FIC: Falling In Three Easy Steps (PG-13)
Title: Falling In Three Easy Steps
Character/Pairing: Sucre, Hector, the family
Genre: Gen, Pre-series
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2501
Summary: Take one cup blizzard, four teaspoons evil cousin, three tablespoons annoying siblings, cousins and their toys, mix and set out to cool overnight.
Author’s Notes: For thelana. Happy belated birthday :) And I did some research on this - putting Sucre at about 34 years old, he would’ve been around 16-17 during a snow storm that occurred between 8 February 1988 and 15 February 1988 in the Chicago area and thus... still living at home. (Storm info source)
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Swearing
Beta: steralizetheemo
The snow on the ground ahead of him is enough of a blinding, straining white even without the sun glaring off the unbroken surface until his eyes ache and he has to shield them with a gloved hand, but it is still the least of his worries no matter how much he wishes he could just rip his eyes out of their sockets and take care of the irritating problem.
He pulls his jacket tighter around him, wishing he’d have considered the consequences of letting Hector borrow it before he lent it to his amiable cousin, because the bastard always manages to ruin his things - from ripping the arm off his stuffed dog when he was three to dropping his first Atari game console the day after he’d bought it with his hard-earned money when he was twelve. Two years of babysitting his younger siblings, lawn mowing and can collecting gone to waste and all he had to show for it was a scar on his knuckle from when he’d socked Hector and knocked out one of his front teeth.
He tugs at the busted zipper of his gone-through-the-mill Goodwill jacket and decides he isn’t going to let Hector borrow his things anymore.
“Helping out family” only applies to a certain extent in Hector’s case, and clearly the extent has been exceeded and the situation has gotten out of hand.
He doesn’t like finding rocks in the bottoms of his boots after Hector takes off in them (“My shoes got trashed in the dryer when Mom washed ‘em. Can I borrow yours for a couple hours, Fernando?”). He doesn’t like finding holes in his shirts after Hector wears them to a sleazy night club (“Mine are all dirty, Fernando, come on.”). He hates finding stains on his jeans when Hector slips them on after spilling something on his own (“It’s just milk, Fernando, don’t worry.”).
He loathes it when Hector gets into fights at school and bloodies up Fernando’s better clothing.
He knows Hector’s borrowed his underwear no matter how many times he denies it.
And as a rule, Hector is never allowed to wash any of the clothes he borrows because Fernando still can’t get over his drawer full of pink socks.
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, sullenly wishing his gloves were a little thicker and were actually capable of preventing frostbite from settling in as chiller winds picked up and whipped the snow around him - the ice crystals biting into his face and digging at his skin until he hunches his shoulders and buries as much of what areas of his face are exposed and susceptible to rabid, bitter attack as he can before blinking rapidly and throwing an arm across his eyes, blocking a savage gust of snow and ice as it blows against him.
He pulls his arm away and looks up, searching for a street sign in the decreasing visibility.
Instead, he finds himself staring farther up, watching as the dark clouds billow and build upon themselves and rain torrential weather down over the city, coating it in a dangerous sheet of ice on snow on ice.
The snow slips back into sleet and Fernando looks back toward the sidewalk and continues trudging through the five inches of snow and counting, pulling his hat down further as he goes in hopes that he may save any more skin from the storm.
He reaches the store (finally) and steps inside quickly, embracing the warmth and wishing he didn’t have to leave once he’d bought the ingredients that Mamá needed for dinner.
But if he didn’t get back soon, Mamá would yell at him for taking too long - and it wouldn’t matter how many times he told her about how bad the storm was, his account filled with exclamations of “I almost got hit by a car, Mama!” and “I couldn’t see anything, Mama! It took forever to get to the store!” - she would put them off as “. . . excuses, excuses. You’re always giving me excuses, Fernando,” and tell him to go play with his cousins and sisters, why doesn’t he, they’ve been waiting all night for him to get back, after all.
He browses the meager meat selection in the back of the store and finally decides on two packs of burger before pulling out the list Mama had given him and perusing it.
