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Chapter Text

Victoria dropped the tray she held onto her prep counter with a clatter and immediately regretted it, the loud clanking of the tray hitting the surface only adding to pulsing pain in her head.  Even the swishing of the curtains that she’d practically thrown herself through just seconds ago grated on her nerves.  With a groan, she leaned heavily against the table, both hands flat on the surface as she breathed deep and even, trying to center herself.

It seemed more people than ever were visiting her tavern today.  So many requests and orders and conversations.  The stage had arrived earlier in that afternoon, which meant strangers looking for a meal and a place to rest their heads, some of them women, but most of them men she’d never seen before.  Too many men, actually.  Normally it wouldn’t have been an issue.  Normally, she’d have been grateful for the fresh faces and hungry bellies eager to spend money in her tavern.  Normally, she wouldn’t have ever thought of fleeing to her kitchen, to use it as some kind of sanctuary against those who spent their pesos on her wine and arroz con pollo and supported her livelihood.

But Victoria didn’t know what normal was anymore.  She certainly hadn’t felt normal recently, so here she hid, her pots and pans the only witnesses to the shame rising in her chest.  It was almost time to close for siesta.  Victoria struggled to remember a time that she’d been more grateful for that.

Three weeks.  It had been three weeks and a few days, since That Night.  Victoria couldn’t think of it as anything else.  What else should she call the most violent evening she’d ever suffered through?  A night that could’ve very well changed the course of her life had things, God forbid, gone differently?

But it has already done that, she thought to herself reproachfully.  In truth, That Night dominated her every waking moment and haunted her nights when she tried to sleep.  The memory of it affected each interaction she had with every person in Los Angeles, whether they were strangers or friends.  It dictated when she would visit the market or which tables she would wait on or even if she would step out onto the front porch of her tavern.  From the moment she opened her eyes in the morning until she closed them at night – if she closed them at all – That Night reigned supreme.

She’d tried to put it behind her.  Of course she had.  Victoria had recounted the events surrounding That Night when Alcalde DeSoto had required them for his report (and to determine to whom the reward money would be given…and who he should target for his latest tax scheme).  She’d been as thorough as she could have been back then.  From La Marka Barcaro asking for a blanket, to her walking up to his room to deliver it, to Barcaro attacking her and the peons outside hearing her screams for help bursting through the doors of the tavern and scrabbling up the stairs to come to her aide, she’d done her best to answer every question the alcalde pelted at her as best as she could.  Never mind that his questioning had felt more like an interrogation of her than anything else, that his skeptical tone during his interview only made her feel as if DeSoto were trying to find some way to blame Victoria’s attack on her.  The man was always scheming, always looking to find away to make someone’s misfortune benefit him in some way.

Needless to say, Victoria had been unendingly grateful that Diego had been beside her during the alcalde’s investigation, though she still wasn’t sure how he’d arrived there so quickly.  Perhaps Zorro had alerted him after he’d had to leave? Who else could it have been?  It had been the middle of the night when Barcaro had made his move on her.  Diego had to have been asleep when he heard the news and he lived two miles away from the pueblo, but it seemed like he was at her side within minutes of Barcaro going over the ledge of the tavern’s mezzanine.  Victoria hadn’t questioned it then, and she didn’t question it now.  Diego had been there; that was what mattered.

When the de la Vegas had asked after her on their visits to the tavern since then, Victoria had attempted to go into more detail about That Night, to explain how a simple request had gone so horrifically wrong, how said patron had ended up being hurled over her balcony to his eventual demise on the floor of her tavern, but she’d found since That Night and the days after that she simply didn’t want to discuss it anymore.  It was over.  It was done with.  Yes, she’d been shaken and yes, there had been some bruising on her wrists and arms, but it had been nominal, and the marks had faded after a few days.  Certainly, she’d been spared the worst consequences of what could’ve happened.  She knew that all too well, and she was reminded of it every time That Night was mentioned.  Victoria wanted to move on, and she wished more than anything that everyone else in the Pueblo would let her. 

The inquiries and concern the de la Vegas had for her, especially on Diego’s part, were well meaning and honest.  She knew that.  But the events of That Night had plagued her so completely that the memories of it reigned supreme in her everyday life.  Victoria’s time was now spent looking suspiciously at every unknown traveler who entered her tavern, and if she didn’t know who they were, she cut off their alcohol intake far sooner than she would’ve before.  She began siesta earlier and ended it later.  She’d even told particularly rough looking travelers asking for a room that the tavern was booked up, even if she knew she had a vacancy.  And the most frustrating thing of all was that Victoria hadn’t noticed she was doing any of it until Pilar had pointed it out to her.

“We’re losing money,” Pilar had said while Victoria had been manically chopping vegetables the day before during one of her self-imposed breaks.  Victoria had only nodded mutely and reached for another tomato to slice.  Pilar had stared at her for a few seconds before huffing her way back into the dining room.

And then, there was the matter of her increasingly erratic disposition.  There was no denying that the spirit and fire Victoria was known for across Los Angeles had been dampened as of late.  Victoria usually wouldn’t hesitate to make her opinion known, and it was perfectly typical for her to insert herself into any commentary she wanted or that piqued her interest; most expected it.  Some even waited in the tavern to witness the unfortunate soul who would rouse her ire as if it were the day’s scheduled entertainment.  Mendoza fell into that cast of characters on occasion, when he needed a laugh or a bit of respite after the Alcalde had been particularly harsh, usually over Zorro.

These days, she shied away from any conversations with those she didn’t know, and even some she did.  And while there hadn’t been any rude or surely customers since That Night, certainly no one like Le Marka, at the first hint that one of her patrons might be having a bad day, Victoria simply steered clear and let Pilar or Don Alejandro or Diego or Mendoza handle it.  As for anyone coming up behind her or yelling her name or simply brushing by her?

Well.  She’d just now run into her kitchen for refuge from Felipe of all people.

Felipe, the de la Vegas’ deaf and mute ward, one of the gentlest souls she knew and who had no other way of getting her attention other than to lightly tap her on the shoulder while Victoria had been cleaning a table.  She’d jumped about a foot in the air, fear racing through her blood and straight to her heart, only to turn and see Felipe holding his hands up in apology, eyes wide with a stricken look of regret on his young, innocent face.  Victoria was able to catch her breath and interpret through Felipe’s sign language that Don Diego would be visiting the tavern soon and was inquiring about her specials for the day.  And now here she was, hiding away in her own tavern, terrified of a teenager that she’d known for years whose only crime was… touching her on the shoulder.

Victoria took another deep breath and ran her hands over her apron.  Siesta would start in just a few minutes.  She could seclude herself here and prepare for the dinner rush while Pilar handled the crowds until they closed up for the afternoon.  Besides, the tavern would need fresh bread for the evening, and Victoria could take out her frustrations by kneading some malleable dough.  The bread would be tougher than normal when all was said and done, but there were worse things in the world than a roll that wasn’t perfectly soft. 

Victoria could testify to that personally.

She’d been working quietly for a few minutes when she heard a gentle knock against the wall of the kitchen, followed by a familiar voice calling her name quietly.  Victoria looked over her shoulder to see Diego poking his head through the curtains, the hint of his dark blue Caballero’s suit covering broad shoulders, making the white of his shirt and his cobalt eyes appear all the more brilliant.  “Am I bothering you?” he asked, his tone somewhat apologetic.  Victoria shook her head.

“No, no of course not, Don Diego, please,” Victoria looked around for something to clean her hands with and spotted a towel on a counter behind her.  “It’s um, it’s almost siesta, I’m surprised you and Felipe are still here,” she noted, wiping her hands along the cloth hastily.

“I’m happy to report that siesta has indeed arrived.  As for Felipe, he went back to the hacienda,” Diego stepped through the curtains fully, his expression kind and open.  “I thought I’d see how you were doing today.”

Victoria felt her face tighten just a little.  She had no doubt about his sincerity in wanting to check on her, but it was the knowledge of why that pricked her conscience.  And had she really been in the kitchen so long that she’d missed the start of the afternoon break? 

“He told you about earlier,” she sighed, tossing the towel back on the counter, glowering at it as she shook her head, feeling nothing but embarrassment creeping up her spine.  “I’ve nothing to say for myself.  I… I hope he isn’t angry or –"

Diego held up a hand.  “Felipe is perfectly fine, Victoria.  It’s you we’re all worried about.”  He didn’t come any closer to her.  Victoria found herself wishing he would, but Diego’s carefully maintained distance was yet one more consequence of That Night.  Those she was closest to, even the de la Vegas, had figured out that allowing Victoria her space was essential.  Victoria hated herself a little for that.  She felt his sympathetic gaze on her, and she hated that, too.  Pity wasn’t something she aspired to receive from anyone, especially Diego.  But in the grand spirit of carrying on, she pushed her anger and embarrassment aside to answer his question.

