Los Hombres de Paco | Pepa/Silvia | We Start And End Here: Part II
Cross-posted to pepa_silvia
Title: We Start And End Here: Part II
Author: frogfrizz (AsianScaper)
Pairing: Pepa/Silvia
Rating: M for adult themes
Warning: Angst, AU
Summary: Before the Interpol arrives, Don Lorenzo takes the time to take care of his daughter-in-law.
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: Another chapter for the lovely members of the comm. Once again, this is unbeta'ed so all mistakes are mine. I hope you guys enjoy this and the direction I'm taking, whatever that may be (it's a secret!). Feedback is appreciated, of course! Cheers!
Archive:
Part I
--
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
~Pablo Neruda's "A Song of Despair"
--
I open my eyes and my senses emerge. I smell breakfast wafting from our kitchen and for an instant I believe that the clatter of pans have been borrowed from a scene a few months before. I do not dare stand and for a moment, I lie paralyzed at the couch, focusing on the ceiling where the paint had dried while we said our wedding vows in some far away province that I dare not visit even in my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pull the blanket over my head as though I can keep the light at bay because as it falls on our home, it also reveals to me all the empty spaces where you used to walk. There is a constant whisper here. It sighs into my ear, and I know that if it were an image, then her hair would be auburn and her smile, beauty beyond words.
And then the thought occurs. It is inevitable that I leave. There is no letting go of you, not yet, but the Pepa who has lived so freely and so gaily, that Pepa who is still entombed in her gray world, knows that the living do not live for the dead.
So, I force myself to accept that it is not you in the kitchen. This is an act I have to repeat over and over and over until I have written across all the lines that still iterate, Silvia is alive.
Slowly, viscerally, I am convinced; I know that the presence isn't you because his steps are heavy and the noise precludes someone with your grace and lightness. The passion is the same; I hear a curse as he tries to work the toaster, the demanding push and pull at our refrigerator as he retrieves the jam, and then the bump of one cabinet door against another as he forces the cutlery and plates and glasses from their hiding places.
He finishes and the floorboards creak as he makes his way to the living area, puts his burden on the coffee table, and pulls the blanket from my face.
“Wake up, sleepy-head,” Don Lorenzo demands, a cup of café con leche mere inches from my face. “You have an appointment with fate.”
“You stayed the night?” I ask, trying to sound affronted. I sit up and take the mug. I sip at his concoction and I am reminded that there are certain skills you have inherited from your father, coffee-making notwithstanding.
He looks pointedly at me. “How could I not.”
“You may be my father-in-law but I’m not a child,” I say, the defiance lost after a few words.
He raises a brow, his forehead creasing. “Oh but you are child, Pepa Miranda-Castro and don’t tell me otherwise.” He nods towards breakfast. “Finish that, and get dressed. Interpol will be here in an hour and I want you to give them a good impression. It won’t do if they think the precinct is,” he waves his hand, "inept."
“Giving a good impression isn’t something I’m very good at,” I reply, half-smiling into my mug.
“They would probably be expecting it anyway. But you can’t blame a man for trying.”
He wolfs down his breakfast, watching me sternly as I eat half of what he has prepared. When I finally give up on my second piece of toast, he stands up quickly and takes my arm.
“I’ll leave for the precinct when you’re ready,” he says gruffly, pulling me to the bath in the bedroom.
“There’s no other way I’m going to be rid of you, is there?”
“No,” he replies, dead-pan.
We avoid the sight of the bed and we both skirt around it like thieves afraid of setting off a trap. It is immaculately untouched, the pillows are propped for the pleasure of two brides and the quilt is bright. I am certain Don Lorenzo recognizes his daughter’s touch in everything: from the bed, to the curtains, to the color of the room, to the designer furniture you’ve wrestled from the saleslady who gave you a price you didn’t think fair.
He opens our closet, cringing for a moment as he recognizes some of your clothes. I panic momentarily, almost certain that he will cry because he puts a hand to his mouth.
The mask of the Commissioner snaps back on so quickly that I jump in surprise as he grabs a few garments that he has seen on me before. He turns from the sight like someone who has seen a ghost, I know I do every day, and then he shoves me and the outfit he has picked without ritual into the bathroom.
“Get ready,” he says, his voice only slightly faltering. “I’ll wait outside.” With that, he closes the door and I hear him exit the bedroom in a hurry.
I glance blankly at our bathroom and it takes all my will to simply take a bath and not remember. But I do remember and I weaken.
