This Is Where It Gets Complicated, Chapter One

dogbearinggifts:

white-throated-packrat:

dogbearinggifts:

A/N: I was planning to write a follow-up to His Guitar and Her Musician, just to round those two out a bit, but what came to me instead was this fic. Don’t ask me how I came up with the idea because I don’t know. I don’t even know. 

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It would be easy.

Ernesto repeated this through his mind like a chant as he
stared down at the shot glass. He’d prepared it weeks ago, swirling
formaldehyde through it as Hèctor slept, and the most difficult part had been
trying to stand the smell of it as he waited for it to dry. A sign, perhaps,
that his eventual task would not be as difficult as it now seemed. Everything
was prepared, from the glass to the line he’d use to coax his friend to drink
from it. It would be easy.

It would.

He knew it would.

He drew a long breath, cursing it as it shook, and set the
glass back in his suitcase, covering it quickly with a sock. That would protect
it from any jostling or glances from Hèctor. That Ernesto no longer had to look
at it was simply a bonus.

A thud from
outside the hotel room nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. He slammed
the suitcase closed, putting on his most nonchalant smile, going over a list of
questions in his mind—How was the oficina
de correos? Did you get another letter? What do you want to eat tonight? He
couldn’t ask the same one each time, and yet he couldn’t ask anything too
strange without arousing suspicion.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. Hèctor did not come inside.

He glanced toward his suitcase, which his friend had not
searched and likely never would, then back to the door. Whoever or whatever had
made the noise seemed to have no interest in coming inside, and yet it couldn’t
hurt to check. After shoving his suitcase beneath his bed, he moved to the
door. His heart pounded even as he knew there was no reason for it. He and
Hèctor had had some….interesting brushes
with locals thus far, but nothing too awful; this was probably just something
happening nearby that didn’t concern him.

Ernesto opened the door, peered out into the bright sunlight
of late afternoon. There was the usual foot traffic on the streets, but nothing
that could have made the noise he’d heard. No one skulking about, nothing of
the sort. But still, that noise….it merited further investigation.

He took a single, cautious step out, followed by another,
closing the door. The air still clung to the heat of the day, holding on until
nightfall would pry that heat from the air and ground and buildings bit by bit.
But that was all he noticed. Just the heat, just the people walking this way or
that, on their way to homes or…or wherever they’d planned to be. Their choices
were none of his concern.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and his head snapped
toward it. Something small, or something that appeared small, sailed through
the air to strike an unseen target; he couldn’t catch the shape of it before it
was out of sight.

He was still watching where it had gone when he felt someone
brush past him and heard the hotel room door click open and closed.

They didn’t bother to lock the door.

He threw himself inside, sighted the intruder—not difficult,
considering the size of the room and the fact they were the only two people in
it—and lunged forward. The intruder ducked aside and, before Ernesto could
right himself, had his hands pinned behind his back. A quick shove drove him
into the wall, prompting angry shouts from occupants in the neighboring room.
The intruder leaned in close, so close Ernesto could feel the man’s breath
through the length of cloth wrapped around his face, up to his eyes. 

“If you want to live,” said the intruder, his voice too low
and close to a growl to be natural, “you will do exactly as I say.”

He knew he ought to fight. He could have fought, if this man weren’t his equal in every way. But
the wall had driven the wind from his lungs, his hands were pinned, and every
motion he made was countered with enough force to render it useless.

Swallowing hard, Ernesto nodded.

The pressure on his wrists shifted, but it didn’t occur to
him to fight until after a length of cloth was wrapped around them. By then it
had been pulled tight, wrapped again, and knotted.

“Muy bien,” the intruder said. “You’ve been quiet. If you do think about shouting, I have a….I’ll
gag you.”

Then he was half-pushed to the nearest corner, spun around
so he faced the room, and deposited against the wall. His knees chose that
moment to give way, and he sank to the floor, legs against his chest.

“We—we don’t have much money.”

The intruder went to his bed, knelt down, slid out the
suitcase.

“I—we don’t.” 

Any moment, Hèctor would return. Come through that door,
fight off the intruder. Chase him out with a few words he couldn’t say around
his daughter. Or he might simply call for help. Hèctor had never been much of a fighter; taking the intruder on in a fistfight could do more harm than good. 

The latches clicked; he flung the lid open. He would find no
money. Only clothes, a few toiletries, and the shot glass—which no one in their
right mind would deem important.

A gloved hand lifted the poisoned shot glass, let it catch
the light.

A small laugh bubbled up inside him. He could just see this
man pouring himself a drink to celebrate his good fortune. He’d toss it down, give
a mocking smirk—and fall dead within the minute.

The intruder’s gaze silenced his laughter before it could be
released. He held that gaze longer than was necessary, long enough that Ernesto
came within an inch of apologizing—and then the intruder stood.

He raised the glass high above his head.

Ernesto couldn’t think as the glass shattered on the floor.
He couldn’t form a coherent thought as the intruder ground shards beneath his
boot, stomping some of the larger pieces into smaller fragments. He could only
watch, his mind a blank buzzing noise.

Maybe he would have continued destroying the glass until
nothing was left but poisoned dust. Maybe he’d heard someone approaching; maybe
the sound of crunching glass had worn on him. Whatever the case, the intruder
stopped briefly before hurrying to the door.

“Wait!” Ernesto wasn’t sure how he forced it through a
throat that felt as if it had swallowed sawdust, but the intruder turned back,
meeting his gaze.

“How…” He swallowed, nearly coughing at the attempt. “The—the
glass. How did you know?”

The intruder pulled the cloth from his face.

Ernesto felt his jaw drop open. He tried to force some sort
of explanation through his head, but he could only stare, trying and failing to
make sense of what he saw. The man vanished into thin air, and still he gaped
at the place where he had stood.

He knew that face.

He’d shaved it just that morning. 

Time Travel AU! My favorite trope! Ernesto goes back and time to stop himself! … but why? Does he realize he fucked up, or has he decided to do something worse that will keep Hector with him?

Read on, my friend, read on….