“I’m alright, I just – I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Victoria turned and plunged her hands back into the dough, continuing to knead and fold and press.  She could feel Diego’s eyes on her, watching quietly for a minute or two and while she very much wanted him to stay, Victoria also wanted him to make up his mind sooner rather than later.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he slipped around to stand on the other side of the table and put himself back in her line of sight.  Victoria knew that was deliberate.  If she wasn’t so ashamed of herself, she might’ve thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

“Can I help?” He asked.  Victoria paused, raising an eyebrow at him in surprise.  He only shrugged back at her, offering her a handsome smile.  “It’s not all that difficult.”

“It’s not, but –”

“What?” Diego shrugged off his suit jacket and set to rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.  She, very consciously, looked back at the mass of flour and yeast on her counter as he finished fixing his sleeves just below his elbows, showing off tanned, strong forearms.  “Just because these hands rarely touch the hilt of a sword doesn’t mean they’re useless when action is needed.”

Victoria cleared her throat.  She didn’t doubt him, especially considering that she’d been noticing Diego’s hands a lot more recently, among other things. 

“Of course, here –” Slightly flustered, Victoria picked up the dough pile she’d been working on and set it in front of Diego, still far from being blended perfectly together, “-you take that one, and I’ll start on a new batch.” 

She wiped her hands on the towel again and ambled over to the rack where Pilar had prepared the batter with yeast and left it to rise in various bowls.  Grabbing one, Victoria joined Diego at the prep counter and began the long process of folding and kneading the dough.  After a few minutes, she took interest in watching Diego with his share, strong hands and sure fingers expertly folding the sticky dough, kneading it down with a fist afterwards and then folding it again, the same number of folds and length of his hand working the pile, over and over again.

“You’ve done this before,” she remarked, impressed.

He chuckled.  “Believe it or not, my mother used to enjoy baking.  Even with Maria working for us, Mother would sometimes take to the kitchen to make up some bread or tarts.  She used to make these exquisite lemon cakes and serve them at parties.  I’d wander in looking for something to do and she’d let me ‘help’ her.” Diego flipped over the dough, dusted a bit of flour over the top, and pressed his fist down into the center before using his other hand to fold the mass over.  “Of course, I don’t think I was much assistance as a seven-year-old, but still… those are some of the happiest memories I have with her.”  He assessed her for a few moments.  “Why weren’t you able to sleep?”

The dough trundled over Victoria’s hands as Diego’s question rolled over her mind.  Her fingers pulled apart the mixture and twisted it back together again.  “It was too warm,” she answered quietly after almost a minute of silence.

“Hmm,” Diego looked around for a bread pan and, finding one on a shelf, plucked it from its home and set it on the counter.  He dropped the dough ball into it and spread it evenly with his fingers.  “That can certainly make sleep hard to find.  I always found that tea with a little milk did the trick for me.” 

Victoria cursed herself for not telling him when he first arrived that she had too much work to do and she couldn’t talk, which was exactly what he was trying to get her to do – she’d just realized his tactic a bit too late.  It wouldn’t have been a lie, exactly; she did have quite a bit to prepare before dinner, and she wasn’t about to pile all the food prep on the rest of the staff.  Pilar and the other girls had taken on far too much over the past three weeks, much more than their fair share, she thought grimly as her hands worked the dough harshly. 

“Bad things sometimes happen,” her mother had once told her, “And when they do, we have to find a way to deal with it and move on.  Don’t expect anyone to pity you or be too understanding.  The world continues on, and we either move with it or get left behind.”

Victoria had recited that bit of advice to herself in the days after her mother’s execution, and after her father died, and every time in between and since then that fate had dealt her a difficult hand.  It was sufficient, she supposed, to harden her enough, to allow her to get through unbearable days, the impossible situations that had cropped up in her young years.  But in this circumstance, her mother’s words simply weren’t adequate.

The bread dough beneath her fingers was becoming impossible to move, and when she looked down, she saw why: Diego’s hands were gently resting over hers, and his voice was saying her name softly.  Victoria blinked several times before looking up at him, stricken.  “I – I’m sorry, I wasn’t – I didn’t hear what you said,” she uttered, her voice thin.

“Don’t apologize.”  His voice was like a slowly burning fire, all embers and warmth, wrapping her in its secure tonality.  “I feel badly for the dough, though.”

Victoria bit out a bitter laugh at his attempt at humor and turned her face away.  That dreaded lump that had been making appearances more than she liked these days was rising in her throat again.  She’d been fairly successful at forcing it down for nearly a month, but with Diego there, standing next to her, encouraging her to talk to him, radiating concern and strength and safety most of all, she knew the battle for keeping her composure was lost.  One tear, then a second spilled down her cheeks.  Vaguely, she realized Diego was holding one of her hands in his own while wiping it clean with a towel with his free one.  Her pride would’ve usually demanded she beg off his comfort, but she suddenly found herself fresh out of her usual stock of self-reliant excuses as the gentle care he offered brushed over her skin.

“You can talk to me, Victoria,” Diego reassured her, easy and sure.  “Anything you say to me will stay between us.  You have my word.”

She wiped her free hand viciously across her cheek, clearing it at least momentarily of any tears, but they were only replaced with bits of dough.  It would’ve been rather comical under any other circumstances. 

“I don’t know what to say,” she mumbled.  “I’m – I – He asked for a blanket.  Maybe I should’ve told him ‘No’, or lied and said we didn’t have any extra ones, but I refused to show any fear or weakness in front of that man, especially after his behavior.  And he…”

“I know,” Diego practically growled.  It was the first sign of anger that he’d shown since he arrived.  Victoria swallowed, took a steadying breath.  His anger was for her, not at her.  She knew that.

“I thought I could handle him,” She murmured, staring as he carefully placed her now mostly spotless hand down on the counter and picked up the other, starting the process of wiping her fingers of the dough bits all over again.  She watched him as he worked, mesmerized, his touch tender, comforting.  “I’ve had my share of assuming men, drunks who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves, overbearing patrons who believed that because I was a woman who owned a tavern that such a position afforded them certain privileges.  I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”  Victoria suddenly ripped her hand away from Diego’s and tracked it through her hair.  “I don’t understand why this time is any different!  Why – this kind of thing has happened before, and I never turned into a frightened rabbit-”

“No, Victoria,” Diego interrupted her, shaking his head.  “This kind of thing hasn’t happened before.”

Diego may have been projecting the picture of resolute support for Victoria’s sake, but inwardly his heart was breaking for her, this woman who was the very essence of fire, and fight, and defiance, and self-reliance, who he loved more than his own life, and who had been so affected by what La Marka Barcaro had done to her.  And why shouldn’t she be?  Victoria knew far better than Diego the designs Barcaro had had on her that evening.  It was an unfortunate reality that Diego knew too many women, no matter their profession or class, had to contend with.  It sickened him, filled him with a special brand of fury.  While Diego had no desire for bloodshed and went out of his way as Zorro to actively avoid killing his foes, he would’ve gladly made an exception for Barcaro.  Whether it was as Zorro or himself, it made no difference to Diego, so long as Barcaro had met his end at Diego’s hands.

“From the moment you stood up to him in the tavern that day, he had his sights set on you,” Diego continued, but Victoria cut him off. 

“That’s why it shouldn’t have been any different,” she protested. “I’ve been through this before-”

“He stalked you, Victoria.”  Diego was blunter than he would’ve liked to have been in that moment, but he’d watched Victoria blame herself for her attacker’s actions for three weeks; he couldn’t stand it any longer.  He stepped towards her, stopping just a pace or so away from where she stood.  “For the rest of the day, he sat at that table, and he plotted and he planned.  He lured you upstairs with that request for an extra blanket, and when you arrived, that’s when he struck.”  He risked placing his hands on her shoulders, gratified when she didn’t pull away.  She seemed intent on him, actually; her eyes hadn’t left his face.  “This wasn’t some lancer who’d had too much to drink or a vaquero angry at the world.  That man was a predator.  He treated you as his prey.  And he did this all in your home, the one place in the world where you’ve every right and expectation to feel secure.”