I step into the shower, touching the tiles with reverence, my mind suddenly awake as I remember both of us giggling one Saturday morning, tripping over each other’s feet as we tussled gently into the confines of the shower. I draw all other memories from that one: how you would soften as I reached behind you to turn the water on. How you would smile against my mouth as I tasted honey on your lips and followed the scent of lust down your neck, your shoulders and along the delicate curves of your throat. How our bodies would be pressed so closely together, your sex worrying my thigh, your breasts soft against mine, the moan from deep within your throat throwing me off-center into a world governed by emotion. And then...the laughter that murmured into groans of delight.
All of these are superimposed within the cruel margins of a house without you.
My voice cuts insistently through the memory, “Pepa, stop.”
My open palm slams against the Italian tiles. Tiles that we had spent days thinking about before a proper pattern that reminded you of gardens, laughter and quiet places was agreed upon.
Surprisingly, despite the bile rising to my throat as everything whirls viciously like a squall, the bath gives me clarity; I dress quicker, I comb my hair ably and regard the woman in the mirror with mild disinterest. I found your expression always grinning beside mine as we brushed our teeth or put on our make-up; my face seems plain without it.
I flee the bathroom like a refugee.
Your father is waiting for me at the couch when I finish. He took care of the plates. The blanket I had tossed wearily aside is already folded and neatly stacked on the pillow. He lets me know tacitly that he disapproves of me sleeping on a couch that I can barely fit in. He stands up, looks me over once and holds both my shoulders.
“I know Silvia isn’t here right now,” he says. “But I am still here to tell you how beautiful you are and how right she was about you all along.”
I feel an inevitable sting and he shushes me and rids of the tears by roughly interrupting the slow paths they take down my cheek. An understanding smile tugs at his lips. He cups my face and I know that he is trying to communicate strength through his hands and those eyes, which painfully emulate the color of yours.
“Be strong, cariño,” he whispers, putting his forehead to mine.
I close my eyes. “I’ll try.”
Suddenly, there is an uneven knock on the door, the doorbell rings, and two voices belonging to a woman and a man argue over the business of who will buy the coffee this time around.
Don Lorenzo pats my cheek, grabs his coat and breathes deeply. I take my own sustained breath.
“I’m going ahead, alright? There’s coffee in the kitchen and I kept it warm. Be a good host, Pepa.”
There is another knock, another ring and I know by the insistence of my visitors and the earliness of the hour that it is the Interpol at my door.
--
Next chapter here
Title: We Start And End Here: Part II
Author: frogfrizz (AsianScaper)
Pairing: Pepa/Silvia
Rating: M for adult themes
Warning: Angst, AU
Summary: Before the Interpol arrives, Don Lorenzo takes the time to take care of his daughter-in-law.
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: Another chapter for the lovely members of the comm. Once again, this is unbeta'ed so all mistakes are mine. I hope you guys enjoy this and the direction I'm taking, whatever that may be (it's a secret!). Feedback is appreciated, of course! Cheers!
Archive:
Part I
--
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
~Pablo Neruda's "A Song of Despair"
--
I open my eyes and my senses emerge. I smell breakfast wafting from our kitchen and for an instant I believe that the clatter of pans have been borrowed from a scene a few months before. I do not dare stand and for a moment, I lie paralyzed at the couch, focusing on the ceiling where the paint had dried while we said our wedding vows in some far away province that I dare not visit even in my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pull the blanket over my head as though I can keep the light at bay because as it falls on our home, it also reveals to me all the empty spaces where you used to walk. There is a constant whisper here. It sighs into my ear, and I know that if it were an image, then her hair would be auburn and her smile, beauty beyond words.
And then the thought occurs. It is inevitable that I leave. There is no letting go of you, not yet, but the Pepa who has lived so freely and so gaily, that Pepa who is still entombed in her gray world, knows that the living do not live for the dead.
So, I force myself to accept that it is not you in the kitchen. This is an act I have to repeat over and over and over until I have written across all the lines that still iterate, Silvia is alive.
Slowly, viscerally, I am convinced; I know that the presence isn't you because his steps are heavy and the noise precludes someone with your grace and lightness. The passion is the same; I hear a curse as he tries to work the toaster, the demanding push and pull at our refrigerator as he retrieves the jam, and then the bump of one cabinet door against another as he forces the cutlery and plates and glasses from their hiding places.
He finishes and the floorboards creak as he makes his way to the living area, puts his burden on the coffee table, and pulls the blanket from my face.
“Wake up, sleepy-head,” Don Lorenzo demands, a cup of café con leche mere inches from my face. “You have an appointment with fate.”
