Ay, curse this arthritis!

Her mamá would have been shocked to hear the exact types of curses running through her mind as she stared up at her bedroom ceiling. Mamá, ever the religious woman, always seemed to have a shoe at the ready if anyone—Papá, her, or the twins—dared to breathe a curse under her roof. But even she might have been tempted to call on the devils, had she felt her very bone marrow aching the way Imelda did.

Imelda winced as she threw back the bedclothes, half-rolling as she tried to pull herself up by the headboard. Her bones creaked audibly, piercing shots running through her joints as she forced her fingers to curl around the sturdy wooden bedpost. She straightened, spine cracking, and then sat her feet firmly on the rug. Her kneecaps stiffly forced themselves back into position with a muffled pop; she grimaced at the sensation, not at all pleasant as it rattled its way up to her skull. She reached down and rubbed her sore legs, feeling over the smooth bones with rigid hands. She then took a deep breath, bracing herself to stand.

"Augh! Ay…. ouch…." She bit back her involuntary outburst, wobbling unsteadily on her feet as she continued to cling to the bedpost. It was nowhere as near as painful as it had been when she was alive, but the discomfort was still unpleasant. She held onto the post, hissing as she carefully moved into the stretches that the doctors of the living world had prescribed her. The rounded ball of her left thighbone seemed to scrape against her socket with every movement, but she grit her teeth and continued to move her leg up, down, around, out. Sometimes she wondered if it really helped at all, but it was always better to stretch before trying to move when she was in this state.

Well, it's your own fault, isn't it? She scowled at her nightgown clad reflection in the mirror. Imelda, muy terca y tonta! Won't let anyone help, even if she needs it. It was her own stubborn pride, always getting in the way and making life hard for her. Pride cometh before a fall, wasn't that the old saying? Now she'd fallen, and every joint made sure that she felt the consequences.

She hitched her nightgown over her knees, rubbing the joints as she tried to coerce her knees into an easier movement. She'd known, even as early as lunch, that she'd overworked herself. First, she'd hurried with the breakfast, having fallen behind; Victoria could have helped with that, or Rosita. Then she'd unloaded the leather truck on her own—a job that should have fallen to the twins, or Julio. And she'd climbed the ladder who knows how many times while rearranging the workroom cabinets. Then again, perhaps the tipping point had been chasing that paparazzo she'd found hiding in the bushes.

No matter what the cause, this was the effect; she had no choice but to take it in stride. Besides, she repeated to herself firmly, it's not as bad as when you were living. It's never as bad as that. There were days, in her final years, when she couldn't rise from the bed by herself thanks to her inflamed joints. Coco had to help her hobble to a chair, letting her sit in the sun and rest while the younger generations took care of the shop and the chores. She remembered it well, the sun painting patterns on her faded homespun skirts while her hermanos fluttered about her like frantic butterflies, knocking each other over in a rush to get bring whatever she needed at the moment.

The frustrationwas still the same, though. Even back then, she was angry at her failing, aging body. It seemed entirely unfair, to mentally feel young while her body decayed around her, getting worse year after year. She had never felt old, not until the aches and pains had kept her bedridden. They only served to remind her of her own mortality. And now, dead, they still served as a reminder of how old she'd been. At least she felt, for the most part, younger than she had as a living woman. But whenever she dared to overexert herself, this was fate's way of punishing her.

Still, it was never as bad as it used to be.

She stopped the exercises, reaching up with both hands to twist her skull sideways on her spine. Her neck cracked with a sharp snap, the relief instantaneous in her tensed shoulder blades. She sighed, rolling her shoulders with a grunt before limping to her dresser. She opened the top drawer quietly, pulling out a threadbare shawl that had been retired from daily use. She gathered her long, loose hair behind her and tied it quickly in a low bun with one of her ribbons; it was messy and ineffective, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She was only going down to the garden.

Medicine didn't work in the Land of the Dead, for obvious reasons. Most of the pain they felt was phantom, a result of their minds telling them where something should be rather than where it was. Medicine couldn't cure spasming muscles that weren't there, or swollen joints that weren't held together. She couldn't even purchase a pill to help her sleep; doctors could only help what they could see. There were optometrists for broken glass eyes, skull specialists that could mend a busted cranium, and experts in almost every bone in the human body to set fractures.

But for all their learning, none of them could stop the power of suggestion, and the mysterious workings of individual minds. 'Mind over Matter' seemed to be a common theme, but no one knew how to make it work in their favor. Even in these bony bodies, everyone felt the same way that they had when alive. The appearance was actually the easiestthing to get used to; the first few weeks were all about coordinating movement in a body that could be hundreds of pounds lighter. Not to mention the lack of a tongue, the unusual knack of eating without worrying about food falling through your lower jaw, the odd pliability of lips that weren't really lips, but— bone? —the proper way to rub eyeballs without them falling into one's mouth by accident….

And such strange rules, in a place where no one grew older! She didn't need to sleep, though going without mental rest could be taxing. She didn't need to eat, but it was such an integral part of life that it seemed odd to go without it. She could feel full without a belly, cough and sneeze without lungs or a nose, and she'd heard whispered, giggled conversations about other sensations that could still be felt as well… though she'd never tried. It was human nature to think these things, to feel them or want to feel them; yet pleasure came at the cost of pain, ailments that should have been left buried with flesh bodies.

She threw the shawl over her shoulders, slipping her boots on her bare feet and lacing them up as best she could with unyielding fingers. The only relief was to literally walk it off, and the best place to do that in the middle of the night was the garden. In the back, no one could see her state of undress unless they tried to leap over the high wall. And it was peaceful there, beneath the moonlight. She could at least give herself something to look at while loosening muscles that weren't there.

The hallway was quiet. Every door was shut, moonbeams falling onto wallpaper with its faded border of roses and ribbons. She listened for a moment, hand on the doorknob, but was satisfied that she hadn't woken anyone. Her family consisted of heavy sleepers, save Victoria, and her bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall; she was too far away to hear her grandmother's stifled sounds of pain. This was how Imelda wanted it. There was nothing anyone could do to offer her relief, and yet they would worry if they knew she had risen in the night. She could walk in the garden and be back in her bedroom before any of them woke.

She crept down the hallway, eyes adjusted to the darkness. The mirror at the opposite end of the hall reflected her, spectre-like in her white, flowing gown and even whiter bones; the loose ends of hair not tucked into the bun floated around her skull, eyes small in the vast blackness of the sockets behind them. The only color was the markings, dulled in the dusky shadow. She could have been a wraith in a monochrome picture, a portent of doom to the hero in a silent film.

She paused on the landing, staring tenaciously down into the inky darkness below. The staircase seemed to stretch into it forever, steep wooden steps vanishing into what seemed to be a void but was really the dining area. She put one hand on the railing, taking a deep breath before raising her eyes to the heavens. Dios ayúdame. How many stairs were there? She couldn't remember; she never thought to count them. This time I will, so I'll know how many to expect next time. She prepared herself for the first step—and the first jolt of pain—by setting her jaw. She would not make a noise and wake her family from their peaceful dreams.