Victoria absorbed Diego’s words, his touch, his warmth, the safety his familiarity provide and finally, let herself surrender – to him, to herself, to what she’d been feeling for days on end.  “It’s been three weeks,” she finally croaked, her voice tight.  She could feel her eyes welling again; she hated crying at any time, especially now, and especially in front of Diego, but she couldn’t help it.  “I’m tired,” Victoria whispered.  “I jump at the slightest things now.  I get this… this sick feeling in my stomach when men I’ve never seen before come into the tavern… I don’t want to talk to them, or greet them, or serve them.  I don’t want them here overnight.  Pilar had to tell me the tavern’s profits are suffering because I’ve turned so many away.” 

Victoria shook her head and was surprised to feel the cloth of Diego’s shirt against her forehead.  She hadn’t realized they were that close, nor that she’d leaned into him.  Once more her pride commanded her to stand on her own, but her battered mind and soul overruled her ego.  She stayed where she was.

“Perhaps you could talk to Doctor Hernandez?” Diego suggested after a moment. 

Victoria blinked up at him.  “I’m… I’m not…Diego, I’m not going crazy-”

“Of course you’re not, Victoria,” Diego wrapped an arm around her shoulders, hoping she felt the comfort that he intended.  “No, there are many different medical sciences.  Most deal with the physical body but some deal with the mind, too, with how we feel, with different behaviors.  It’s called ‘psychology’.”

Victoria furrowed her brow, though she was quite content with letting Diego take more of her weight.  She encircled her arms around his waist loosely, listening as he spoke.  She’d never heard his voice with her ear resting against his chest before; then again, he’d never held her like this before.  Both were a soothing balm to her exhausted nerves.

“I studied it when I was at university in Madrid,” he murmured.  “An eminent doctor by the name of Ferdinand Ueberwasser wrote several books on the subject.  Fascinating, really.  He theorized that by identifying specific events in our lives, we could extrapolate reasons for resulting behavior.  In your case,” he tilted his chin, and Victoria could feel him graze her slightly curled hair at the crown of her head, soft as a feather, “why you might be feeling anxious, more on guard than usual, perhaps even frightened after the ordeal you went through.  And it was an ordeal, Victoria.  The fact that neither of us needs to expound on what would’ve happened if Paco and his friends hadn’t intervened proves it.”  Diego cleared his throat. 

“If anything, I blame myself for what you’ve endured these last few weeks.”

Of all the things he could’ve said, that was the last thing she expected.  “You?” Victoria looked up at him, surprise etched in her eyes.  “Why?  How on earth can you blame yourself for this?”

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you when you confronted him that day,” he confessed, guilt clouding his blue eyes.  “I should’ve never left you with him.”

“Diego, you couldn’t have known.  He didn’t even ask for a room until after you’d left.  I should’ve denied him, told him I didn’t have anything available-”

“Don’t start blaming yourself again-”

“Well, you are blaming yourself!” Victoria quipped back, and Diego couldn’t help the upward quirk to the corner of his mouth as he looked down at her.  That spark that made her Victoria, his Victoria, was flaring to life again.  It made him believe that she would be alright, perhaps sooner rather than later.

“I suppose I am,” he conceded.  “But you have every right to your behavior since that night.  Everything you feel is reasonable.  Give yourself time, Victoria.  And remember that I’m here for you, for whatever you may need.”  He dared to drop a gentle kiss against the top of her head and Victoria didn’t dissuade him.  Maybe she should’ve, and not simply for propriety’s sake.  A man, dressed in black, his face obscured by a mask came to her mind, a man she loved dearly.  But a man who wasn’t here right now.  Who couldn’t be here because of his work and what he did for the pueblo, the people of Los Angeles, work that she believed in deeply, but who wasn’t here at the moment, nonetheless.

Diego was.

Victoria stepped back enough to meet the gaze of her oldest friend.  “Thank you, Diego.”  He smiled, slid his fingers to one of her hands, and brought it up, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“No thanks are necessary, Señorita.  Now,” he stepped back from her, and Victoria felt the reluctance in his movements.  “I’ll let you get back to your baking.”

“And you were doing such a good job of it,” she chuckled, wiping her face of any remaining tears or evidence thereof.  She felt dried flakes of dough on her cheeks and cringed inwardly.  She’d have to go upstairs to her room before siesta was over to make herself presentable again.

“While I love the culinary arts, I think I’ll leave this particular creative exploit in more expert hands,” Diego smiled at her and turned to go before snapping his fingers and looking at Victoria again.  “I almost forgot - my father wanted me to ask if you would like to join us at the hacienda for dinner tomorrow evening.  I would be happy to pick you up and drive you back in our wagon afterwards if you like.”

Victoria considered him quietly.  “That would be very nice,” she answered after a few moments.  “Please tell him thank you for me.”

He nodded his head and disappeared the same way he’d entered her kitchen a little over a half hour ago, the curtains waving in his wake.  Victoria picked up the forgotten dough on her prep counter, holding it high, her thoughts no longer on the trauma she’d endured weeks ago, but on the last precious moments in her kitchen.  Who knew simply talking about what had happened to her would make her feel better?  And it had, at least a little.  Once again, Diego’s scholarly exploits had served to solve a problem.  Victoria lifted her hand and trailed the fingers opposite over its knuckles, the ghost of the kiss Diego had left just minutes ago still very much present.

Diego hadn’t called her ‘Señorita’ very often since his return from Spain years ago.  He certainly hadn’t kissed her hand in such a gallant fashion since then.  She sighed inwardly; something was going on here, between her and Diego.  On her end and on his.  It was both of them, together. 

When she’d seen him for the first time in nearly four years after he’d come home from university, Victoria had felt an attraction to him, and not just because of his looks, though he was certainly handsome.  Tall, dark-haired, sharp blue eyes, a jaw that could cut through the unforgivingly dry ground that plagued parts of Los Angeles, and a strength in his arms that could match the tone of his voice when he so chose, Diego de la Vega was the picture of the perfect Caballero. 

But as the saying went, a portrait was worth a thousand words, and she found over time that despite his appearance and his breeding and the expectations of his father, Diego much preferred reading, science, research, and the arts over the usual course of masculine interests his rank demanded he take.  While she may have felt a spark early on, Diego always seemed to rather have his head in a book or floating in the clouds rather than on the ground with her.  Her short-term interest had evolved into a long-lasting friendship rooted in trust and respect, two things that were sorely lacking in Los Angeles and that she found she clung to where Diego was concerned.

And then, there was Zorro.  The Fox was clearly well educated, supremely trained in the saber, chivalrous to a fault.  While Victoria knew Diego detested the alcalde and the corruption of the government, where Diego strategized or chose the path of least resistance, Zorro took action – boldly, unapologetically, and with violence if necessary.  Zorro openly defied the alcalde, stepped in with a raised sword where others dared not even raise their voices.  She admired him, his goodness, his selflessness, his passion for justice and for the people he helped protect.  And he’d saved her life more times than Victoria could count; whenever he was near, she knew she was safe. 

These days though, and especially in the last three weeks, Victoria found herself feeling safe with Diego, too.  It was all too confusing to her, especially when she thought of the beautiful emerald ring that sat in a box nestled protectively in the back of one of her dresser’s drawers.  After so many years, Zorro had finally asked her to marry him, and she’d never been so happy as when he’d slipped his mother’s ring on her finger.  When she was with him, Victoria was able to forget the world; for those all too brief moments she was able to steal with him, everything was perfect.  But when he was away, she found her mind wandered, and more often than not these days, it wandered straight to Diego de la Vega.

Unbidden, the image of eyes the color of the sky, hidden behind the mask of a tall, strapping man dressed all in black entered her mind once more.  But this time, next to him was Diego – calm, sure, studious Diego, adorned in his royal blue Caballero’s suit, crows feet playing at the corners of his own bright azure eyes that were the center of a handsome face. 

The dough she held suddenly fell from her hands, hitting the table with a thick, wet thud. 

Two pairs of blue eyes; two men of tall, regal stature, both with the same sharp, strong jawline; even the thin mustache that was present beneath each identical aristocratic nose, the broad shoulders – those features and more, so clear in her mind, merged perfectly, effortlessly, into one man.  Victoria leaned against the prep table for support, the ball of dough forgotten.

“Dios.”

Chapter Text

There was good news, and there was bad news.

The bad news was that Victoria managed to find about as much sleep that night as she’d found over the last three weeks, which was to say none.

The good news was that her reason for not sleeping didn’t center on the attack she’d endured by Barcaro those few weeks ago, but instead on the epiphany she’d had in her kitchen earlier in the day after Diego had left.  That was progress.  Technically.    