“You stayed the night?” I ask, trying to sound affronted. I sit up and take the mug. I sip at his concoction and I am reminded that there are certain skills you have inherited from your father, coffee-making notwithstanding.
He looks pointedly at me. “How could I not.”
“You may be my father-in-law but I’m not a child,” I say, the defiance lost after a few words.
He raises a brow, his forehead creasing. “Oh but you are child, Pepa Miranda-Castro and don’t tell me otherwise.” He nods towards breakfast. “Finish that, and get dressed. Interpol will be here in an hour and I want you to give them a good impression. It won’t do if they think the precinct is,” he waves his hand, "inept."
“Giving a good impression isn’t something I’m very good at,” I reply, half-smiling into my mug.
“They would probably be expecting it anyway. But you can’t blame a man for trying.”
He wolfs down his breakfast, watching me sternly as I eat half of what he has prepared. When I finally give up on my second piece of toast, he stands up quickly and takes my arm.
“I’ll leave for the precinct when you’re ready,” he says gruffly, pulling me to the bath in the bedroom.
“There’s no other way I’m going to be rid of you, is there?”
“No,” he replies, dead-pan.
We avoid the sight of the bed and we both skirt around it like thieves afraid of setting off a trap. It is immaculately untouched, the pillows are propped for the pleasure of two brides and the quilt is bright. I am certain Don Lorenzo recognizes his daughter’s touch in everything: from the bed, to the curtains, to the color of the room, to the designer furniture you’ve wrestled from the saleslady who gave you a price you didn’t think fair.
He opens our closet, cringing for a moment as he recognizes some of your clothes. I panic momentarily, almost certain that he will cry because he puts a hand to his mouth.
The mask of the Commissioner snaps back on so quickly that I jump in surprise as he grabs a few garments that he has seen on me before. He turns from the sight like someone who has seen a ghost, I know I do every day, and then he shoves me and the outfit he has picked without ritual into the bathroom.
“Get ready,” he says, his voice only slightly faltering. “I’ll wait outside.” With that, he closes the door and I hear him exit the bedroom in a hurry.
I glance blankly at our bathroom and it takes all my will to simply take a bath and not remember. But I do remember and I weaken.
I step into the shower, touching the tiles with reverence, my mind suddenly awake as I remember both of us giggling one Saturday morning, tripping over each other’s feet as we tussled gently into the confines of the shower. I draw all other memories from that one: how you would soften as I reached behind you to turn the water on. How you would smile against my mouth as I tasted honey on your lips and followed the scent of lust down your neck, your shoulders and along the delicate curves of your throat. How our bodies would be pressed so closely together, your sex worrying my thigh, your breasts soft against mine, the moan from deep within your throat throwing me off-center into a world governed by emotion. And then...the laughter that murmured into groans of delight.
All of these are superimposed within the cruel margins of a house without you.
My voice cuts insistently through the memory, “Pepa, stop.”
My open palm slams against the Italian tiles. Tiles that we had spent days thinking about before a proper pattern that reminded you of gardens, laughter and quiet places was agreed upon.
Surprisingly, despite the bile rising to my throat as everything whirls viciously like a squall, the bath gives me clarity; I dress quicker, I comb my hair ably and regard the woman in the mirror with mild disinterest. I found your expression always grinning beside mine as we brushed our teeth or put on our make-up; my face seems plain without it.
I flee the bathroom like a refugee.
Your father is waiting for me at the couch when I finish. He took care of the plates. The blanket I had tossed wearily aside is already folded and neatly stacked on the pillow. He lets me know tacitly that he disapproves of me sleeping on a couch that I can barely fit in. He stands up, looks me over once and holds both my shoulders.
“I know Silvia isn’t here right now,” he says. “But I am still here to tell you how beautiful you are and how right she was about you all along.”
I feel an inevitable sting and he shushes me and rids of the tears by roughly interrupting the slow paths they take down my cheek. An understanding smile tugs at his lips. He cups my face and I know that he is trying to communicate strength through his hands and those eyes, which painfully emulate the color of yours.
“Be strong, cariño,” he whispers, putting his forehead to mine.
I close my eyes. “I’ll try.”
Suddenly, there is an uneven knock on the door, the doorbell rings, and two voices belonging to a woman and a man argue over the business of who will buy the coffee this time around.
Don Lorenzo pats my cheek, grabs his coat and breathes deeply. I take my own sustained breath.
“I’m going ahead, alright? There’s coffee in the kitchen and I kept it warm. Be a good host, Pepa.”
There is another knock, another ring and I know by the insistence of my visitors and the earliness of the hour that it is the Interpol at my door.
--
Next chapter here