However, before she could place her foot she heard… something. The sound hit her like a sharp slap, sending her falling through the years until she was young, inexperienced, relying on instinct and good sense. Coco! Coco is—she stopped herself, shaking her head even as she turned towards the child's bedroom in her mind. Coco was not here, she was in the living world. And she wasn't a baby anymore, besides. There was no reason to check on her, and no way to even if she wanted it.

But someone was crying—no, that wasn't the right term. They weren't crying, per se, they were… moaning? Hurt. Someone was hurt… or sounded that way, in any case.

Who?!

She turned back into the hallway, leaving the landing as she started for the bedrooms. She would check everyone, just to make sure. What had happened? Was someone ill? Even as laughable as the thought was—skeletons didn't take ill, at least where viruses were concerned—she still doggedly held onto that moan in her mind. Who made it?

Julio? She paused outside his door, but even with the wood between them she heard his sputtered snoring. His lungs had never recovered from the pneumonia that had claimed his life, and while he was fine when awake, the fluid in their phantom counterparts still smothered his breathing in sleep. He snored in soft gasps, lapses where he seemed to hold his breath, but in reality simply couldn't breathe at all. If it bothered him, he'd somehow learned to ignore it and slept as soundly as ever.

Rosita, then. She barely cracked the door to see Rosita's still outline in the moonlight. Rosita didn't put curtains on her window, the sill covered in every matter of plant life available in the Land of the Dead. Her room was a veritable nursery, holding runoff from the mudroom and her garden. The larger woman was quiet, curled on her side with one hand shoved beneath her pillow. She breathed slowly and evenly, clearly in the deepest sleep.

Victoria. It hadn't sounded high-pitched enough to be her, but that wasn't about to stop Imelda from checking. She slipped the door open, taking pains not to let the hinges creak and awaken her granddaughter. Victoria was sideways in her favorite armchair, a book resting on her lap and glasses slipping from her skull as she slumped sideways. She was still asleep as well, her light, fluttering breaths sounding almost like laughter. Imelda smiled at her, squashing the urge to go in and prop her up in a more comfortable position; it would only wake her, and then she would ask suspicious questions.

The boys? She went to their room next, ready to open the door and see which twin was in pain. Just as her hand turned the knob, one of them coughed loudly, a prolonged hacking that settled into a grumble of irritation. Oscar, it was, for Felipe muttered to him and they both settled. She pressed her ear to the door, but there was no further movement beyond a clearing throat, and a quiet sigh that lengthened into a soft snore. Neither of them sounded hurt. Who, then?

Oh. She glanced back at the landing, biting the tip of her first finger. They had a guest tonight, didn't they?

Héctor?

She still wasn't used to him being around, and certainly not after sunset. He was a wily one, slipping past her eagle eyes and making himself at home in her house, as if he belonged there—which he did, but at the same time—no, that wasn't right—augh! He was a headache! She didn't know what to think of him; oftentimes, she wondered if it hadn't been easier to just hate him and wash her hands of the matter. Now that she knew the truth, and her feelings were muddled...

She didn't know herself around him, that was the problem. He always seemed to have her figured out, to know where to be charming and where to be serious in order to get whatever he wanted. Even when they were young, he managed to pull the best—and worst—out of her, making her blush without even knowing why she did so. All he had to do was grin in that tricky way of his, or bat his eyes at her with those long, cute lashes, and she'd be left red, confused, and wondering why she ever thought him cute at all. It angered her, so of course she tried to avoid him, which made himtry all the harder to get her attention.

It made it even worse that nothing changed. He slipped past her when she wasn't looking, and she looked up to find him laughing with the twins, or chatting with Julio, or letting Rosita fawn over him. Even Victoria, a woman after her own mindset, found herself powerless to his amicable smiles. And of course, by the time she noticed him, it was too late to throw him out without her family's protest and disappointment.

¡Qué tramposo! He never played fair!

To make it worse, he was so cloyingly sweet to her! Her actions towards him at the Sunrise Spectacular had given him fartoo much hope. She had forgotten herself, forgotten the promises she'd made to herself so long ago. She'd been buoyed by the music, the adrenaline of performing before a live audience and dancing with the man she ought to have been afraid of, but was really just very, very furious at. And she'd been about to lose him again—who wouldn't have embraced him? The man was dying!

That didn't stop her from being annoyed by him now, though. He saw fit to call her all the little pet names he used to: mi amor, mi vida, mi corazón, cariño, diosa…. No matter how often she rolled her eyes and expressed her disgust at the flowery language, he persisted with a smile that told her just how easily he saw through her act. You never were able to resist me, that smirk seemed to gloat. You'll fall for me again, I know it. She hated that smile more than anything else he did while under her roof.

If she was completely honest with herself, he was the reason she suffered now. He was always jumping to help her, no matter what the task was. Perhaps he was trying to pay back the family's kindness in his own way, perhaps he was just grateful that she hadn't kicked him back out. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to be standing next to her: who knew? His helpful attitude was bothersome, only because… well, it was Héctor.

He'd showed up around the same time as the leather delivery, shouting pleasantries with the driver before practically hopping with excitement beside her. She'd waved his helpful attitude away with a huff, only for hubris to catch her. She couldn't bring herself to hurt his feelings—and her pride, by extension—by asking anyone else in the family to help.

Then, again, she had to snap at him for taking too many things off the upper shelves at once. He didn't group them the way she wanted to, though he was just trying to help her rearrange the cabinets. Why couldn't he do anything in a way that made sense? She'd had to climb the ladder on her own, insisting all the while that she was the only one who could do it and do it the right way. Yet no matter how much she scolded and grumbled, what did he do? Stand there just out of striking range, offering little shrugs and apologizes with that damn smile and those intolerable puppy-dog eyes.

He was just too eager to please and thrilled to be in her presence, like a stray dog that found someone to feed it. He was still that kid at heart, that gangly teen with the two big ears and too-big guitar. She tried to pretend that she had changed, though she was still the same too: both flustered and annoyed, wondering what it would be like if she just let him kiss her and be done with it. They seemed to be back at square one, as though their vows were erased from existence. He was still her husband, in the barebone meaning of the word. A technicality. And now, there were three generations of family to tease her when he left for the night, instead of just her brothers.

But he hadn't left tonight, had he? Rosita—the child meant well, she was sure—had invited him to stay for supper.

"There's more than enough to go around, Papá Héctor!" They all called him that, except the twins. Even Julio slipped up, though he tried to keep it a neutral 'Héctor'. And despite her own aggravation with him, she couldn't help but smile a little to see how his face lit up at the term. It had been so long since anyone called him 'Papá', and now a whole family used the term as a symbol of respect.

But, at the same time, they were putting him on the same pedestal she stood: the patriarch to her matriarch. How long would it be before they took his word into consideration, followed his orders with the same fervor that they did hers? Perhaps never, but it was a sad consideration of what might have been, had things been different. They could have ruled the family together, except for… except for that man, may he rot wherever he might be.