Victoria would take the win.  She wasn’t exactly in a position to quibble about semantics.

That revelation – that Don Diego de la Vega, mild-mannered, kind, diplomatic Diego, a man who would always search for a verbal solution in the place of a physical or violent one – was the masked bandit who, over the years, had tormented two alcaldes, embarrassed squadrons of lancers, delivered hundreds of criminals to justice, and had stolen her heart, had stuck with her throughout the remainder of siesta, through dinner, past the tavern closing, and laid with her now in bed.  She stared at the old, wooden ceiling of her room, counting the cracks she found in the planks, her fingers playing with the string of her chemise as she listened to the sounds of the midnight guard while they patrolled the pueblo outside, going through it all again in her mind.

First, there were their - his - physical appearances.  Victoria didn’t consider herself a stupid woman by any means, but as she delved further into their – his! - near identical looks, she wondered if she was going blind or suffering from some kind of mental block.  How could she have missed it?  The same towering height and strong build, twin jaws that could cut glass, sharp blue eyes that pierced through her whether they were gazing at her from behind a mask or a book…they was no difference to be found, none. 

And their voices – now Victoria knew why Diego’s words had so soothed her that afternoon as she’d rested her head against his chest.  Diego’s calming voice was the same one Zorro would use when trying to ease her worries or pay her admiration or puzzle out a problem.  There was no separating the deep, rich tones that both men had.

Once Victoria started delving into comparisons, she couldn’t stop.  Diego’s love of science and history paved the perfect road to Zorro’s use of the many inventive tools and endless knowledge he’d used to make Luis Ramón’s and Ignacio De Soto’s respective terms as alcalde difficult, and sometimes explosive. 

And no outlaw should’ve been as gracious or chivalrous or as well educated as Zorro, but if such a bandit’s father was the wealthiest landowner in Los Angeles and if his mother had the blood of the Hidalgos flowing through her veins as Felicidad de la Vega indeed had, then he would’ve been afforded all the privileges and training and rearing any offspring of theirs would’ve produced.

And if his looks and mannerisms and characteristics weren’t enough (and they were), Victoria could toil over all the other coincidences that she’d overlooked before (and she did) where Diego and Zorro were concerned.

Coincidences, like Zorro knowing everything that happened in the pueblo, even though he could hardly stroll through the plaza or take a drink in her tavern to stay up to date on the latest news and gossip.  Before, Victoria simply assumed that Zorro had certain friends and allies throughout Los Angeles to inform him on the goings on – poor farmers who looked to him for their safety and protection, Caballeros who thought to stay on Zorro’s good side lest he quinch his thirst for justice by visiting their own estates, her.  Now, she realized that many of the things Zorro would find out about and put a stop to had their genesis in conversations she’d had with Diego.

Coincidences, like Diego conveniently disappearing when Zorro appeared, whether it was to fight the alcalde, or other criminals, or help a wayward traveler or a citizen down on his luck, only to pop back up when Zorro had foiled the alcalde’s plans or delivered the criminals to the jail, seemingly unaware of everything that happened and always asking for the story after the fact.

Coincidences, like Diego not being present at her short-lived wedding ceremony to Juan, though she’d asked Don Alejandro of his whereabouts, disappointed that he hadn’t been there.  Diego’s father had only shaken his head in exasperation and muttered some excuse Diego had given him to not attend. 

Or when those back robbers had taken her prisoner to ensure their escape from the pueblo – Zorro had chased them down and whistled at the de la Vega horses the robbers had used in their escape.  Victoria had remarked then how amazing it was that Diego’s horse had reared when Zorro whistled but had thought no more on it.  Horses were often trained to respond to a whistle after all.

Or – and this was quite damning now that she thought of it – when Diego, at her bedside after she’d been shot by Bishop, had told her that Zorro had not been seen since she’d nearly been killed and that he was likely a part of the past now.  How could Diego have known such a thing?  And a few weeks later, when, well on the road to recovery, she’d decided to take a walk in the de la Vega gardens and Zorro had come to her then, only to tell her that she should have a husband, but not just any husband.

No.

One like Diego.

Zorro finishing the verse to a poem that Diego had recited to her that night in the windmill.

Diego’s commanding voice and presence before the Royal Emissary in Santa Paula, speaking in his father’s place on the alcalde’s overbearing tax schemes, not at all like the soft-spoken, diplomatic heir she normally saw.

Diego actually showing some combat ability during the recent siege of Los Angeles – oh yes, Victoria had seen him throwing a few punches at the vagrants out of the corner of her eye…

Zorro leaving so soon after Barcaro’s attack a few weeks ago, only for Diego to show up to the tavern as if he’d always been there.  Because he had been.

Those examples and so many more had filled her head over the past few hours, and she was exhausted, hurt, angry, confused and any other number of emotions she couldn’t name.  Victoria had no idea how she was supposed to sit with Diego and his father for dinner the next evening, knowing - thinking, feeling - no, no, knowing what she knew now.

She was sure she was right.  She just needed proof, something tangible to hold in front of Diego when (and it was when, not if) he tried to deny what was now plain to her.

Her fingers wrung together along her stomach as she finally drifted off into a restless sleep.

Z

Diego pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the tavern and hopped out.  Even from outside, he could hear that business was healthy, patrons talking loudly inside while outside on the patio, guests sat at tables or leaned against the wall as staff brought out orders and took away empty plates.

Standing just off to the side of the main door was Victoria, looking lovely in a sunshine yellow blouse with a flowing white skirt.  She appeared tired and a little pale, but neither those things nor anything else could ever dull her beauty to Diego’s eyes.  He smiled and offered a gallant bow of his head in greeting.

“Victoria, good evening.”

“Hola, Don Diego,” she offered a little smile, shifted her feet a bit.  Her eyes darted to the right and left, rested on him for a scant second, then focused on something else.  If Diego didn’t know any better, he’d say she was nervous for some reason.  He supposed it made sense, her back against the door so no one could come up behind her.  The position she’d chosen offered her a view of anyone coming out of the tavern or entering it, and there were quite a few of those, including a number of young men.  A stage must have arrived recently.  That was usually the reason for so much business.

“Are you alright?” he asked, holding out a hand towards her.  He watched her hesitate to take it before she seemed to shake herself and place her small hand in his.

“Yes, I’m fine, just… too little sleep last night, again,” Victoria flashed another smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she climbed into the wagon and settled herself. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.  I’d hoped that our conversation yesterday would help ease your mind at least enough to get a good night’s rest.”  Diego pulled himself into the wagon after her and sat down, taking the reins.  “Perhaps you need a change of scenery?  We can make a guest room available to you for the evening if - ”

“No, no, Diego, that’s alright. I – I wouldn’t want to impose.”  He felt her shift again next to him and frowned slightly at her declination.  When had she ever thought her presence at the hacienda or anywhere else was an imposition?  She’s been through a great deal, Diego reminded himself.  She needed patience, and he would give her exactly that.

“Very well, but if you change your mind, let us know.  You are never an imposition, Victoria.”  Instead of waiting for a response that he was fairly certain he wouldn’t get, Diego allowed that reassurance to settle over her as he directed the horses forward and out of the pueblo.  Soon enough, the sounds from the plaza were behind them and nothing but the crunch of the wagon’s wheels rolling along the rocky terrain beneath them could be heard.  Conversation wise, the ride was mostly a quiet one, Diego sensing that Victoria wasn’t in the mood to talk.  He supposed after what she’d unloaded yesterday during his visit that she had enough to think about without him adding to it.

They crossed into the de la Vega property just over five minutes after they’d left the tavern.  Diego’s father had built on to the dream his grandfather had started, and the result was quite a handsome empire.  What with hundreds of cattle on the hundreds more acres of land they’d managed to acquire over the years, along with stakes in various textiles, and the hereditary land that came from Diego’s mother, the de la Vega rancho was the largest in all of southern California. 

Diego chanced a look at Victoria from the corner of his eye and caught her darting her gaze away from his.  He didn’t question it.  Her demeanor for the past three weeks had been like this.  Rather than draw attention to it, he decided to point out various plots of land and their function for the rancho as a way to pass the time.  She seemed grateful for that distraction, and Diego caught himself hoping, not for the first time or the last, that one day she’d share this awesome responsibility with him as his wife.

Just under half an hour later, Diego was pulling up to the front gates of the hacienda.  As if he’d been waiting, Felipe appeared from the home to greet them and help Victoria from the wagon.  He greeted her warmly, pointing to her eyes, then to himself, a grin on his face; Victoria couldn’t help but smile at him.  “Yes, Felipe, I can see you this time.  I’m sorry for how I reacted yesterday.”

