Chapter Text
There’s glass everywhere, but Nacho can see that Lalo doesn’t care about getting bloodied.
He watches Lalo sit himself beside your body. You’re lifeless.
Nacho feels like everything’s on fire, things are muffled - and as much as the man in front of him pushes his knuckles into the broken glass, he won’t be as bloodied as you.
You’re so…red. You’re everywhere on the floor.
The kid’s eyes, your eyes - they’re not scared or helpless. There’s nothing.
Nacho’s failed you, but the way Lalo takes you in his arms tells him that the man doesn’t think the same.
“Princesa, it’s okay.”
There’s a long, long sigh from the man. Nacho gets so angry in the moment - he’s fucking delusional.
He’s telling you it’s okay, and you’re dead.
You’re dead.
“Nacho, you’re gonna have to call - I’ve got special guys to help her. Can’t call the cops.”
Lalo sniffles before wipe his nose, and Nacho’s reminded of something.
“Lalo,”
“The number is under the sink drawer. You call.”
Before he can say anything, get angry despite everything and because of everything, Lalo rises from the floor - holding you.
You’re so limp.
Nacho wishes, gets so angry at the fact that this is the calmest he’s ever seen you. You settled in Lalo’s arms.
When he begins to walk to the couch, glass crunches and blood drips. The sound of the splatter is so ugly.
His eyes follow the trail, and they feel like they’re burning.
Lalo places you so…gently on the couch. He straighten you and your shirt out. But he’s not looking at you - into your eyes.
Nacho knows why.
“Lalo, look at her. She’s not gonna wake up.”
It’s risky, and it’s the worst thing in the world - but it’s the truth. The shift in Lalo’s eyes, his silent look doesn’t change that.
Nothing changes anything.
“You gonna tell me that?”
From him telling your body it’s okay to his question, Nacho swallows the whole way through - not blinking.
“What if she doesn’t wake up? You know she’s not here, Lalo.”
Lalo doesn’t blink either, and he doesn’t look to you laying lifeless behind him.
“Do I?”
Everybody about you, or what’s left of you is gone, but Nacho has seen Lalo check your pulse.
The guy is trying to stop time.
“Let me check her pulse, then I’ll call.”
There’s no blinking, just fire and more glass crunching - the sun going down.
Something about his boss’s face…twists, and Nacho thinks glass crunches in Lalo’s hand.
“You don’t think I should have this?”
Nacho looks back to the sky, your kids will be back with Yolanda soon.
Nothing stops time. Not in the way they could’ve stopped this.
“They’re gonna be home soon, Lalo. They can’t see her like this.”
There, Lalo just stares at Nacho - and he lets him. Something goes in the moment, and Lalo’s breathing grows heavier. It’s so loud and mean against his eyes.
He turns to you - like you said his name, Nacho can almost hear it.
“Come on, Mama.”
When Lalo kneels to you, Nacho thinks this is the first time he’s heard Lalo plead - and it’s the last time.
Every come on is met with silence and Nacho doesn’t get it. Lalo knows, he knows death - at times he thinks he’s looking at it when he stares into Lalo.
Lalo’s head falls into your shoulder, and he takes your hand, so limp, to put it on his.
He tries to keep himself still so your hand doesn’t fall back, but it does - and he can hear Lalo’s breathing grow rougher.
“Come on, Mama. Gotta-“ Nacho watches as he slips a hand up your shirt, there’s almost a wince when he thinks Lalo met your blood. “Princesa, hey.”
Nacho sees the outline of Lalo’s palm in the middle of your chest. He knows there’s no heartbeat by the way Lalo’s breathing grows rougher.
He swallows. He sees Lalo push his head into your shoulder harder.
Somehow, Nacho knows Lalo’s never really hurt you - not psychically. He can tell he wants to squeeze and strangle, more proof you’re not here. But he doesn’t.
It’s ridiculously hard to look at - the way he’s so gentle with you.
Lalo’s movement shift your body. Your head falls to the side, eyes of nothing piercing Nacho. He turns instantly in the window - knifed by every feeling you ever gave him.
He’s sorry. He’s so sorry.
Nacho can’t turn back to you, he’s too stuck with you smiling and crying and you with your kids. But he hears wetness when he knows Lalo’s palm is back to your stomach, pushing on your death wound.
He doesn’t know why Lalo’s reminding himself of what’s in front of him.
“Princesa, sweet girl.”
The man sounds…off. Somewhere not here, the way you’re somewhere not here.
“Sweet Princesa.”
Nacho does turn back, avoiding every part of your face. He sees Lalo running his palm up and down your stomach - like he’s comforting you.
Maybe he is comforting you. Nacho doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know why Lalo continues to repeat all the names that aren’t yours - over and over and over again.
He doesn’t look how long it’s goes on for, what Lalo builds up in his head - but when the room is darker, he lifts you up.
You’re curled. You’re so small in the man’s arms. This is somehow the smallest you’ve ever been.
Lalo takes your limp, out arm and places it bent on your stomach. He’s carried you to bed like this before.
Blood drips. There’s you smiling with every splatter.
“It’s okay, Mama.”
Nacho knows - the worst thing is that this is the only way you could’ve ever been safe.
He sees Lalo kiss your forehead. Nacho wipes his mouth.
Lalo doesn’t turn, and the footsteps aren’t slow. He walks up into the stairs - taking you to bed.
Nacho thinks he hears one last it’s okay. Your real name is the only thing to follow.
He’s alone in the room. Glass and blood and nothing. Every failure.
He didn’t get to tell you sorry, he doesn’t get to hear the forgiving he doesn’t deserve.
You don’t get to hear all those okays you would’ve sunk yourself into.
Nacho looks to the blood spot on your couch. He hears the static of the radio in the kitchen. Scratched music.
‘Ignacio.’
For a moment, he’s so stupid to believe he’ll see you. He’s so crazy to hear your voice.
He only sees the sun going down, and there’s only the sound of glass shattering from above.