And she had to admit: supper had been a fun affair. Normally they were subdued, tired with the day's work and talking in soft tones to one another. Mealtimes were quiet times, but this one… it had been different. Not an unwelcome difference, however; it was niceto have a family meal filled with laughter and jokes. Even she had found herself chuckling at Héctor's wilder stories, wondering to herself if they were real or if he were making them up. Somehow, despite their absurdities, she couldn't help but take them as the truth.

He told them of his solo adventures trying to cross the marigold bridge, of his friends in Shantytown and the pranks they pulled on each other, of the guards at the Dept. of Family Reunions—he knew them all by name, and they him—and of the friendly souls he'd met along the way, helping him with food and companionship, and sometimes spare cash or offerings from their own ofrendas.

He made his years alone sound like a wild, wonderful time full of trolley-hopping, idea-plotting, and friendly faces. Despite his jolly tone and descriptive words, when she looked at him and saw the mending ribs, the slowly brightening bones, the crooked and missing teeth; she knew the truth. It hadn't been all fun. Sometimes their eyes met over the table and he seemed to guess the nature of her thoughts. His smile smoothed into something warm and gentle, as if she were the one in need of comfort. I'm alright. I made it through. She was always the first to look away.

Then it had gotten late, and there were still dishes to wash and beds to prepare. She'd readied herself to make him leave, just as he readied himself to leave. But she'd seen the sad, pleading look on Rosita and Victoria's faces. They treated him as a stray, fawning over him—Rosita—patching his clothes and scrubbing stains from his bones—Victoria—and always quietly begging for him to stay indoors just this once, as if it wouldn't blossom into twice, thrice, a lifetime.

Tonight had been the breaking point; she could no longer avoid Rosita's pout, nor pretend not to hear Victoria's sighs. The twins had looked sympathetic, glancing at each other and then at her without saying a word. Even Julio had made a face, mustache quivering. The day's events had tired her, her legs already aching from the ladder, and her fingers had twitched at the thought of scrubbing all those pots and pans. She'd been broken down day after day, week after week, and she couldn't take it any longer. Before she knew what was happening, the words had slipped from her mouth.

"It's late. You should probably stay." She'd instantly regretted them, turning away so she couldn't see the ecstatic surprise on his scraggly face. She instead had no choice but to content herself with Rosita's glowing smile, Victoria's quiet happiness as she stood and began to gather the plates.

"Really!? I-I mean, if you want me to." He'd scrambled to his feet, following her into the mudroom. She'd ignored him, or tried to, as he was still talking when she opened the cabinet door. "You know…." His voice dropped, her stomach dropping with it. "We could share a bed; I'm about as bony as I ever was, but I can still do a good job of keeping you war—" She'd interrupted him by shoving the two blankets in his arms, happier than ever that he had no way of telling how hard she blushed.

"You may make yourself a bed on the sofa in the front room," she'd ordered sharply. "There's a pillow already there; you're welcome to use it." He'd blinked down at her, then at the blankets.

"Right. O-of course."

Which led her right back to the landing, staring down into the darkness as another faint moan floated up to her ears—or, well, whatever she used to hear now. What on earth could he be moaning about? The sofa was more than comfortable. She'd even napped there once or twice herself, on the rare occasion that everyone else was gone. The pillow was a throw, embroidered on one side but smooth and soft on the other, and very plump. It cradled a skull just right; it was probably more comfortable than the feather pillow on her bed. She'd even brought him an extra blanket to stay warm, pretending not to see his saucy wink as she placed it on the center table. There was nothing to keep him awake, as the curtains were drawn and Pepita slept in the back, or on the roof.

If he was hurting, too—his body was young, but it was true that he'd been mostly Forgotten and might still—she stopped that train of thought, a chill running through her bones before settling in her chest. She remembered him as he'd been on Día de Los Muertos, small and weak on the ledge at the Sunrise Spectacular.

Oh no—no, no, no—

Too feeble to stand, much less hold out a petal; she'd had to help him, swallowing her grief and smiling at Miguel so that the boy might be fooled, just for a moment, into thinking that it would be okay. He was a child, and yet the things he'd seen—he'd known, but they couldn't let him stay and be a skeleton too. And he'd been okay! No one had known how Miguelito had done it, and they wouldn't know until Coco joined them on this side of the marigold bridge. But Héctor hadn't disappeared! All's well that ends well, right? Surely….

What if it hadn't been enough? Did the amount of stories matter? What if Coco hadn't remembered enough about him to share, to keep his memory fully alive? What if it had been false hope? What if— There's no way. She tried to calm herself, to control the panicked fluttering in her breast where her heart had once been. He'd been fine at supper, and for it to happen so quickly— that was impossible. He'd been healing, he was on the mend! His snapped rib had fused together, the prominent line slowly fading as the memory keeping him alive wove itself into the bone. It would have been more gradual than this.

Another, slightly choked moan, and she hissed a final curse under her breath as she hobbled down the stairs. Her bones popped with little bursts of pain, protesting loudly at being moved so quickly and unevenly in their current state. But she didn't care, couldn't find it in her to slow, not until she was sure he was safe. Even while one side of her laughed at her fear, at the lack of common sense she was showing, another side was panicked. It wouldn't be silenced until she saw him with her own eyes, knowing that he wasn't going anywhere, that he was safe in their parlor, that he wasn't in danger of dying alone again.

What if this is it? That side of her argued just enough to be heard, voice trembling. What if this is the end, and I can't move fast enough, didn't move fast enough, didn't give into him when I could; I was just starting to pick up the pieces, it's not fair, not again—

Thankfully, there was no glowing light coming from the open archway of the front room. She slowed on the stairs, not of her own volition but of the need to breathe, resting despite her urgency. When she was able to move she creaked into motion, hipbone scraping as she wobbled her way to the threshold. She peered around the corner, clutching at the empty wooden doorframe as she watched the motionless man on her sofa.

He lay on his back, one of the blankets draped over his legs and bunched at his waist. His feet were propped on the armrest, jutting out from the blanket with toes pointed at the ceiling. His head was propped on the other armrest, neck at a sharp angle and uncombed hair sticking out in every direction. The throw pillow was wrapped in his thin arms, pressed into the gap where his stomach had been. His vest and bandana were folded neatly on the back of the armchair, his straw hat on the window seat. The tape at his elbow seemed to be an omen in the beam of moonlight from the barely-parted curtain, but at first glance he seemed to be neither breaking up nor fading away.

She stole across the room, barely tugging at the curtain with one hand over her mouth, ready to stifle any sound she might make. The room brightened as the curtain moved, just enough to throw his face into the light. He was all harsh angle in the dim lighting, shadows cutting against the sharp curve of his cheekbones. It didn't help that while his eyes were shut, the empty holes of his sockets stared up at nothing. He really did seem dead now, and yet something in his face, in the way he held his mouth, helped her to see right past the bones.

He made the sound again, his mouth barely moving; it emanated from his throat instead, a pitiful murmur. She carefully tugged the pillow out of his stomach cavity, placing it on top of the spare blankets before sitting on the edge of the middle cushion. For a long time she watched him carefully for any sign of a glow, a single hint that he was being Forgotten. There was nothing, other than an occasional twitch of his mouth.