Felipe shook his head and waved her off before taking the reins of the horses to lead them to the side of the house.

“I told you he was fine,” Diego held a hand over her lower back and swept his opposite arm out in front of them, indicating the walkway towards the front door.  “Shall we?”

Once he was able to get Victoria inside the house, she seemed to relax a little.  Unlike the tavern, with its numerous tables and chairs for customers and sometimes raucous conversations held in a dining room lit by many candles, the de la Vega hacienda was quiet, open, and filled with natural light.  It was just what she needed, Diego thought to himself as he closed the door, a change of scenery. 

His father, who had always adored Victoria from the time she and Diego were children, came into the foyer to greet them, holding his arms open, ready to receive a hug.  To Diego’s delight, Victoria showed less hesitation for Alejandro’s embrace than she had at the tavern when Diego had offered her his hand.  Progress was progress, no matter how small. 

“Maria has been in the kitchen all day preparing for dinner.”

Victoria flushed somewhat.  “Don Alejandro, really, there was no reason for her to go to so much trouble.”

“Nonsense,” Alejandro tucked Victoria’s hand in the crook of his arm and led her towards the formal dining room.  Diego trailed behind, hands clasped casually behind him.  “Besides, she’s trying her hand at a new herbal rub for the pheasant, and she is most eager for our judgement.”

“I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Victoria chuckled.

“That’s exactly what I plan to tell her.”

While Alejandro walked Victoria into the dining room, Diego hung back until Felipe joined them.  He signed a few quick gestures.

“Yes, it was a slow start, but Victoria seems to be coming around.  Father’s idea for a dinner here may be just what the doctor ordered.” Diego clapped a hand on his ward’s shoulder, and they both headed into the dining room.

Z

It was not, in fact, what the doctor ordered.  If Diego ever came across a physician that ordered so much as a cup of tea to cure an ill in the future, he’d send the quack packing. 

Never mind that he’d used tea to treat a dozen ailments in his own life.

Diego sat slumped in a chair next to the bed in the guest room that Victoria lay unconscious in, a flat wick lamp that was dimly lit sitting upon the nightstand.  It cast the room in a haunting, foreboding glow, giving off just enough light for Diego to take in Victoria’s features.  She looked exhausted even in sleep, and he could see the accents of tear streaks along her cheeks, the values of light playing along her skin.  

How had a simple request for dinner gone so wrong?

Everything had been going so well.  They, the four of them - himself, Victoria, his father, and Felipe - had sat down to a meal as fine a one as Maria had ever made.  Between Alejandro’s jests about the alcalde that were helped along by Felipe’s humorous charades and Diego’s aloof commentary, Victoria had beamed genuine smiles and laughed more and longer during that dinner than she had in the past near month.  She was radiant, and Diego had to stop himself from simply staring at her more than once.  Felipe had also helped in that endeavor at least once by delivering a fairly swift and painful kick to his shin under the table.  Diego had yelped and hastily explained that he’d merely banged his knee against one of the wooden legs, halfway glaring at an innocent looking Felipe.

They’d cleared away dinner to make way for dessert and before anyone realized how late the hour had gotten, Alejandro was clearing himself off to bed while Felipe had disappeared at some point.  Neither Diego nor Victoria knew where he went, but Diego excused his absence easily by saying the lad had taken up stargazing and was likely camped upon one of the many hills of the rancho taking in his fill.  In truth, Diego knew Felipe was seeing to Toronado before he actually did turn in for the night.

Though her demeanor seemed to be far more at ease that evening, Diego noticed Victoria continuing to steal glances at him throughout dinner.  He didn’t bring any attention to it, didn’t point it out to her or ask about it, but there was one moment during dinner when she wasn’t able to look away quickly enough.  His blue eyes locked on to hers for a few fleeting seconds, and he couldn’t help but toss a flirtatious grin her way.  She’d flashed a nervous smile in return and reached for her wine glass to take a healthy sip before returning her attention to a story Alejandro had been regaling them with.

Now however, there was no one else to divert her focus.  The hour may have been late, but Diego was in no mood to go to sleep yet and he doubted Victoria would be tired anytime soon, so he’d asked Maria to make up a kettle of coffee and then dismissed her for the evening.  Once the brew was ready, he slipped out of the kitchen and into the dining room, a cup and saucer in each hand.  Victoria was admiring the display cabinet, a mastery of Spanish craftsmanship of sturdy oak and thick glass doors that held heirloom dishes passed down from the de la Vega line.  One or two ornamental dishes that his mother had been fond of were ensconced safely within the windows that Victoria was looking through now.  He cleared his throat.

“Shall we enjoy these in the sala?” Diego lifted the cups, eyebrows raised in question.

 “That would be fine,” Victoria cleared her throat.  “I was just looking at the dishes.  They’re very beautiful.  I can’t imagine anyone eating from them.”

“They are quite the works of art, aren’t they,” Diego led her from the dining room to the sala which was just off the foyer.  “Father told me that when our family left Spain to come here, my mother agonized over which dishes to keep.  Eventually,” he turned and handed her a coffee, “her sister ended up making the decision for her.”

“Oh?  How so?”

“My aunt simply took the dishes she wanted and left Mother the rest.”  Diego shrugged and indicated for Victoria to sit, following suit himself once she was settled.  He watched her sip her coffee, noticing that the darting eyes and the shiftiness was slowly but surely returning.  Willing to do anything to keep her from returning to that nervous state (or leaving entirely considering the late hour), Diego talked about anything that came to mind – the alcalde’s latest schemes, Mendoza and how good and decent a man he was despite the orders he was sometimes forced to carry out, Felipe and his studies to be a lawyer, a book Diego had recently finished reading –

“I don’t think I’ve seen this one before.”

“Hm?” Diego followed Victoria’s gaze to the portrait of his mother hanging on the parallel wall.  “Oh.  Occasionally, Father likes to change the paintings around.  This one had been in the hallway for some time.” Diego sipped his coffee as Victoria rose from her chair, saucer and cup in hand to study the painting closer.   “I believe it was commissioned shortly after we came to California.”

Felicidad de la Vega had been the very essence of Spanish beauty.  Long dark hair that framed a face with eyes the color of the sea, smooth olive skin, a brilliant smile, tall and regal with high cheek bones, she was everything a noblewoman in the Spanish Court should’ve been.  Diego’s father didn’t talk about his wife all that much anymore, but when he did, he would sometimes mention how utterly stunned that of all the men in Madrid, it was he who had turned Felicidad’s head and captured her interest. 

In the portrait, Diego’s mother was draped casually in a high backed, cushioned chair trimmed in red and gold, wearing a traditional court dress of gold, white, and midnight blue, a pomegranate held in her open hand on the right while her left lounged casually just over the opposite armrest, showing off some of her more spectacular pieces of jewelry-

Diego almost dropped his coffee cup.

Showing off her wedding ring.

There weren’t many times in his life that the blood had run cold in Diego’s veins, but a definite arctic chill now had his body in a chokehold, and an ice pick had taken root in his stomach.  How could he have been so careless?  Victoria wasn’t just studying the portrait.  No, she was staring at it.  The cup and saucer held in her delicate hands were beginning to tremble, the rattling of the porcelain dishes against each other echoing in the quiet sala.

Diego carefully set his saucer and cup on the table next to his chair and rose, making his way towards her.  Slowly.

“Victoria - ”

“All this time…”

Wisely (and carefully, lest she throw them at him – he didn’t put it past her), he dislodged the dish set from her grip and set them off to the side.  He supposed he could try to deny it.  Maybe it was worth a try.  Diego steeled himself with a deep, quiet breath, forcing himself to appear the picture of concern, and not the bundle of nerves he really was.

“Victoria, are you alright?”

She only looked back at him, eyes which had been swimming in laughter and happiness only an hour ago now glazed with tears.  “I figured it out last night,” she murmured, voice tight, “after you left.”  And as much as Diego hated himself right now, he offered once last effort to refute what he knew in his soul she meant.

“Figured out what?”

“Don’t,” she breathed, finally looking up at him, her gaze meeting his evenly.  Finally.  “All this time… you’ve – you’re… you’ve lied for years, please don’t lie to me now.”

So much for that.  Victoria wasn’t going to be dissuaded.  This was happening, and even if he wanted to, Diego couldn’t lie to her so blatantly, not when she was looking at him like that.  Not after everything she’d endured these last few weeks.  He let out a long, slow, quiet exhale, tilting his head forward sharply, once.

