appetite weaken.
As though I could physically separate myself from the memory, I breathe deeply, turning back to my report.
“None of that, cariño,” Don Lorenzo scolds, pulling at my shoulder as he opens the box with flair and shoves one delicious-looking snack in my hand. He shoots daggers with his eyes. “Eat.”
Your father is more effective than Paco ever will be when it comes to forcing food into my stomach. Maybe it’s the way he does it firmly as you would. The way he softens only infinitesimally when he knows that I am fed, the way he stands up to fetch me a tall glass of water even before I think to ask for one. Like he is now, you were always so attentive, so wed to details, so very careful when you leaned forward to kiss my forehead as I ravaged through three of these snacks in mere seconds.
“Careful, Pepa. You’ll choke.” It is his voice against my forehead not yours and suddenly, I’m missing you even more. I put the piece of bread down, wiping at the sides of my lips as I sense misery stalking me from behind. He reaches down and wipes my cheek.
“No more crying, yes?” he pleads.
I force a smile, my mouth still full and I chew more slowly this time.
The silence is companionable and we look at each other as I finish the tapas one by one. He nods every time I put one to my mouth, perhaps secretly delighted that his daughter-in-law is eating under his watch. I can see the wrinkles around his eyes deepen as though in silent laughter.
The minutes pass and the furtive glances he has been giving my computer culminate in him turning it off. He ignores my protests, roughly silencing me with numerous Sssht!’s. Once reassured by the blankness of the screen, he stands to make himself some coffee but not before he refills my glass with more water. The crying has always left me thirsty and he seems to know the motions of grief well enough to watch over my own thirst.
With that, I am reminded that this man has probably lost more than I have. No human being should ever live to see the day that he has lost both his wife and his daughter.
Despite the tiredness of being a Commissioner, the echoing emptiness of his house, he still comes to our home and thinks of me. He deserves more than just my heartache. I steady my resolve and down the rest of the food.
He does not leave until I finish the whole box, or even after he tucks me in at the couch that I’ve designated as my bed. He pulls the covers over me as I fold into myself and contemplate another long, noiseless night. There, as I fall asleep and lay my worries at his feet, he watches me from a chair and sings a low lullaby that I’m sure he has sung to you before.
--
Next chapter here.
Title: We Start And End Here
Author: frogfrizz (aka AsianScaper)
Pairing: Pepa/Silvia
Rating: PG
Warning: Angst, AU
Summary: In the aftermath of Silvia's death, Pepa finds solace in family.
Disclaimer: This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Author's Notes: This is dedicated to the community for being awesome (all the fic, the fansubs, the vids, the art, etc.). It may or may not turn into a series since tiny plot bunnies were hatching all throughout the writing of this; my muse will decide or the lot of you can, too. Unbeta'ed so all mistakes are mine. First piece of fic in ages so...yeah.
--
Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught,
And spent my little life without a thought,
And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim,
Should think of me, who never thought of him.
~René Francois Regnier
--
I have never been so divided, every part of me thrown out into the sea like shattered stars, splayed across the sky like thousands of painful piercings.
And I know that this is the long night. The groaning darkness that I see when I close my eyes during the day. The deep nightmare of black when I enter the threshold of our house. The murky waters that crawl up my knees as I touch the couch, the chairs of our dining room, the mantle of our fireplace, the all-too-neat covers of our bed.
I’ve been sleeping at the couch, Peliroja. I haven’t touched the quilts you’ve bought for us when we tried to comfort our niece. Nor have I forgotten that day, tucking every memory before and after. Now all I have are secret compartments deep in my heart that I open in the privacy of my sorrow.
There is a terrible aching, an aching that stretches outwards from somewhere below my chest, threatening to tumble outwards from my eyes, my mouth, my throat. It has robbed me of mobility, of my urge to walk or rouse.
I know Paco is worried because he visits every day, knocking at our door tentatively after he has left the precinct. When he enters, his eyes are nervous as he pulls in the details of our home. He is reverent when he fixes me a meal, touching the pots and the pans as though they were your arms or your fingers, his words gentle and cautious as though you were there between the woodwork, settled in the creases of brick and mortar and stone.
I hear the click of the stove as he finishes and then he would join me at the table, pushing a plate of hot food that I can’t see, or taste or even smell.