She forgot herself again, reaching out to brush the hair from his forehead. He didn't respond to the touch; that in itself wasn't surprising, since he could have slept through the end of the world as a living man. She found herself wanting to curl up on top of him, to wind her arms around his ribcage and feel every breath he took, just to make sure he did breathe. But she was above that—or liked to think so—and tried to content herself with watching the steady rise and fall, the absence of glowing bones.

"Héctor." She barely heard her own whisper, her hand falling from his hair to shake his shoulder. He didn't hear her, bones rattling loosely. She watched them settle when she stopped shaking, his broken rib taking longer to stop than the rest as it tried to decide where it was going. "Héctor," she repeated, louder. Another moan, mouth twitching as he tried to curl up, forgetting that he was on his back. The blanket tangled further around his legs and she whipped it off, throwing it over the back of the sofa before giving into her impatience. She slapped his cheek, gentleness forgotten in her effort to rouse him. "Héctor!"

"Huh!" He sat straight up, startling her enough that she leapt from the sofa in one quick motion. "Eh? ¿Qué?" She saw the fear and confusion pass over him as he looked around, faced with a room he hadn't seen in the dark before. He took a moment to gather his bearings, comprehension washing over him as he turned to see her looking down at him. He blinked, running a hand over his forehead before realizing that it was her. "I-Imelda?" He shook the cobwebs from his mind, tripping over his own feet in an effort to stand. "¿Qué pasa? What's happened?! Is—"

"Shh!" She clapped a hand over his mouth, effectively muffling his shouts. He immediately complied, eyes widening; she put a finger to her lips in silent warning and he nodded his understanding. "You were making noises in your sleep, Héctor; ¿estás bien?" She moved her hand so that he could answer.

"I—noises?" His volume lowered to match hers, just above a whisper. "Like snoring?" He touched where his nose used to be, frowning in thought. "I didn't think I snored anymore."

"Not like snoring," she argued. "You were moaning. I thought you were hurt. You're not hurting, are you?" She crossed her arms, ignoring the slight pull at her elbows. "Were you having a bad dream?" He froze at the question, all emotion sliding from his face before being replaced by a false, schmoozing grin.

"Oh," he drawled, the sound falling flat between them. "Hmm… no te preocupes. It happens sometimes."

"Héctor." She found herself giving him the full force of her 'mamá' frown. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not," he assured her, standing and running a hand through his hair. His eyes looked everywhere except at her. "It happens. I'm okay, really." He smiled even wider, reaching for suspenders that weren't there before letting his hands fall. "Really," he repeated firmly, almost to himself.

"Héctor—" He interrupted her, changing the subject.

"But why are you awake?" he asked, looking at her boots. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I—to the garden, yes." She took a step back, wrapping the shawl closer around her shoulders.

"At night?" He squinted at the clock, trying to read it from across the dark room. "It's not even dawn. Why would you go out this late?"

"Well—" She took another step back, and her knee slipped just enough to hurt. She winced; despite the shadows, he saw the pain cross her face.

"Imelda, what's wrong?!" He jumped to attention, hands hovering near her shoulders. "What is it? What can I do?"

"¡No es nada!" She waved him away irritably.

"It's not nothing," he protested, reaching instead for her hand. "You're in pain. Where are you hurting? Can I get you something?" This was the reason she hadn't wanted to wake her family, and she couldn't stop her ire from rising at the useless questions. Of course he couldn't get her anything! If there was something she could take, why wouldn't she have taken it already?!

"I said it's nothing! It's only my arthritis. A walk in the garden fixes it right up," she lied. "I'll be fine in a moment. Go back to sleep."

"I'm not tired now." He stared at her a moment longer before nodding towards the door. "Come on. I'll keep you company." I don't want company, she started to say. Before she could speak, she couldn't help but remember how worried she'd been to lose him again. You'd best make up your mind, Imelda. She sighed, brushing some of the lose hairs back absently; with no ears to hold them, they just fell over her shoulders.

"Fine. If you insist." He brightened considerably at her lack of argument, bones click-clacking into place as he straightened his spine. He offered her his arm, and she couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. I don't think so. She brushed past him, leaving him to follow as she wound her way back through the dining area, the kitchen, and down the single step into the mudroom. The backdoor wasn't locked; there was no need to fear burglars, not with Pepita around. Anyone brave enough to face the alebrije head-on probably deserved something for their efforts, especially since it would be needed to pay the hospital bills sure to follow.

Pepita was on the roof, her bulk casting an imposing shadow. She raised her head as they stepped out of the house, growling softly; it was a nonthreatening sound, a simple I see you, I'm watching you that was directed mostly towards Héctor. The housecat-turned-jaguardidn't trust him yet, although she let him stay at Imelda's side without a fuss. She seemed to understand that he was harmless, or at least didn't mean any harm to the family.

The back garden was small for such a large family. When she'd bought the house, Imelda hadn't been interested in it at all; it's one selling feature had been the gnarled yellow pine in the left corner, standing sentinel over the iron back gate. That pine was similar to one that had shadowed her childhood home, its broad branches sheltering the tiny house Papá had built by hand. She'd not needed the well, boarded up since the invention of modern plumbing. She'd cared nothing for the half-rotted pergola extended over the small square of uneven brick. The yard was mud and red earth, with nothing but a few sparse weeds clinging to life in the corners.

Rosita had been the one to change all that. Her first month here had been dedicated to the garden, using it to help her understand her new skeletal body. She refurbished the pergola, Julio helping her to sand down the splinters and put a fresh paint of varnish on the bare wood. She hung all manner of ferns and vines from its open trellises, wild rose vines curling up the two outer posts. The well had been opened and its stones cleaned of grime, interior filled with rich soil. She planted it with marigolds, yellow, orange, and red.

The bare earth near the back door became an herb garden, the patches near the walls holding all manner of flowers, shrubs, and vegetables. The holes beneath the pine were carefully cultivated and shaped into a fountain, water bubbling up from the roots like a natural spring. The brick square had been torn apart and redone by the twins at her behest. They'd been forced as teens to learn the basics of their papá's livelihood, though neither of them had a real taste for brickwork. Their job was adequate to the family's needs, though Imelda had secretly wondered what Papá would say the next time he and their mother visited the shoe shop. The extra brick had been used for their own ingenuity; they'd cobbled together unique patterns of stepping stones with the shattered pieces, laying them level with the ground to create a path around the edge of the garden.

In the span of one month, Rosita's idea for a beautiful garden had become a reality. Tending to it was her passion, and it was a great benefit to the entire household. The pine cooled the yard in the summertime, its leaves a living sunshade. The vines provided extra privacy and decoration, their warm emerald offsetting the bright splash of color created by the marigolds. Victoria loved the fountain so much that she bought a stone bench when she arrived; now anyone could read or rest beneath the tree while listening to the cheerfully bubbling water. The twin's stepping stone path provided easy access to the colorful vegetables and abundant herbs they used in their daily cooking.

It was this path that she walked when she was in pain. She tucked her shawl around her shoulders as she stepped off the cobbled square, moving slowly and with purpose as she began the trek around the vegetable patches to the far wall, the iron gate, the fountain, all the way around the well in a circle that ended back at the door. Pepita watched her, the end of her bushy tail flicking forward and back before she lay her head down, eyes closing with a soft grunt.