Most of the shelves are empty and he hopes he can find what Mama needs despite the massive food hoarding that seems to have gone on earlier today in anticipation of what the news had declared to be “. . . quite possibly the worst storm to hit Chicago in a decade.”
A radio was relaying the recent storm news throughout the store (“Expecting approximately twelve inches by morning with wind speeds up to . . .”) and the few cashiers who had bothered to head to work that day are taking glances at him as he browses the shelves and piles food ingredients into a handbasket, urging him to hurry up with their eyes so they can get home before the worst of the storm hits.
He adds the last item to the basket and slips the list back into his pocket before heading over to the nearest register.
The cashier rushes through the process, running the items’ bar codes over the scanner with a speed he thinks can’t be human (he eyes the cashier somewhat suspiciously as he thinks this) but the thought is fleeting and the cashier is suddenly spouting off the total.
He digs into his wallet and pulls out the money Mama gave him. He counts the bills and a look of pure horror crosses his visage as he realizes he’s four dollars short.
“Uh - ”
The cashier shakes his head in aggravated annoyance and grabs the money from his hand. “It’s fine. I’ll pay the rest.” He pops open the cash register and files the bills into their proper slots, taking his own wallet out of his back pocket as he finishes and retrieving four one dollar bills and filing them as well.
Fernando smiles gratefully and thanks the man with a rather ecstatic, “Gracias, Papi! You saved my ass!” before collecting the paper bag his purchased goods were placed in into his arms.
He frowns and opens his mouth to question but the cashier answers before the words even form on his tongue.
“We’re out of plastic.”
“Oh.”
He stares at the bag in consideration before slipping it beneath his coat (again cursing Hector for breaking the zipper) and clutching it to his chest with one arm while using the other to cover it securely with one side of the coat.
He heads grudgingly back out into the raging storm and makes for home.
*
He turns the doorknob and pushes the door open with his hip, stepping into the room and closing the door with a knee.
Three small bodies are quickly wrapped around his legs, clutching onto him with no indication of letting go whilst screaming at each other in a broken mixture of Spanish and English.
Fernando kicks his feet and throws them off unexpectedly, cursing at his two youngest sisters and youngest cousin while slipping his boots off and shaking the snow from his jeans.
“Fernando, you get snow on my carpet and I swear I’ll - ”
“Sí, Mamá, I know - ”
“Did you get the groceries?”
“Sí, Mamá - ”
“Good. Bring them into the kitchen before you start dripping everywhere and then go change into dry clothes.”
Fernando nods absently at Mamá’s words as he places his coat on a hook near the door and his hat on another above it. His pulls his gloves off next and shoves them into the pockets of his coat before hefting the grocery bag back into his arms and walking the short distance into the kitchen.
Mamá glances up at him from where she’s beginning to prepare dinner by the stove and motions to the counter.
He sets the bag down, smiles at Mamá (to which he receives a scornful frown in return) and quickly heads to his bedroom before his siblings decide to make another attempt at “. . . killing hermano mayor Fernando because he’s a meanie head who thinks giving us whitewashes is funny.”
He gives the door a firm shove as he leans into it (because it never has wanted to open without a fight) and tumbles inside, closing the door carefully with a foot before standing again and locking it (though the lock has never saved him from his crafty sisters breaking into his room in the middle of the night to jump him before).
He tugs his socks off, turns and whips them at Hector who continues to laugh as he dodges them.
“It will never cease to amuse me, Fernando. Every single time . . .”
“Shut it, Hector. I’ve seen you fall while opening the fucking door, too - ”
“Fernando! Cuida tu la boca!”
He trudges to his bed and yells back an apology to his aunt (inwardly cursing the paper thin walls of the apartment) before stripping off his sweater and shirt beneath it.
“Hey now. No strip shows tonight, all right, primo? I told you already, I’m not into guys - especially if they’re my cousin.”
“Just throw me a clean shirt, Hector.”
Hector shrugs and meanders over to the closet (their shared closet, much to Fernando’s chagrin - Hector had borrowed his clothes enough as it was before his family had moved in), flipping through the shirts hanging there before grabbing a wifebeater and tossing it backward in the general direction of Fernando.