With the sun setting and the lamps easing us into twilight, the scene is overlaid with a fragile, almost iridescent film. It is glazed with the filaments of your touch, your laughter, your matter-of-fact voice as you tell me that the paella you’ve just made is your father’s recipe. I grab your hips, my fingers seeking the inviting break between your shirt and your jeans. Just as quickly, the scene shatters and I slam back into the empty house, the chair that we bought, the table we had almost argued over. I can barely see Paco from across me, my vision shrouded with tears.
Paco stares hard as though waiting to see if I would come out. He doesn’t wait for longer than what is necessary; instead, he brings Paco to his sister, sighing heavily as he picks up a fork, nabs a sliver of meat and puts the utensil in my hand.
“Eat, Pepa,” he says, lifting my hand with his.
My eyes flicker to him. As though seeing him for the first time, I smile and bring my hand to his face. I kiss him on the cheek
Then the fingers on his neck quiver and I choke out my words in a helpless rush as I let him go, “I can’t.”
He bites his lip as though to hold his tears at bay; his eyes are watery and with them I know that he is secretly telling me to leave this place: the house, the massive gestures of grief, the persistent pattering from one memory to another as I savor and then realize with horror that everything has changed.
“Please Pepa. Just three spoon-fuls this time,” he whispers.
I swallow, I nod. I put the food in my mouth because I love him, my brother.
“You’re welcome to stay with me,” he says.
“I know.”
“Pepa…”
I breathe deeply. “No. Not yet. My place is here.”
He breaks his gaze, looking sideways. He rubs his nose and blinks furiously as he tries hard to keep the tears from falling.
--
I’m doing my reports, struggling like I’m muddling through a bog, my fingers sinking into the letters of my computer and the rest of me in slow motion. I’m bent over like a ghost, the light of the screen washing over my face, a limpid reminder that the day has ended and that I am, once again, very much alone. That all the lights in my life have been artificial, illusory ever since…that day.
It’s a realization that does not go unnoticed and I feel my cheeks turn wet, then sticky as the tears dry on my face. Still, my fingers stretch over the keyboard and in every stroke, a dull pain tells me that everything I write, everything I do seems empty without you.
I force myself to keep typing. The report is due tomorrow and with the case closed, I should be celebrating. With you.
Oh, my Peliroja.
“Inspector Miranda-Castro.”
The rough voice of your father breaks the silence like thunder. I nearly jump out of my skin, taking hold of the gun in its holster draped over my seat.
“Don Lorenzo,” I acknowledge as he emerges from the shadows, relaxing considerably.
Despite his tone, his presence is tender like the comfort of a small flame in a dark, empty cave. But like a small flame, his presence glimmers and fades into the cold. I squint as he flips the switch to the light in the foyer and glances with disapproval across the twilit house.
“You’re going to destroy your eyes.” I know he is talking of something else as grabs a chair and places it gruffly beside me.
He has taken the liberty of borrowing the house’s keys from Paco. He fishes them out of his pocket and drops them beside the humming monitor. As he does so, he places a kiss on my forehead before his body settles into the chair.
“I wanted that on my desk yesterday,” he says, gesturing to the report with his chin.
“Don Lorenzo…”
He raises a hand to stop me from speaking. “I brought some tapas from the tavern.”
“Leo,” I managed to say, my smile faltering into the half-grimace associated with mentioning anyone who reminds me of you.
“She told me to bring them to you. I left them in the kitchen. I’m surprised you didn’t notice me coming in.” His tone is almost reproachful but it is something I’m used to. By now I’ve realized that it is his way of telling me that I am important enough for him to fuss over.
“I haven’t been…”
“Yourself,” he interjects.
He eyes me up and down, nearly scoffs. He has seen me dress like a punk but I doubt he has ever seen me so appallingly defeated in a simple shirt and draw-string pants. But despite his gruffness, his gestures are gentle and awkward like a giant careful with his surroundings for fear of destroying them or offending its inhabitants.
“Pepa, you can’t keep living like this.”
“Like what?” I laugh derisively.
He chooses to shrug, his gaze about to tip over to one of righteous anger. But after a few seconds of looking at me, of being reminded that this lady was a Castro inasmuch as a Miranda, his cheeks move into a half-smile and he hides his face in his palm.
“I got a call from Interpol,” he began, peering at me intently.
Indeed, from all the murkiness of the days before, this bit of news is like a shot of adrenaline and I could feel my ears prickle in curiosity. My silence and the fact that I’ve stopped typing signal him to continue.