Héctor lingered on the square, watching her as she walked. She kept her head up, swallowing her sounds of discomfort; she wasn't going to let him know how painful it was to move. She paused after a few steps, pretending to study the moon, and heard his bare feet hit the first stepping stone as he began to follow. He stayed behind her and she grit her teeth, trying not to be so frustrated with him. He was just trying to help, in his own irritating way. He knew she was hurting, and that she was too proud to admit it. He just didn't know what, if anything, he could do.

"If you're just going to stare at me all night, I think you might as well go back inside." She didn't like the feeling of his eyes on her, coupled with silence. If he'd just break the uncomfortable tension between them, it would be far easier to bear. She didn't like it when he was quiet; it meant that he was thinking, and possibly planning. It was too dangerous; she'd rather have him loud and silly, even if it was bothersome. Maybe he just didn't feel the same way about it that she did; possibly, there was no awkwardness on his part. Maybe it was all just her.

He stepped up to walk abreast of her, content to wait unit she was ready to go. She would have him in front of her if she could, watching his gait without the added padding of flesh to hide it. She wanted to watch the movement roll down his spine, memorize it and keep it for later. But she said nothing when he stayed by her side, close enough that she felt his arm brush her sleeve but not crowding her.

She began again, jaw tightening to keep any sign of discomfort from her face. He matched her easily, his long legs rising up instead of out so that he wouldn't accidentally outpace her. She was reminded of a river crane walking along the muddy banks, the mental image funny enough that she almost laughed. She barely managed to keep a straight face, turning her head so that he couldn't see the flicker of a smile.

She tried to keep from watching him, but his ribcage caught the moonlight in with a dull sheen. She couldn't help but see it, comparing the pale yellow to her own snowy bones. Their roles were reversed; now it was she who walked with a limp, his leg having healed after being properly splinted. Without his suspenders, his pants sagged under the weight of the rope strung in place of a belt. He hitched them up absently, the movement drawing her eye to the narrow, rounded shape of his hip. Her fingers itched to trace the faultless line, to follow its curve down to the joint where his leg met his pelvis.

She wondered what he would do if she was bold enough to reach out, what he would say if she sated her curiosity. She only wanted to know what it felt like. Would he be surprised? Shocked? Would he draw back, or would he encourage her? She resisted the urge, shy for reasons even she couldn't fully place. There was no taboo about touching a hipbone; it was just the same as a rib or a femur or a clavicle, after all. But she stopped herself, all the same.

They circled the backyard in silence once, twice. If he noticed her eyes on him, he didn't bring attention to it. Instead, he touched things as they passed them; he ran his hand over the wooden beam of the pergola, he stretched up to tickle the low-hanging wisteria, his fingertips ghosted over the marigolds, plucked a petal from rose and petted its velvet softness, flinched back from the spine of a cactus.

She craved that touch, she realized with a start. Yes, she had been the one to refuse his arm when he offered it, but she still—she wanted—what did she want? She thought about it, watching him tear thin strips from the petal as they walked. She wanted him, but not at the expense of her pride. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth of passion without his knowledge the same way she'd brushed the hair from his forehead when he was asleep. She wanted to save her ego, to not have to worry about his thoughts while satisfying her own whims.

She really wanted something—someone—to hold; how long had it been since she held anyone? Miguel, she thought. The last person she'd held was Miguel, when she'd fished him out of that cenote. He'd been disappearing, poor thing, but there had still been enough to clasp to her, her maternal instinct flaring at the feeling of his tiny, thin bones clutching her skirts. She couldn't remember the last time she'd embraced someone her own size; perhaps Victoria, when she'd crossed? That was so long ago…. Now, here was a man who would gladly let her hold him, who probably wanted her to, and yet she couldn't bring herself to even reach for his hand.

They rounded the well yet again, and she slowed to a stop as they neared the pine. She shifted weight onto her less painful side, glancing around at the still garden. Héctor let the last remnants of the petal slip from his fingers, turning back to watch their shadows on the stepping stone. She turned as well, peering down at the odd, disjointed forms elongated by the moon.

No one's shadow ever looked quite right in the Land of the Dead, the many gaps in their bones and the altered fit of clothing making for some interesting shapes. His was a slender structure with the appearance of window shades, the moon creeping through his ribs. Hers was an inverted triangle of baggy nightgown, padded at the shoulders with her shawl. A pair of misshapen scarecrows, the kind made of old parts and castoff clothing beyond repair.

"What were you dreaming of?" she asked, determined to both break the silence and slake her curious mind. Her hip ached, a sharp pain running up her spine as she shifted again to ease it; it was as though her body were punishing her for thinking more about him than her own woes. He looked at her, eyes burning into her skull, but she kept her gaze firmly on their shadows.

"Hmm?" His shadow rolled its shoulders in an uneasy shrug. "No recuerdo. Doesn't matter now." The easy dismissal irked her. "Bad dreams are the least of my worries." A technicolored spider crawled from beneath a tomato plant, skirting along the edge of the stepping stone. It stopped between their shadow skulls, back legs twitching. It chirruped like a cricket, and Héctor chuckled at the absurdity of it. She didn't find it as funny; nothing seemed to act the way it was supposed to. Even the alebrijes were absurd, subject to the same strange rules that governed the rest of the Land.

"Do you ever… dream about dying?" What a morbid question. She hated the way it sounded, dark and dismal.

"Once in a while," he answered truthfully. His hand fell to the empty space where his stomach had once been, hovering in midair before hanging on his hemline. "I try not to," he added somberly. "It's… um, not one of my favorite memories."

"What do you like to dream of?"

"Oh, that's easy." He craned his neck, looking up at the stars. "Home. Family. Peaceful things: the riverbank, the ocean…."

"Do—" She stopped, feeling foolish for asking.

"What?"

"Do you… dream about me?"

"Sometimes." He kept his words neutral, guarded. "Do… you? Dream of me, I mean." More than she liked to admit. She could never escape him in her dreams, even when she was alive. He was always there when she least expected it, lying close to her in the bed, always just out of sight. She would wake herself, reaching out for him.

"Sometimes."

"Oh. Really?" He seemed pleased with that, though her tone was anything but. She didn't reply, and after a moment he began to hum a tune, harmonizing with the cricket-garden spider. It pulled at her memory from many years back, too far to remember any lyrics or melody beyond what he sang now.

"What is that?" He sighed softly, reaching out with one foot to scratch at the stone. His toes scraped across the brick, following the gentle slope of his other leg's shadow.

"Sombras, nada más…." He didn't try to sing the chorus, watching her shadow as closely as she watched his. Oh, yes. Of course. The lyrics came back to her, a sad lament of love and the pain it caused. She drew away, crossing her arms over her ribcage and hugging herself. Why that? Now?

"You'll wake someone up if you start singing." She felt the heat rise to her face, as phantom as the rest of her; she didn't feel the chill of the night until she flushed, and then it became too apparent. "Here; let's keep walking." He didn't protest, letting her lead the way as she turned to walk in the opposite direction, back towards the pergola instead of the fountain. Her arms dropped to her sides and as he felt into step beside her, he effortlessly looped his fingers through hers.