“Yes.”

She blinked, incredulous.  “Yes?  That’s all you have to say?”

“Victoria - ”

“Why?” Tears were giving way to anger now.  “Why do this?  Why hide yourself and lie to everyone?  Why not fight the alcalde and the government as you are, as a de la Vega, with all the power and prestige and sway your family has with the governor, the Royal Family?”

“Because my father had done that for years and it hadn’t worked,” Diego answered plainly.  “The alcalde and those above him work outside the law.  Anyone who was going to fight them and be successful had to be willing to do the same.”

Victoria pushed past him, raking her fingers through her hair.  “Does he know?”

“My father?” Diego shook his head.  “No.  He doesn’t.  I didn’t tell him or you - for your own safety.  To protect you both.”

“And Felipe?”

Diego remained silent.

“So, you didn’t tell me, the woman you supposedly love and whom you asked to marry you,” Victoria looked at him incredulously, her voice rising, “and you didn’t tell your father, who has been fighting the alcalde since before your return because you wanted to protect us, but you told a child?”

Diego briefly thought about asking her to keep it down but thought better of it in the end.  He wasn’t suicidal.  And the hacienda’s walls were thick, at least.  Hopefully they’d contain the conversation to the sala.

“Felipe idolizes you!  He worships the ground you walk on, Diego! He - ” Her eyes widened.  “Dios, he’s been helping you, hasn’t he?  You’ll ‘protect’ me and your father, but Felipe, you’ll put him in danger?”

“Victoria, please -” Diego barely choked out the plea, but it fell on deaf ears as she stalked towards him.  Any sadness that had been present in the beginning was now replaced with pure, indignant fury.

“And me?  Was that all a game to you?” Victoria was practically seething, and Diego was close enough to see that her eyes were welling.  “Stealing a few minutes with me in my kitchen, or in the plaza after you’d had your fun with the alcalde and his soldiers, was that just convenience for you?  Don Diego de la Vega, the richest landowner in California couldn’t possibly love a tavern owner, but Zorro the Outlaw could - !”

“No.” Diego swore over her distraught gasps, and now he did not hesitate to grab onto her shoulders, a desperate play to get her to calm down, to listen.  “Never, Victoria.  Never.  It was never a game for me when it came to you, and you were certainly never a… a convenience,” he spat.  “Please, Victoria… I know you’re angry right now, but please believe me when I tell you that everything I feel for you – as Diego and as Zorro – is very, very real.”

In the span of a few seconds, it all stopped.  Perhaps it was a combination of the stress she’d been under the last few weeks, no sleep, and her recent discovery, but as Diego held Victoria, he saw the fight go out of her just before her eyes rolled back and she halfway collapsed against him.

She’d fainted.

With zero hesitation, Diego slid one arm around her shoulders and dipped her to the side. Scooping his other arm beneath her knees, he lifted her easily, carefully.  Victoria didn’t stir, just lulled her head against his shoulder, her outer arm dangling in the air.  Quietly, Diego carried her towards the guest wing of the hacienda, slipping into the first room with hardly a sound and depositing Victoria gently on the mattress.  He reached for the lamp on the nightstand and slowly turned the flame up to a soft dull glow, then crossed to the door to shut it.

And now, sometime later, here he sat, chin resting on clasped hands balanced on elbows that were propped on his legs, staring at the woman he loved while she lay in a bed in a guestroom of his home, feeling as confused as he’d ever felt and wondering, not for the first time, if he’d made the right decision in donning the identify of Zorro in the first place.

Chapter Text

Her head hurt.

That was the first thought that floated hazily between her ears as Victoria’s eyes fluttered open and she groggily took in her surroundings.  She felt sluggish, and her mouth may as well have had cotton in it for all she knew.

The room was mostly dark, save for a gentle glow of light.  Tilting her head to the side, she saw the source sitting on the bedside dresser.  She closed her eyes again.

Victoria didn’t know exactly where she was, but she knew where she’d been and she knew that this wasn’t her bedroom at the tavern, so realistically, that left only one option; she was still at the de la Vega hacienda.  She released a deep sigh and swallowed as the memories from the evening came flooding back.

Seeing Diego’s mother’s wedding ring in the portrait.  Confronting him.  Interrogating him.  Practically accusing him of playing with her heart the way he played cat and mouse with the garrison’s soldiers and Ignacio de Soto.  Victoria remembered the anger, the indignation she’d felt making that allegation from Diego; truth be told, she hadn’t really intended for that charge to slip out, but she’d been so shocked at having been proven right that the words had escaped before she could stop them.  Most of all, she’d seen the unvarnished pain in his eyes that she could ever think such a thing about him.  She shoved down the guilt that swelled in her throat at that memory as another one came to mind.

Learning that Felipe had known the entire time had shaken her.  A child.  Nearly a man grown now, yes, but a teenager all the same, and certainly too young to be a part of such things years ago when Zorro had first appeared.  What had Diego been thinking, involving him in this life?  How could he not comprehend the danger that put Felipe in?  It was one thing for Diego to take on the identity of Zorro, to plot against the alcalde and taunt the lancers, to flout the authority of the Governor and the Crown, but it was another thing entirely to involve someone who was entirely dependent upon him, and who had grown up in the de la Vega home.  There was nothing Felipe wouldn’t do for Diego, and Diego had to know that.

Don Alejandro was a completely different matter.  Victoria had no idea how Diego had managed for so many years to play two completely different people right under his father’s nose and never be suspected by the de la Vega patriarch.  Then again, Victoria had kissed Diego as Zorro multiple times for the past few years, and she hadn’t seen it until yesterday.

God, she’d – all these years, every time it had been Zorro taking her in his arms, it had been Diego.  His embrace that had made her feel so safe, his mouth that had spoken such pretty words and kissed her, passionate and sweet and everything in between.  It would be Diego, cloaked in a black mask, who would appear in her kitchen late at night, often to check on her and make sure she was alright, but sometimes just to see her, to spend time with her.  She didn’t know what to think of Diego now. 

And it was for that reason that she needed to get herself together and leave the hacienda.  Immediately. 

Victoria inhaled some courage, brushed her hair back from her eyes, and pushed herself up, looking around the dimly lit room only to find the object of her thoughts looking back at her.

Victoria didn’t know how long she stared at him, or he at her.  It felt like a lifetime.  He looked so… wary.  And concerned.  She wanted to believe contrite, too.  She could’ve sworn she could trace lines of regret around the crow’s feet of his eyes.  But they were in this situation now because of him, because of the unilateral choices he’d made since coming home all that time ago.

“How do you feel?”

Diego’s question startled her into action.  Swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress, she pushed herself to stand, smoothing her skirt as she did so.  “I’m fine,” she murmured, moving towards the door.  “I need to return to the tavern.”

“Victoria, it’s gone past midnight,” Diego followed her to his feet, the calm in his tone slightly forced and she could hear the underlying thread of fear there, afraid that if she left, he’d never see her again.  Victoria couldn’t blame him for that – she could hardly look at him in the moment. 

“Stay here for the evening,” he implored her, “we can have the wagon ready at first light if you wish, but I’d feel better if you didn’t travel - ”

She straightened up, her anger sparked yet again.  How dare he.  “You’d feel better?”

“…at night.” Diego finished dumbly, physically and visibly deflating before her indignant eyes, his usual sure and confident demeanor nowhere to be found in the foreboding shadows cast by the low lamp light.  He was nearer to the door than she was though, so Victoria stayed where she was.  She couldn’t be close to him, not right now.  Her soul was too raw, heart too wounded to allow him the usual privilege of proximity to her he enjoyed.

“What can I do?” Diego finally asked, voice hoarse, his expression pleading, apologetic.  “Victoria - ”

“I don’t know, Diego.”

It was the truth.  Victoria had no idea how to fix this.  Honestly, she didn’t know if it could be fixed.  She couldn’t unknow what she now knew.  She couldn’t forget the first surge of emotion that had rocked her when she realized what she was seeing looking back at her in his mother’s portrait - that it was the same ring nestled safely in her hope chest, because Diego had given it to her as Zorro. 

But most of all, Victoria could not forget that the man who stood in front of her now, who had portrayed himself for years as mild and cautious, more inclined to diplomacy and negotiation than combat and war, who always seemed like he would’ve rather spent an afternoon in his library reading or writing poetry or composing music than sparring with swords or running the family ranch, had also stood in front of her numerous times dressed all in black, a mask concealing his face from the world.  From her. 