“They’re asking for you.” He raises his hands as I look at him in inquiry. “I have no idea why. It seems as though they picked up your file, liked what they saw and now they want to meet you.”
“They?”
“They were a pair,” he intones in a way that tells me I should have guessed that bit. “They came by the precinct just this morning, which is why I paid you a personal visit. An Agent Lilia Renatus and an Agent Carlos Caton.”
“Sounds like an odd pair,” I try to joke.
He snorts but he knows that this is the first time I seem interested in police work since…that day.
In the few seconds that he has mentioned the International Criminal Police Organization, I feel some of the cobwebs that have been slowing my insides drift apart. I continue, “Do you want me to come to the precinct tomorrow?”
“No, they’ll visit you here tomorrow morning.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“The Interpol wants to keep this quiet.” He rubs his chin in thought. His body language tells me that he is cautious of our visitors and at the same time, hopeful that their visit would bring much needed expertise which the precinct does not have. “I’m told it has something to do with the terrorist threats back in Italy. Unfortunately for San Antonio, they’ve traced some of the perpetrators here. I’ve been advised by the higher-ups to give them what they want.” At the mention of authority, he looks at me pointedly, “You must know cariño, that there are some forces in this world that I can’t defy.”
“Good on you, Don Lorenzo,” I tease.
He waves my words away, his perpetual frown easing into an expression of relief as he realizes that my humor has not left me. “They seemed very anxious to speak with you and would’ve come here tonight if I had advised them otherwise. I wanted to make sure you were prepared for them before they came to your home.”
I am grateful for the warning and I tip my head to him to acknowledge his thoughtfulness.
With that, he stands abruptly, working his way to the kitchen. He flips the switches as he goes like an old god drifting from one dark room to another with the sun in his hands. The house has never been this bright since you walked out the door for the very last time but I am comforted rather than dismayed and your father once more uplifts when he arrives with my favorite box of tapas.
Just like the ones you used to bring me during a stake-out or when we were both too lazy to cook, those little packets of temporary bliss that acted as preambles for conversation, love-making or even quarrels. I feel my guts wrench and my appetite weaken.
As though I could physically separate myself from the memory, I breathe deeply, turning back to my report.
“None of that, cariño,” Don Lorenzo scolds, pulling at my shoulder as he opens the box with flair and shoves one delicious-looking snack in my hand. He shoots daggers with his eyes. “Eat.”
Your father is more effective than Paco ever will be when it comes to forcing food into my stomach. Maybe it’s the way he does it firmly as you would. The way he softens only infinitesimally when he knows that I am fed, the way he stands up to fetch me a tall glass of water even before I think to ask for one. Like he is now, you were always so attentive, so wed to details, so very careful when you leaned forward to kiss my forehead as I ravaged through three of these snacks in mere seconds.
“Careful, Pepa. You’ll choke.” It is his voice against my forehead not yours and suddenly, I’m missing you even more. I put the piece of bread down, wiping at the sides of my lips as I sense misery stalking me from behind. He reaches down and wipes my cheek.
“No more crying, yes?” he pleads.
I force a smile, my mouth still full and I chew more slowly this time.
The silence is companionable and we look at each other as I finish the tapas one by one. He nods every time I put one to my mouth, perhaps secretly delighted that his daughter-in-law is eating under his watch. I can see the wrinkles around his eyes deepen as though in silent laughter.
The minutes pass and the furtive glances he has been giving my computer culminate in him turning it off. He ignores my protests, roughly silencing me with numerous Sssht!’s. Once reassured by the blankness of the screen, he stands to make himself some coffee but not before he refills my glass with more water. The crying has always left me thirsty and he seems to know the motions of grief well enough to watch over my own thirst.
With that, I am reminded that this man has probably lost more than I have. No human being should ever live to see the day that he has lost both his wife and his daughter.
Despite the tiredness of being a Commissioner, the echoing emptiness of his house, he still comes to our home and thinks of me. He deserves more than just my heartache. I steady my resolve and down the rest of the food.
He does not leave until I finish the whole box, or even after he tucks me in at the couch that I’ve designated as my bed. He pulls the covers over me as I fold into myself and contemplate another long, noiseless night. There, as I fall asleep and lay my worries at his feet, he watches me from a chair and sings a low lullaby that I’m sure he has sung to you before.
--
Next chapter here.