She jolted at the touch, his palm pressed against hers, but didn't shake him off. Taking it to be a good sign he squeezed gently, humming to himself all the while. She found herself walking to the beat, her hips swinging slowly and occasionally bumping against his. The scraping of her ball joint lessened with the soft roll of her pelvis, easing her troubled limp.

"Quisiera abrir lentamente mis venas," he sang, so softly that she couldn't scold him. No one would hear him; he was singing for her, and her alone. "Mi sangre, toda verterla a tus pies…." She never really understood why love songs had to be so violent; it was always dying of love, dying for love, dying without love. "Para poderte demostrar que más no puedo amar, y entonces morir despues."

"Héctor, stop." He stopped in his tracks, arm stretching as she kept going. "No, I meant stop singing." She looked back at him, her fingers caught between his. "It's too… dark." It wasn't a full lie, but it wasn't the reason she didn't want him to sing. She didn't want to hear the next verse, how the woman ignored his passionate pleas and left him alone.

"Is it?" Their eyes met, and she could feel him catching onto her thoughts. He could always guess what she was thinking, which made it so unfair that she couldn't. Why should he know her better than she knew him? Was it because he'd watched her longer, lovestruck and completely useless as he mooned over her from across the plaza? Did he just have more experience in guessing her moods from the shape of her mouth, or did the clues hide somewhere in her eyes?

"Héctor…" His hand tightened, leading her back to him. She stiffened when he drew her close, too close, although he left more than enough room for her to turn away.

"Dance with me, Imelda." He whispered the words with a desperation that echoed in her bones. As if he needed this. "Please."

"I—I don't think I can," she admitted helplessly, looking down at her rickety bones. She thought of her hips, her knees, her heart. "I don't know…." His hand rested between her shoulder blades, touching so gently that she could barely feel it through her gown: a soft, grounding weight. He held the other loosely, bringing it up as he smiled the same warm smile he'd given her at the table.

"I'll go slow," he promised.

"There's no music."

"I'll make some." He guided her in a two-step, careful enough that it could have been a slow dance. She followed, wincing in anticipation of the pain. "I've got you, don't worry." He eased her into a turn, keeping their steps light and making sure she never landed her bad leg on the stones.

"Héctor, I—" It stung, but not enough to make her stop. She didn't want to stop.

"You okay?" He still smiled at her, this one full of amazement and disbelief. Was he surprised that she hadn't pushed him away? Or—no, she recognized the look from before. He wore it around her when they were courting, as if unable to comprehend that she was really before him, really noticing him and his advances. Does he see this as courting me again? She wondered at that. They were married; there was no reason for him to try so hard… other than the fact that she made it harder on them both by rejecting him.

"Sí, I'm… I'm fine." What am I doing? She had grown used to spurning him, but that was back when he'd abandoned his family. Before she'd known the truth about de la Cruz, about how Héctor had died trying to return to them. She'd claimed that she could never forgive him; did he still think that? Was he trying to earn her love, when—she felt a rush of heat at the thought—when he already had it in his hands? Of course, there was no way for him to know that, was there?

"Sombras, nada más, acariciando mis manos…." He turned her again, singing a beat slower than usual to keep up with their tempo. "Sombras, nada más, en el temblor de mi voz." His voice was trembling, but she didn't mind at all. He wasn't the loud, boisterous singer that Ernesto had been; his voice wasn't made for shouting out anything more than an energetic grito. Héctor was a crooner, his narrow chest built for softer lyrics, slower tunes. He'd mirrored that in the songs he'd wrote; even the one he sang just for her, Un Poco Loco, wasn't the fastest song he'd ever tried to tackle.

She smiled at him, tracing the faded edge of his collar with one finger as she let him twirl her around. Even now he was taking great pains to keep her steady and even, not letting her land on one foot too long. He knew the pains of a bad leg, and how to keep it from hurting worse; without saying a word, he was extending that knowledge to her through his very hands.

"Sombras, nada más, entre tu vida y mi vida—" Now he was the one skipping verses, cutting out what he didn't think belonged. He took advantage of a turn to bring her closer, their ribs bumping as she stopped. "Sombras… nada… más…." He faltered as she reached up, brushing the unruly bangs from his face. She laid her palm against his markings and he leaned into the touch, the rest of his breath released between his teeth in a shaky sigh.

"—entre tu amor y mi amor," she finished for him. He closed his eyes, reaching up to hold her hand against his cheek. He soaked up the touch, unafraid to show her what he truly was: a man starved for affection, willing to take whatever he could possibly get.

"Imelda." Her thumb traced over the bright colors, rubbing her own pattern against the bone. The corner of his mouth twitched, though the rest of him was as still as stone.

"I think that it's time to go back to bed," she said, breaking the moment as gently as possible. He nodded, holding onto her hand one more selfish moment before letting it fall from his face. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, though it lacked the vitality of his previous ones. He didn't want to go back, that much was plain to see; however, he let her make the decision, and he wouldn't be the one to argue against it.

She took hold of his hand again, lacing their fingers the way he'd had it before they started dancing. He made a little startled noise in his throat, but quickly muffled it and held on tightly before she could pull away. She let him back around the far edge of the path, past the pine, the fountain, and up to the back door. They stole inside, shutting it quietly behind them. After the moonlight, the mudroom seemed darker than ever. She sought the single step with her foot, the toe of her boot tapping a dull thud against the wood before she stepped up. They retraced their steps through the kitchen, the dining area, and to the stairs.

Her eyes were already adjusting back to the dark, and the curtain hadn't been drawn back across the front room window. She could barely see him, most of his features lost in the gloom. He slowed to a stop, squeezing her hand once more before starting to draw back. She held on, refusing to let his fingers go even after they went limp. He paused, and even in the dark his eyes managed to find hers easily. She said nothing, unable to find the words she wanted him to hear.

All that needed to be said traveled between their hands, his fingers closing slowly around hers. She put a finger over her lips, a reminder to stay quiet, and then reached out to find the railing. She led him up the stairs, their footsteps muted. His hand trembled, but when she turned to look at him on the landing he didn't seem hesitant or frightened. Nervous, perhaps, but his face was alight with something like hope.

She took him to her bedroom, letting go of him when she closed the door. He looked around curiously at the minimalistic, homespun style she'd created for herself in her most personal space. She let him take his fill, walking past him to put the shawl back in its drawer.

"Araceli?" She turned to see him standing at the bedside table, looking down. He pointed to the little rag doll, worn and well-loved but in impeccable shape nonetheless. Her black button eyes stared up at him, her little red mouth stitched into a permanent smile and her wool hair unraveled in curls.

"The twins put her into my coffin," she explained softly, walking over to stand beside him. She reached out and touched the corner of the doll's little dress, smiling fondly. "They told me that Coco couldn't bear to see me buried without her. It was the only possession I had with me when I crossed the bridge. It… helped." She didn't have to say more; he understood. "She was there the day I was born, and there the day I died. I'm glad that they didn't throw her out."