He’d fought the alcalde, both Luis Ramón and Ignacio de Soto, as Zorro.  He’d delivered defeat after embarrassing defeat to the garrison’s soldiers, thwarted bank robbers and cowed spoiled nobles and found missing children as Zorro.  Not as Diego.

He’d smiled at her as Zorro.  Had kissed her hand and taken her in his arms as Zorro.  Had kissed her with abandon and vowed whispered words of his love and loyalty to her, and had finally asked her to be his wife, all as Zorro.  Not as Diego.

Never as Diego. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Victoria’s thin whisper barely carried in the space between them.  She audibly swallowed a heavy lump in her throat.  “I – I don’t know you, Diego.  Everything I thought you were, everything I thought you believed - that’s all changed.  The man I thought I knew… he doesn’t exist.”

She could tell her words were breaking him, syllable by syllable.  The shadows of the room, dark as it was, couldn’t hide the clenching of his jaw, or his rigid posture, or the suspicious gleam reflecting in his eyes from the little light that shone.  It was the same reflection she was sure he saw in her own.  Because Victoria was breaking, too, inside and out, and she didn’t know how to piece herself, or them, or the future she’d waited so long and hoped so hard to have, back together.

The silence stretched on, and the longer it went, the more distance Victoria felt between her and Diego.  They may have been just a few feet apart, but it may as well have been miles.  Just when she was sure the tension was going to reach its pitch, the stranger in front of her spoke.  “Very well,” Diego relented.  He moved stiffly to the door and opened it.  “Shall I bring the wagon around?”

Victoria peered outside the door, the hallway yawning outside.  He was standing beside it, but he was giving her leave to go if she so chose.  For some reason, the dark corridor that waited for her seemed more imposing than it actually was.  And as betrayed as she felt, common sense dictated that anyone stay off the roads in the middle of the night, especially a woman traveling alone.

“I will leave in the morning.” Victoria took a step back towards the bed, crossing her arms over her chest.  She was cold suddenly, though she was sure the shiver that tore through her had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

Diego only nodded.  He looked as if he wanted to say something else but decided against it, choosing to shuffle himself over the threshold and close the door behind him without a word.  Victoria didn’t hear anything afterwards and she knew Diego was standing at the door just on the other side.  Whether he was gathering himself or hoping she would call out for him to come back she didn’t know, but eventually, at last, his feet scuffed against the polished floor, heading away from her room, and she knew he was gone.

Finally, Victoria let the tears fall.

Z

The hidden laboratory had always been a solace for him, a source of comfort and security.  Diego could puzzle out all kinds of problems and mysteries there, what with his test tubes and beakers and tools, the books he’d used and bought during his university days, and the various flora and other earthy substances he’d taken for samples.

Now, however, the laboratory felt more like a tomb of secrets, an oppressive arc that threatened to wreck more of his life every time he opened the door from the library or scuttled in through the cave from the outside.

Diego had seen Victoria angry before.  The woman practically invented the emotion.  Depending on what fired her up, her temper could be gone in a flash or it could simmer for days, even weeks on end.  He knew; he’d watched it happen before.

But it had never been him who had been the target of her ire.  And this was worse, because Victoria hadn’t been angry, at least not the kind of angry that Diego was accustomed to seeing.

She was disappointed.  Sad.  Confused.

Betrayed.

Diego shrugged out of his Caballero’s jacket and when it didn’t come off as easily as he liked, he ripped it off, one sleeve then the other, and violently chucked it across the room.  It landed in a heap near Toronado, who flicked an ear but otherwise didn’t give any hint that he cared about the fit his rider was having.

How had Diego let it get this far?  How had he allowed this farce to go on for so long?  He slumped down in the chair at one of his lab stations, holding his head in his hands.

The answer was somewhat obvious - it was just normal, now.  Diego had gotten used to living a double life, to appearing above conflict, studious, and devoted to the arts and sciences as himself, and dashing off at a moment’s notice to save the day as Zorro.  When he’d first started this charade, he’d never dreamed that so many years would pass where he was still riding into the night to thwart evil people trying to do evil things.

But here he was.

His eyes drifted to one of the many beakers filled with all kinds of liquids, his reflection looking back at him.

Who are you?

Victoria had said that she didn’t know him, didn’t know who he was.  When she’d said it, Diego had been struck dumb.  How could she say such a thing?  Of course she knew who he was; they’d grown up together, had shared many a meal with one another, not to mention dreams and fears and their true feelings about the Spanish / Californian government and its inner workings, and everything in between… the very idea that Victoria could allow such a statement to pass her lips had shocked him.  But now, as Diego stared at the tired and defeated expression looking back at him, he found himself repeating her words.

“Who are you?” he murmured quietly.  Cowed blue eyes looked back at him, shame etched into every pore and wrinkle on his face.  Before tonight, he thought he knew.  Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Diego covered his eyes with a hand.  He hadn’t cried since Sir Edmund’s murder a few years back, but that record died as the first tear shed and rolled down his cheek, trailed by many more as he sat in the cave, feeling truly alone and rudderless for the first time since he’d returned from university.

Z

The days that followed were some of the most excruciating ones of Diego’s life, and that was saying something, all things considered.

By the time he emerged from the cave the morning after Victoria had confronted him, he’d discovered that the tavern owner had left practically just after sunrise, according to Felipe.  As much as he wanted to do otherwise, Diego tamped down on the instinct to order Esperanza saddled and ride into town.  Rash decisions were the absolute last thing that would help him right now.

He spent the remainder of the day busying himself in the cave, toying with tests and projects long forgotten or put to the side because of his duty to the mask, and only emerged for dinner with his father.  Alejandro prattled on about cattle costs and how the rancho was in dire need of rain.  Diego played along well enough with an appropriate nod here and an engaging “mhm” there, but he’d never been more glad for a meal to be over and to be able to excuse himself than he was that evening.

The second day was spent much like the first, except not among his experiments but outside on horseback tending to various duties around the rancho.  He helped birth a calf (a decidedly messy affair, but Diego couldn’t let the calf or his mother die), repair a hole in the barn’s roof (the vaqueros had never seen him scale a wall but there was a first time for everything), organized a new tool and equipment storage system (he hated clutter), and sent the vaqueros out to inspect the status of various parcels and report their needs back (he inspected one as well, but he was only one man).

The third day was the same.

By the fourth day, Alejandro, who’d been shocked at his son’s sudden shift in interest to ranching duties and even more so that Diego had risen earlier than he that morning and was already out and about doing who knew what, saddled Dulcinea and rode into the pueblo.  Tying the steed to the hitching post just outside the tavern, Alejandro pushed his way through the doors and looked around. 

It was early yet, not even past nine o’clock, so he didn’t expect much in the way of customers other than a few garrison soldiers taking advantage of anything Victoria may have made for breakfast. 

Speaking of the owner, he caught her behind the bar, meticulously cleaning some glasses with a cloth, and held up his hand in a wave.  “Buenos Dias, Victoria!”

“Oh… Buenos Dias, Don Alejandro,” Victoria flashed a quick smile at him, but Alejandro could tell immediately it was lacking its usual warmth.  Another bad night then.  Inwardly, he sighed and wished not for the first time that she would take him up on his offer to stay at the hacienda for a few days.  But she insisted on staying at the tavern most nights, excepting a few evenings ago, and neither he nor Diego had been able to dissuade her from that decision.

Alejandro stepped up to the bar and nodded when Victoria held up a pitcher of orange juice in offering.  “I was wondering if you’d seen Diego at all the past couple of days?”

Victoria’s grip on the pitcher wavered, and juice spilled over the lip of the glass onto the counter.  Alejandro frowned.  “Victoria, are you alright?”

“Yes!” She grabbed for a towel and began to clean up the mess.  “Yes, just fine, just, um… didn’t sleep very well last night and I had to wake up earlier than usual this morning.”

Alejandro watched her wipe up the juice and then continue to polish the bar underneath it.  “He’s just been a little… odd, recently – willingly riding around the rancho, performing some of the maintenance duties, I don’t think I’ve seen him pick up one of his books in days…”

Victoria still wasn’t looking at him.  “Maybe he’s sick?”

“Well,” the man scoffed good naturedly, “if he is sick, he certainly had more than enough energy to scale the barn and patch the roof two days ago.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Alejandro’s eyebrows knitted together.  “Victoria, is something wrong?”

“No, no, Don Alejandro.”  Her voice was insistent, but once again, the expression on her face didn’t match the words she was saying.  Alejandro watched her for a few more quiet moments.  Felicidad may not have been able to give him a daughter before she died, but Alejandro had been married to the woman for years, and one of the many lessons the sacrament of marriage had taught him was when to recognize when his wife was angry, either with him or about something else. 