Fernando takes a step forward to catch the shirt when the gentle hum of electricity filtering through the apartment building abruptly stops and the entire room is bathed in darkness.
The wifebeater hits Fernando in the chest and he blindly snatches it before it falls to the floor.
“Hector?”
He can hear Hector breathing near the closet and he blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“Yeah, Fernando?”
He faintly makes out Hector’s silhouette moving toward the door, feeling along the wall and leaning against it for support as he trips over various objects littering the floor.
Fernando feels around for the tag on the wifebeater and finally slips it on before heading in the assumed direction of the door himself.
“I hate you, Hector.”
“I hate you, too, Fernando.”
And as the storm rages on outside, Fernando shoves an unsuspecting Hector backward and over the chair he knows is there before wrenching open the door and running down the hall, toward the safety of his aunt’s careful watch in the living room -
- before tripping over a toy left out by one of his younger cousins or maybe one of his own siblings and falling brutally to the floor.
Hearing Hector wheeze a pained, “That’s karma for you, Fernando,” from their bedroom, he slowly stands and limps down the hall, cradling his aching arm to his chest and kicking more toys out of his path as he goes along.
“Fernando? Are you all right?”
Mamá is standing in the threshold of the kitchen holding a candle (“Always prepare for the worst before it happens.”) and watching him as he makes his way into the living room.
“Fine, Mamá.” He lets his arm fall gently back to his side and stops limping (because as much as it hurts, he’d rather not have Mamá trying to take care of his injuries again). Irritably, he kicks one last toy and sends it flying into one of his sisters’ shins (“Ow! Hermano mayor hit me, Mamá!”) before he shuffles over to Mamá and follows her into the kitchen.
“Fernando, I want you to go downstairs and check with the manager to see what’s going on - ”
He groans. “But Mamá, that’s four floors down - ”
“And it’ll be good exercise for you.” She sets the candle down onto the counter and opens a drawer, digging around inside until she pulls out a flashlight and hands it to him.
“Here,” she says, shoving it into his chest when he refuses to reach out and take it from her. “Now go before your sisters decide it’s a good time to make another assassination attempt.”
He sees her smile at him with mock humor and he shakes his head. “Okay, Mamá. I’ll be back soon.”
Walking carefully to the door, he grabs his coat off the hook and pulls it on before slipping into his boots and opening the door.
He shivers as he steps into the hall and quickly shuts the door behind him. He yanks his coat tighter around him and flicks the flashlight on, beginning his slow walk to the end of the hall, careful not to trip over anything one of the neighbors may have left out (not a usual danger for him but something to take careful consideration of in the current pitch black darkness of the building - even with a flashlight he’s not stupid enough to assume he won’t still trip over something).
He pushes open the door to the stairs (but not without a longing glance at the elevator that didn’t even work when there was power) and begins the long journey down, almost hoping that the power situation is only temporary and that the manager tells him to “. . . fuck off, I’ll have it fixed by morning.”
But he’s been through enough snowstorms by now to know that’s not going to be the case and the family will be sleeping in the living room tonight (and possibly for the next few nights, if the storm is really as monumental as the news claims), huddled against one another in an attempt to keep warm through the night.
And, Fernando sullenly thinks, if Hector even thinks about trying to steal his coat while he’s sleeping -
“Hey, primo. Just gonna stand there all day or were you planning on making tía mad again?”
Fernando turns the flashlight onto Hector and illuminates him before he shakes his head and starts down the stairs with Hector following close behind him.
And when Fernando suddenly takes off in a careful run and leaves Hector in the dark between floors, he thinks that leaving him there for the rest of the night wouldn’t be so bad -
- but Hector is suddenly the last thing on his mind as he trips and the flashlight flies out of his hand and lands with a crack -
Fernando rubs his head and sits up, groaning and fumbling around on the ground in search of the flashlight while Hector paces on the landing above him.
“Fernando?” The word echoes around the stairwell and his head pounds with each syllable.
“You broke the flashlight, didn’t you?”
Fernando doesn’t need to say anything for Hector to know that the flashlight is lying against the wall, the glass and bulb shattered, plastic casing cracked beyond repair -
He sighs.