"No, they wouldn't." He kept his hands well away from the doll, still remembering the rules even after all these years. Only Imelda could touch her. "When we were married—"

"We are married," she reminded him.

"No, I mean when we were first married—I remember you put her on the bed when you made it. I was afraid to move her when I wanted to take a nap, so I'd just curl up at the foot of the bed and fall asleep there." He laughed, one hand covering his mouth to muffle the sound. "I still remember that so well…."

"She still goes on the bed. Just not when I'm in it." Imelda sat on the side of the bed, grimacing as she reached for her boots.

"Let me help you." He knelt before she could react, unlacing the shoes. He gently pried them from her feet, tucking the laces neatly behind the tongues and placing them side by side. "They still go by the door?" She nodded. He remembered her habits, too? It awakened a wave of longing, a deep-set ache, clattering through her before settling in her chest.

She touched his chin timidly with the tips of her fingers, guiding him until he straightened onto his knees before her. His hands slid until they met her gown, stopping and going instead to the bed as he balanced his weight. She spread her legs just enough to draw him between them, running her hands up into the tousled black strands. It was a wig, of course; skeletons didn't have hair. But in the same way her own wig felt like her hair, his felt the same on her fingers as her real hair had. The knowledge delighted her, happy to know that she could curl the locks between her fingers the way she used to. He even reacted the same way, his mouth going slack as he tried to lean into both hands at once.

"'Melda," he mumbled, eyes sliding shut as he relished the attention. It was clearly more than he'd ever expected to get out of this night, and there'd more than likely be some words exchanged in the morning. He wasn't above plucking at his own ego when she gave him reason to. But she didn't care, not tonight. Her pride wasn't enough to condone the feeling of his body pressing against her thighs through the gown, his soft hair tangling under her touch.

"Héctor?" His eyes cracked, his every bone relaxing into her hold until she was afraid his skull might separate from his neck as the gaps between the vertebrae widened.

"Mmmm…" She tightened her grip on his hair, watching a shudder roll through him.

"Kiss me?" His hands fisted the bedclothes on either side of her hips, eyes widening before he scrambled to kneel higher. He hesitated, eyes falling to her mouth. It occurred to her that she had no idea how this would work; she'd seen couples kissing before but had never openly watched them. Cheek kisses, given to her family on the rare occasion, felt about the same. But kissing with him… the pliant bones might pass for lips, but there were no tongues or noses or—

His mouth met hers, leaning up with a hand pressed against her jaw to steady her. She gasped into the kiss, mind going blank as surprise and a rush of feeling ran through her like a current. It was odd but… not, somehow. He pulled away, testing her reaction, and then followed her into another kiss, and another. She tilted her head, trying to find the right angle, and their teeth clacked together jarringly. She jerked, alarmed, and felt him do the same.

"I'm sorry!" He blinked, mouth opening to prod his gold tooth with one careful finger. Finding it still sat firmly in his jaw, he grinned and reached for her.

"Hey, that's alright." He gave her his patented 'sexy' smirk; it was questionable as a living man, but as a skeleton it was borderline ridiculous. "It just means we have to spend a lot of time experiment—" The rest of the sentence was lost on a choked hiss as she ran her fingers between his ribs, hooking his clavicle and dragging him onto the bed with her as she lay back. She let go immediately, afraid that she'd done something wrong; it probably wasn't the best idea to use his collarbone as a handle.

"Oh! Did I hurt y—" He cut her off, kissing her roughly as his hands gripped at the sheets. He eased only when she pushed him away, chest heaving as he panted.

"N-no," he managed, head dropping to press his brow to hers. "It didn't hurt, it felt—it was—" He shivered. "Good."

"Then I'll do…" She yawned right in his face, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh, sorry. I'll do it again."

"No." He kissed her forehead before climbing off the bed. "Hang on." He grabbed her boots, walking quickly to put them by the door the way she had all her life. She twisted on the bed, stubbornly ignoring the resisting pull of her hip as she lay down the right way. He came back and crawled over her, resting on top of the sheets between her and the wall.

"But—" His hands tugged at the ribbon holding her hair, tossing it onto the bedside table before unfurling the bun. He said nothing, winding her long hair in his hands like wool on a skein. She watched silently as he brought it to his face, rubbing it against his cheeks with a murmur of contentment. "Héctor," she tried again, not sure if he was rejecting her or not. "We can—"

"Let's sleep," he said softly. "I want… I mean, I do want that, too," he admitted, looking more like an innocent boy than her husband. "But I really just want… right now, can I just—" He stammered something under his breath.

"What?" She moved closer. "Say that again?" He was embarrassed, she realized. Whatever for? He couldn't blush where she could see, but she knew by the way he held his mouth, eyes averted. He pulled her hair up to his face, hiding behind it. He spoke again, voice muffled.

"I want to hold… you." That was it? That was what had him stumbling over his words like a schoolboy on his first date? Even as she mentally laughed, another part of her felt just as timid as he must have. She couldn't speak for him—she could try—but it had been a very, very long time since anyone had shared her bed. Not to mention her mind was rife with the memories of how it used to be between them.

"I—I'd like that." She sat up, feeling the slight tug on her hair where he kept it around his hands. She pulled the bedclothes over them both, his legs shifting as he settled. That was probably the best thing they could do, to be fair. His kisses had been nice—no, more than nice—and they'd awakened something inside her that hadn't seen the light of day for years, but… it was better to do the right thing slowly than the wrong thing quickly. That sort of passion was liable to burn them both alive, if they didn't take the time to kindle it.

"Imelda." He let her hair slip between his fingers, turning onto his side. For a moment they stared at each other in the dim light, both shy and waiting for the other to move. She reached out, unsure, and placed her palm flat against his ribs. This was what she'd wanted, to have him beside her and feel the press of him against her as he breathed. She wanted him solid, stable and close and never, ever leaving again.

"Goodnight, Héctor." She kissed him, greedily snatching that one last burst of affection for herself. They had more than enough time to discover each other in these new, strange bodies, but she had to claim the love she'd denied herself for ninety years. He melted into her, an unconscious moan rattling against her teeth. "No more dreams."

"I think I'm dreaming right now," he said, letting out a breathless laugh. She smiled, turning her back to him and taking a deep breath. His arm snaked around her, the other pushing beneath the pillow as he rested his forehead against the back of her skull. She could feel his breath on her neck, the tightening of his arm as he pulled her flush to him. "Definitely dreaming," he muttered to her spine, pressing it against his sternum.

"Go to sleep, Héctor."

"Mm… goodnight, mi amor."

Héctor was in bed with her. She stirred and then stilled, holding her breath. His hand was on her stomach, his chest warm against her back. He snored into her hair, one of his legs wrapped around hers. An ache rose like bile in the back of her throat, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. This was just another lie; why couldn't these dreams leave her alone?

She squeezed her eyes shut and lay perfectly still, wrapped in the bubble of the dream. If I don't move, she reasoned, don't open my eyes, don't try to touch him… he'll stay. He'll stay with me for sure. I know it. But she had already pulled too far, the dream beginning to unravel at the edges. No! Please, she begged, biting her lip and praying to whoever, whatever was in charge of nightly visitors. Please, let him stay just a little longer. I don't want to be alone again, please!