Gaze averted.  Distracted.  Short responses.  Check, check, and check, Victoria exhibited all those.  Alejandro cleared his throat in a manner that conveyed his expectations.

“Victoria, look at me.”

Victoria stopped mid wipe of the towel.  He watched her gather herself and after a few seconds, she lifted her gaze enough to meet the old Don’s.

“What happened?” Alejandro asked gently.

He could tell she was prepared to say ‘nothing’, to deny that there was anything wrong, or even to use the excuse that she’d been using for the past month and blame Barcaro’s attack on her, but the denial died before he could even hear it. 

“We just… had an argument, that is all.”

“An argument,” Alejandro deadpanned.  “Well, this argument has got him spooking the vaqueros.  They’ve seen him more in the last couple of days than they have in all the years he’s lived here!  What did you argue about?”  Of all the reactions Victoria could’ve had to his question, Alejandro didn’t expect the panic that settled in her features.

“I – it’s…”

He waited.  Alejandro had the patience of a saint when required.  Tending to a rancho as large as the de la Vega property while raising a son on his own, and then later a deaf and mute ward taught one quite a bit of patience.  To a point.

“Well?”

“I am sorry, Don Alejandro,” Victoria muttered at last.  “It’s something between Diego and myself.”

“I see,” Alejandro tapped a finger on the bar a few times in thought.  “Well.  I’m sure you will let me know if I need to set my son’s feet firmly back on the ground?  You know how he can get his head lost in the clouds.”  When all he got was a half-hearted nod in return, he knocked his knuckles against the bar top.  “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

“Of course,” another forced smile and Alejandro found he couldn’t stick around for another one.  He gave his goodbyes to Victoria and left the tavern far quicker than he would’ve imagined.

An argument between Diego and Victoria.  Not just an argument – it must’ve been a fight.  Diego and Victoria had argued about plenty in the past, but they’d never gone out of their way to avoid each other, and that was exactly what was happening now, Alejandro was sure of it.  It certainly explained Diego’s desire to stay at the rancho and preoccupy himself with farm work, and why Victoria had been so reluctant to answer any questions. 

But, women are like that, Alejandro sighed as he untethered Dulcinea from her post and hopped back on her.  When Felicidad wanted to keep something to herself, it stayed with her until she was good and ready to talk about it. 

And that was alright.  Alejandro pointed Dulcinea in the direction of home, galloping towards Diego, and hopefully some answers as well.

Z

“If Victoria didn’t tell you, what makes you think I’m going to?”

“Because you’re my son, and I’m your father, and I’m asking you; that is why!”

The first thing Alejandro had done when he’d gotten home was search for Diego.  He found his son outside in the garden doing something that was at least vaguely familiar – pruning plants.  But if he thought he was going to get an easy answer out of his son, he’d sorely misjudged his opponent.  They were a half hour into this discussion, and Diego had stood firm; this argument, whatever it had been between he and Victoria, was exactly that – between them.

“She’s already angry with me, Father.  What do you think me gossiping to you about something she herself was not willing to talk about will do?  It certainly won’t help!”

“Neither will avoiding it, son,” Alejandro gave him a pointed glare.  Whatever it was his son and Victoria had fought about was affecting them both deeply.  “If you let allow this fight to continue, if you refuse to discuss it, to confront it, it will ruin your friendship.”

“She needs time,” Diego muttered.  “And that is exactly what I am going to give her.”

Alejandro shook his head, throwing up his hands.  “I give up.  Both of you are the two most stubborn people in all of California, and that, Son, is saying quite a lot.”  He headed back towards the house but stopped and turned around at the last moment.

“I’ll leave you with one piece of advice – the longer you let whatever it is you disagreed about sit, the more space you give her, the greater the possibility that when you both come around to speaking again, neither of you will recognize the other.”

Diego heard the door to the hacienda open and shut, leaving him blessedly alone and with his own thoughts.  Pruners still in hand, he returned to his task, clearing away deadened leaves and blooms and allowing the healthy buds to unfurl.

He was gratified to know that Victoria wasn’t so furious with him that she would willingly out his secret to his own father.  Of course, Diego knew she never would, no matter how livid she was with him, but still, it was a nice feeling to have after feeling nothing but anger since the last time he’d seen her.

And he was angry.  At himself, for letting things go so far with Zorro, for not having the foresight early on to see what keeping this secret could do to the people he loved, for not understanding what it could cost him. 

He was furious at Luis Ramón and Ignacio de Soto, because if they had simply been honorable, decent men who governed the people under their care with compassion and respect there never would’ve been a need for Zorro in the first place.

And, yes, he was angry with Victoria.  She felt betrayed by him?  Well, he wasn’t feeling particularly supported by her either. 

He’d told her.  He’d told her!

Diego didn’t know how he could’ve said his fear any plainer to her when she’d insisted that afternoon in the cave for him to remove his mask; that if she discovered who he truly was, she would still be in love with Zorro, and not him – the flesh and blood man beneath the cowl.  Not to mention he’d told her what her not being able to love him – Diego – back, would do to him.

Turns out I was right, he thought darkly, snapping a dying stem off the rose bush currently at the mercy of his shears and tossing it carelessly to the side. 

He felt completely abandoned, like his guiding star had fallen from the sky leaving him blind to where he was going or even which direction he should attempt.  Diego had no idea where to go from here, absolutely zero idea of what to do.  The person he would find those answers with was in the pueblo and hadn’t reached out to him since she’d left, and it didn’t sound as if she had any plans to do so anytime in the near future.  There were certainly no messages from his father of her missing him or wanting to see him. 

And what she’d said about Felipe!  Diego understood her ire against him (to a point), but to imply that he willingly put Felipe in danger?  She talked about Felipe as if he didn’t have a choice in anything, like the boy was just his poor, mute, ward at Diego’s beck and call.  Truth be told, Zorro would’ve perished long ago if it hadn’t been for Felipe’s quick thinking, his loyalty and ingenuity. 

The only charge that inched out being worse than her indictment against him regarding Felipe was the one she’d made about his feelings for her not being genuine.

How could she ever believe that Diego would think of her as a mere convenience?  She may as well have just come right and say that he must’ve thought her some kind of strumpet! 

No, he hadn’t been honest with her about being Zorro, and yes, he’d pretended to be different as Diego in order to do what he needed to do for the people of Los Angeles as Zorro, but how she could make the leap from that to accusing him of lying to her about loving her the entire time was just plain crazy.  Navigation had never been Diego’s strong suit at university, but Magellan himself wouldn’t be able to chart a course to explain how she’d drawn that conclusion.

Diego had never set out to woo her as Zorro, was the thing.  From the first day he’d arrived back in Los Angeles and seen her in the tavern he’d been smitten.  Victoria was so different from the women he’d known back in Madrid – well, most of them at any rate, as his mind flashed to his brief and failed engagement with Zafira. 

Victoria Escalante wasn’t meek, or delicate, and she didn’t entertain people who showed themselves to brutes or fools.  Victoria commanded respect and attention wherever she went, and she knew how to use what voice and power she did have to get results.  Admittedly, simply as a matter of fact, she didn’t have nearly as much as his family, or even the lesser Caballero families of Los Angeles, but that’s what made her all the more impressive to him; because she knew that, and she didn’t care.

In all truth, the moment he’d kissed her hand and met her eyes upon the first day he’d returned and his father had taken him to the tavern, Diego had been lost to her, completely. 

Never had he anticipated pursuing her as Zorro.  He never even conceived of working outside the rules of the law until Ramón had arrested his father and Victoria, and had thrown them both in jail.  Diego had known in that moment that the problem of the government in Los Angeles was not going to fix itself in the usual way, and so he became The Fox.  And as Zorro, he was able to go places and have conversations and behave in ways he never would’ve allowed himself to as Diego.

…like visiting the woman who owned his heart in her tavern after hours, stealing time (and passions) alone with her, in violation of every protocol a man of his breeding should adhere to.

Sighing, now uncomfortably hot and sweaty from the stifling heat, Diego tossed the shears on the ground and planted his hands on his hips, breathing heavily.  He felt defeated, and that was not a feeling he was accustomed to and certainly never one he would accept.  He was a tangled web of shame and anger, and there was no way he would find a solution to the problem that he, admittedly, created so long as those emotions ruled over him.  But without having Victoria to turn to, to see, to simply watch move between tables and behind her bar in her tavern and know that she was there… he had no idea where to begin to fix what was broken.