It’s a long way back up in the dark.
Character/Pairing: Sucre, Hector, the family
Genre: Gen, Pre-series
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2501
Summary: Take one cup blizzard, four teaspoons evil cousin, three tablespoons annoying siblings, cousins and their toys, mix and set out to cool overnight.
Author’s Notes: For thelana. Happy belated birthday :) And I did some research on this - putting Sucre at about 34 years old, he would’ve been around 16-17 during a snow storm that occurred between 8 February 1988 and 15 February 1988 in the Chicago area and thus... still living at home. (Storm info source)
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Swearing
Beta: steralizetheemo
The snow on the ground ahead of him is enough of a blinding, straining white even without the sun glaring off the unbroken surface until his eyes ache and he has to shield them with a gloved hand, but it is still the least of his worries no matter how much he wishes he could just rip his eyes out of their sockets and take care of the irritating problem.
He pulls his jacket tighter around him, wishing he’d have considered the consequences of letting Hector borrow it before he lent it to his amiable cousin, because the bastard always manages to ruin his things - from ripping the arm off his stuffed dog when he was three to dropping his first Atari game console the day after he’d bought it with his hard-earned money when he was twelve. Two years of babysitting his younger siblings, lawn mowing and can collecting gone to waste and all he had to show for it was a scar on his knuckle from when he’d socked Hector and knocked out one of his front teeth.
He tugs at the busted zipper of his gone-through-the-mill Goodwill jacket and decides he isn’t going to let Hector borrow his things anymore.
“Helping out family” only applies to a certain extent in Hector’s case, and clearly the extent has been exceeded and the situation has gotten out of hand.
He doesn’t like finding rocks in the bottoms of his boots after Hector takes off in them (“My shoes got trashed in the dryer when Mom washed ‘em. Can I borrow yours for a couple hours, Fernando?”). He doesn’t like finding holes in his shirts after Hector wears them to a sleazy night club (“Mine are all dirty, Fernando, come on.”). He hates finding stains on his jeans when Hector slips them on after spilling something on his own (“It’s just milk, Fernando, don’t worry.”).
He loathes it when Hector gets into fights at school and bloodies up Fernando’s better clothing.
He knows Hector’s borrowed his underwear no matter how many times he denies it.
And as a rule, Hector is never allowed to wash any of the clothes he borrows because Fernando still can’t get over his drawer full of pink socks.
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, sullenly wishing his gloves were a little thicker and were actually capable of preventing frostbite from settling in as chiller winds picked up and whipped the snow around him - the ice crystals biting into his face and digging at his skin until he hunches his shoulders and buries as much of what areas of his face are exposed and susceptible to rabid, bitter attack as he can before blinking rapidly and throwing an arm across his eyes, blocking a savage gust of snow and ice as it blows against him.
He pulls his arm away and looks up, searching for a street sign in the decreasing visibility.
Instead, he finds himself staring farther up, watching as the dark clouds billow and build upon themselves and rain torrential weather down over the city, coating it in a dangerous sheet of ice on snow on ice.
The snow slips back into sleet and Fernando looks back toward the sidewalk and continues trudging through the five inches of snow and counting, pulling his hat down further as he goes in hopes that he may save any more skin from the storm.
He reaches the store (finally) and steps inside quickly, embracing the warmth and wishing he didn’t have to leave once he’d bought the ingredients that Mamá needed for dinner.
But if he didn’t get back soon, Mamá would yell at him for taking too long - and it wouldn’t matter how many times he told her about how bad the storm was, his account filled with exclamations of “I almost got hit by a car, Mama!” and “I couldn’t see anything, Mama! It took forever to get to the store!” - she would put them off as “. . . excuses, excuses. You’re always giving me excuses, Fernando,” and tell him to go play with his cousins and sisters, why doesn’t he, they’ve been waiting all night for him to get back, after all.
He browses the meager meat selection in the back of the store and finally decides on two packs of burger before pulling out the list Mama had given him and perusing it.
Most of the shelves are empty and he hopes he can find what Mama needs despite the massive food hoarding that seems to have gone on earlier today in anticipation of what the news had declared to be “. . . quite possibly the worst storm to hit Chicago in a decade.”