No good. He was a shadow, unable to exist where the sun shone directly. Her throat tightened, unable to bear yet another day waking up by herself, dragging out of bed to fix the family breakfast. It wasn't fair; why could she not just lay here and pretend a little longer? She was losing him anyway, and reached behind her to snag his hand, his arm, something. It was a vain effort, but she couldn't stop herself from trying every time.

"¡Ay!" She hit something that wasn't shadow, or empty bed, or an extra pillow that had gotten wedged between her and the wall by accident. It was moving, and hard, and bony and rather annoyed with being slapped awake. Who—what—!? Her eyes flew open, the only thought running through her mind was that something—someone—was in bed. With her. In her bedroom. In her house.

"I don't remember you waking people up this way," that someone grumbled, burying his face in her neck. In her shock she let him drag her back to his chest, his leg sliding over her knees and tangling in the sheets.

"H-Héctor?"

"Mm?" It hadn't been a dream? Well, it had—he had no warm skin or heavy muscles. But he was here. She rubbed her eyes, shaking herself out of sleep and into remembrance. Yes, he was here. She twisted in his arms, forcing he moved his face out of her hair; he scratched at the place where his nose used to be with a sniff, using his chin to guide her skull into the crook of his neck.

"I—I was dreaming." She rested against him, walking a trail up his sternum with her fingers. He made a little noise, falling back into a light doze. She closed her eyes as well, wishing she had his ability to fall asleep so easily. He could drop off anywhere, contorted in nearly any position. Meanwhile, she was awake for the day. But that didn't mean she couldn't just lay here and enjoy the quiet; she'd done it often enough when they were alive, watching the sun rise while he snored on top of her.

Knock knock.

"Ugh…" He frowned, huffing nonsensically as he turned his face into the pillow. It was clearly too early for him. She smiled, turning towards the door before it hit her that, on the other side, was one of her family members. Who would open the door. And see her. Him. Together. In the bed. Drawing conclusions. Making assumptions.

"Mamá Imelda?" It was Julio, and he sounded frightened. Her limbs went limp as she stared at the ceiling, horrified. They were already awake. They'd seen that he wasn't downstairs.

"Y-Yes?" she managed to say, her voice going high-pitched and odd.

"Uh… well… Rosita says…" There was a pause, and she desperately wished she could see what was happening on the other side of the door. "B-breakfast is on the table, whenever you and Pap—uh, Héctor are ready to come down." Oh, Dios mío. They knew.

"Okay!" She muffled a shout when Héctor answered, raising off the pillow to call in the direction of the door. "We'll be down in a minute!"

"Héctor!" she snarled, slapping at his ribs.

"What?" He grinned impishly. "A man and his wife can't share a bed?"

"Héctor." He kissed her temple, her cheek, her chin. "Stop it!"

"I knew you couldn't resist my charms, mi vida." Ah, here it was. She rolled her eyes; even when she knew it was coming, it was nearly unbearable. Why did he have to be so… himself?! "You know, we could just not go down. The shop can go without you one day."

"No." She pushed at him, unwilling to humor him at her own expense. "I don't think so." He stole another kiss, this time against her shoulder. She glared at him, only to shut her eyes when he tried to kiss her sockets. "Héctor!"

"Hmm?"

"Stop!" She managed to throw him off of her, glad that he weighed far less now than he had when alive. He used to pin her to the bed, laughing when she fought like a wildcat trying to get him up. The worst of it was that she hadn't realized just how much she'd missed this senseless teasing. "It's already bad enough that we have go down together, we'll be in worse trouble if—"

"Trouble?!" He laughed. "We're married, Imelda. Married people… do this kind of thing? What, is your mamá downstairs?"

"I hopenot." She shivered at the thought. At least they had been married before she ever let him into the bedroom. She couldn't imagine what she would have faced, had her parents found them together. There was always the riverbank for that, though he'd never been allowed under her skirts then, either. "You know, I still haven't told them that you… came back."

"What?!" He jumped away from her, slipping off the pillow and hitting his skull against the wall.

"What?" she repeated, less loudly. "I haven't had ti—"

"MAMÁ ISA AND PAPÁ ELISEO ARE HERE?!" he yelled, hands rising to tangle in his hair. "Here here!? As in, they could come at any time?!"

"Of course they're here!" she answered, chuckling. "Where else would they be?" To her amazement he looked terrified at the mere notion.

"I assumed—I thought they'd been Forgotten or—" He slumped down on the bed, drawing the bedclothes to his chin. "Your papá is going to murder me."

"He can't, mi amor." The pet name flowed from her before she could stop it, but she found that she didn't mind as much. "You're dead."

"He'll find a way." His voice fell to a squeak. "Oh, I'm done for."

"Papá isn't going to do anything," she assured him, laughing harder. "He's nice."

"He's so… big." Héctor shook his head faintly. "The twins, they should have been bears or something—they must have more of your mamá's family in them."

"Oscar and Felipe? They do resemble Tío Jaime, at least in the face." She considered the notion. "Yes, I suppose you're right." She yanked the sheet out of his hand, pulling her legs from beneath it. They still ached, but nowhere near as badly as before. "Never mind that. Breakfast is ready, we can talk toni—" She stopped herself with a grimace, but it was too late.

"Tonight?" He sat up as well, eagerly grinning at her. "You said tonight?"

"I—I don't know what I said. Forget it."

"You said tonight." He grabbed for her hand. "Imelda."

"Forget it."

"Oh, no way. You said…"

"I'm going to slap you!"

"Tonight."

Afterword: I forgot to post this here! Oops :3c

[ORIGINAL AFTERWORD] So, I've been working on this one shot since… guess. January. JANUARY. It's changed a lot, but finally this weekend I managed to get it the way I want it. 20 pages, 12k words. Wow. Also, Lee Unkrich said on twitter that the Rivera family isn't all forgotten, that they liked to think there was more of them that just didn't show up in the movie because they were somewhere else. (kicks all my sad head canons out the window) I really, really, really want Héctor to have to face Imelda's parents in the Land of the Dead. I'm sure there'd be some interesting conversation there!

Héctor is a sucker for all those old, dramatic mariachi love songs; they always seem to be dead, dying, or ready to die, which to him is a pretty big mood. I hate having to look up lyrics, so here: I gotchu fam.

Quisiera abrir lentamente mis venas, mi sangre

toda verterla a tus pies.

Para poderte demostrar que más no puedo amar,

y entonces morir despues.

I'd like to cut my veins slowly, my blood
pouring out at your feet.
To show you that I can't love you any more,
and then die later.

Sombras, nada más,

acariciando mis manos.

Sombras, nada más, en el temblor de mi voz.

Shadows, nothing more,
caressing my hands.
Shadows, nothing more, in the trembling of my voice.

Sombras, nada más, entre tu vida y mi vida;

Sombras, nada más, entre tu amor y mi amor.

Shadows, nothing more, between your life and my life;
Shadows, nothing more, between your love and my love.