A radio was relaying the recent storm news throughout the store (“Expecting approximately twelve inches by morning with wind speeds up to . . .”) and the few cashiers who had bothered to head to work that day are taking glances at him as he browses the shelves and piles food ingredients into a handbasket, urging him to hurry up with their eyes so they can get home before the worst of the storm hits.
He adds the last item to the basket and slips the list back into his pocket before heading over to the nearest register.
The cashier rushes through the process, running the items’ bar codes over the scanner with a speed he thinks can’t be human (he eyes the cashier somewhat suspiciously as he thinks this) but the thought is fleeting and the cashier is suddenly spouting off the total.
He digs into his wallet and pulls out the money Mama gave him. He counts the bills and a look of pure horror crosses his visage as he realizes he’s four dollars short.
“Uh - ”
The cashier shakes his head in aggravated annoyance and grabs the money from his hand. “It’s fine. I’ll pay the rest.” He pops open the cash register and files the bills into their proper slots, taking his own wallet out of his back pocket as he finishes and retrieving four one dollar bills and filing them as well.
Fernando smiles gratefully and thanks the man with a rather ecstatic, “Gracias, Papi! You saved my ass!” before collecting the paper bag his purchased goods were placed in into his arms.
He frowns and opens his mouth to question but the cashier answers before the words even form on his tongue.
“We’re out of plastic.”
“Oh.”
He stares at the bag in consideration before slipping it beneath his coat (again cursing Hector for breaking the zipper) and clutching it to his chest with one arm while using the other to cover it securely with one side of the coat.
He heads grudgingly back out into the raging storm and makes for home.
*
He turns the doorknob and pushes the door open with his hip, stepping into the room and closing the door with a knee.
Three small bodies are quickly wrapped around his legs, clutching onto him with no indication of letting go whilst screaming at each other in a broken mixture of Spanish and English.
Fernando kicks his feet and throws them off unexpectedly, cursing at his two youngest sisters and youngest cousin while slipping his boots off and shaking the snow from his jeans.
“Fernando, you get snow on my carpet and I swear I’ll - ”
“Sí, Mamá, I know - ”
“Did you get the groceries?”
“Sí, Mamá - ”
“Good. Bring them into the kitchen before you start dripping everywhere and then go change into dry clothes.”
Fernando nods absently at Mamá’s words as he places his coat on a hook near the door and his hat on another above it. His pulls his gloves off next and shoves them into the pockets of his coat before hefting the grocery bag back into his arms and walking the short distance into the kitchen.
Mamá glances up at him from where she’s beginning to prepare dinner by the stove and motions to the counter.
He sets the bag down, smiles at Mamá (to which he receives a scornful frown in return) and quickly heads to his bedroom before his siblings decide to make another attempt at “. . . killing hermano mayor Fernando because he’s a meanie head who thinks giving us whitewashes is funny.”
He gives the door a firm shove as he leans into it (because it never has wanted to open without a fight) and tumbles inside, closing the door carefully with a foot before standing again and locking it (though the lock has never saved him from his crafty sisters breaking into his room in the middle of the night to jump him before).
He tugs his socks off, turns and whips them at Hector who continues to laugh as he dodges them.
“It will never cease to amuse me, Fernando. Every single time . . .”
“Shut it, Hector. I’ve seen you fall while opening the fucking door, too - ”
“Fernando! Cuida tu la boca!”
He trudges to his bed and yells back an apology to his aunt (inwardly cursing the paper thin walls of the apartment) before stripping off his sweater and shirt beneath it.
“Hey now. No strip shows tonight, all right, primo? I told you already, I’m not into guys - especially if they’re my cousin.”
“Just throw me a clean shirt, Hector.”
Hector shrugs and meanders over to the closet (their shared closet, much to Fernando’s chagrin - Hector had borrowed his clothes enough as it was before his family had moved in), flipping through the shirts hanging there before grabbing a wifebeater and tossing it backward in the general direction of Fernando.
Fernando takes a step forward to catch the shirt when the gentle hum of electricity filtering through the apartment building abruptly stops and the entire room is bathed in darkness.
The wifebeater hits Fernando in the chest and he blindly snatches it before it falls to the floor.
“Hector?”
He can hear Hector breathing near the closet and he blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“Yeah, Fernando?”
He faintly makes out Hector’s silhouette moving toward the door, feeling along the wall and leaning against it for support as he trips over various objects littering the floor.
Fernando feels around for the tag on the wifebeater and finally slips it on before heading in the assumed direction of the door himself.
“I hate you, Hector.”
“I hate you, too, Fernando.”
And as the storm rages on outside, Fernando shoves an unsuspecting Hector backward and over the chair he knows is there before wrenching open the door and running down the hall, toward the safety of his aunt’s careful watch in the living room -
- before tripping over a toy left out by one of his younger cousins or maybe one of his own siblings and falling brutally to the floor.
Hearing Hector wheeze a pained, “That’s karma for you, Fernando,” from their bedroom, he slowly stands and limps down the hall, cradling his aching arm to his chest and kicking more toys out of his path as he goes along.
“Fernando? Are you all right?”
Mamá is standing in the threshold of the kitchen holding a candle (“Always prepare for the worst before it happens.”) and watching him as he makes his way into the living room.
“Fine, Mamá.” He lets his arm fall gently back to his side and stops limping (because as much as it hurts, he’d rather not have Mamá trying to take care of his injuries again). Irritably, he kicks one last toy and sends it flying into one of his sisters’ shins (“Ow! Hermano mayor hit me, Mamá!”) before he shuffles over to Mamá and follows her into the kitchen.
“Fernando, I want you to go downstairs and check with the manager to see what’s going on - ”
He groans. “But Mamá, that’s four floors down - ”
“And it’ll be good exercise for you.” She sets the candle down onto the counter and opens a drawer, digging around inside until she pulls out a flashlight and hands it to him.
“Here,” she says, shoving it into his chest when he refuses to reach out and take it from her. “Now go before your sisters decide it’s a good time to make another assassination attempt.”
He sees her smile at him with mock humor and he shakes his head. “Okay, Mamá. I’ll be back soon.”
Walking carefully to the door, he grabs his coat off the hook and pulls it on before slipping into his boots and opening the door.
He shivers as he steps into the hall and quickly shuts the door behind him. He yanks his coat tighter around him and flicks the flashlight on, beginning his slow walk to the end of the hall, careful not to trip over anything one of the neighbors may have left out (not a usual danger for him but something to take careful consideration of in the current pitch black darkness of the building - even with a flashlight he’s not stupid enough to assume he won’t still trip over something).
He pushes open the door to the stairs (but not without a longing glance at the elevator that didn’t even work when there was power) and begins the long journey down, almost hoping that the power situation is only temporary and that the manager tells him to “. . . fuck off, I’ll have it fixed by morning.”
But he’s been through enough snowstorms by now to know that’s not going to be the case and the family will be sleeping in the living room tonight (and possibly for the next few nights, if the storm is really as monumental as the news claims), huddled against one another in an attempt to keep warm through the night.
And, Fernando sullenly thinks, if Hector even thinks about trying to steal his coat while he’s sleeping -
“Hey, primo. Just gonna stand there all day or were you planning on making tía mad again?”
Fernando turns the flashlight onto Hector and illuminates him before he shakes his head and starts down the stairs with Hector following close behind him.
And when Fernando suddenly takes off in a careful run and leaves Hector in the dark between floors, he thinks that leaving him there for the rest of the night wouldn’t be so bad -
- but Hector is suddenly the last thing on his mind as he trips and the flashlight flies out of his hand and lands with a crack -
Fernando rubs his head and sits up, groaning and fumbling around on the ground in search of the flashlight while Hector paces on the landing above him.
“Fernando?” The word echoes around the stairwell and his head pounds with each syllable.
“You broke the flashlight, didn’t you?”
Fernando doesn’t need to say anything for Hector to know that the flashlight is lying against the wall, the glass and bulb shattered, plastic casing cracked beyond repair -
He sighs.
It’s a long way back up in the dark.