A/N: I don't tumbl. I am not a tumblr-er. But goshdarnit if Gravepainters doesn't make me change my mind. Dedicated to MissEmmaLights who inadvertently plagued me with such a rabid plot bunny that this happened. My everlasting gratitude to Senor del Toro the Great and Powerful, Jorge Gutierrez the Mighty, and their armada of incomparably-talented artists including the fantastic Ron Perlman and Kate de Castillo, without whom this movie would never have happened. Soundtrack: When I Dream At Night – Marc Anthony.

Real Life

He woke in a cold sweat for the third time that week, mid-gasp, his sheets soaked and tangled like used towels around his skeletal limbs. For a moment all he could do was stare, bewildered, at his midnight-colored canopy, feeling the last fleeting sparks of warmth and ecstasy scamper away down his fingertips.

Then he dug his palms into his eyes and howled.

The third time that week, the sixth time that month, ever-increasing in frequency and intensity, and for the love of all things Aboveworld and Below, he couldn't understand why. Why was this happening to him now? What had changed? And, most importantly, how was he ever going to fix it?

He hadn't slept a true, deep, uninterrupted sleep in over a month now, that sleep to which he had grown so blissfully accustomed since before time began, and his nerves were starting to fray. He snapped at the souls populating his Underworld viciously and often, a thoroughly unsatisfying activity as most of them either cowered away in fear or simply evaporated before his very eyes. He couldn't focus on his reading, he couldn't focus on anything, and even torturing the mortals above had begun to lose its appeal. When—drowsy and driven half-mad by lack of sleep—he had nearly smashed every precious artifact in his library to pieces, simply for the sake of feeling them shatter in his fingers, he finally admitted he had a problem.

Then had begun the great quest to fix said problem. He had consulted scrolls upon scrolls, tried remedies upon remedies, had even counted sheep out of sheer desperation and had made it to 4376 before surrendering and staring, bleary-eyed, at the stalactites on his ceiling.

This was one such night.

Frustrated beyond belief, Xibalba threw the sheets away from his body, tumbling in a tangled heap to the floor as he extricated himself, wings and feathers stuck up in haphazard directions. Tonight was the night. He had had enough of this. He knew from whence all his troubles were stemming, he had slept perfectly soundly until she had moved in upstairs, and this was a problem he was going to rectify.

Only pausing long enough to don a long-sleeved black silk shirt, he vanished in a choking cloud of tar and zipped his way through his high bedroom window, shooting over the ashen canyons and crevices below where lost souls were wandering purposeless through their afterlives. He cornered sharply and deftly, dodging the jagged rocks that shot tooth-like up from the Underworld's floor, and before long he had come to the very border of his lands; a grey, impassible wall of a cliff loomed before him like a stalwart guardian.

But Xibalba didn't hesitate; without losing even a fraction of speed, he dove, angling neatly for a little, unremarkable nook toward the bottom of the cliff, just out of reach from the snowy ground but easily accessible for a winged god. He fit snugly through and found himself in the long, narrow passageway which shimmered at the end with warm, golden light and that led in only one direction: up.

The black ball of tar made short work of the corridor, shooting upward like a bullet and leaving the pale grey chill of the Forgotten Lands behind.

So incensed was he by the lively music, the smell of baking churros, and the general sense of merriment everywhere that by the time he burst through the front doors of her palace he was seething. The Afterlife wasn't supposed to be like this. The Afterlife wasn't supposed to be cheerful. He growled audibly at the thought.

The little calaca standing guard at the entrance, dressed resplendently in immaculately polished armor, made a valiant attempt to stall the dark god, but he was casually kicked aside as though he were no more than a stray dog. With a clattering noise like falling sticks, he burst into bones which rolled to all corners of the foyer, and even as Xibalba stalked his way up the stairs, his skull continued to stubbornly object from where it had landed in a pot full of marigolds.

His objections were deftly ignored. Wings extended and mighty, the Lord of the Underworld cut an imposing, black figure against the cheery vermilion colors of the palace. His vivid green eyes with their black skull pupils were practically flaming, and the candles on his pauldrons blazed like torches. A product of one too many sleepless nights and the dreams they had contained, his unmitigated anger was a force to be reckoned with. No one messed with Xibalba and lived. The rest of the pantheon of gods and goddesses had learned that long ago, and it was only high time that La Muerte, as she called herself, did as well.

When he came to the enormous, wooden doors carved with golden marigolds and smiling skulls, he knew he had found the right place. Mid-step, he slammed his purple two-headed snake staff against the scarlet carpet, and in a burst of green magic the enormous doors flew open wide. He strode through without hesitation, roaring insults and accusations at the top of his voice, his teeth sharp and pointed and his voice lethally deep.

"I must admit, it has been many a long year since anyone has caused me as much pain and anguish as you have, La Muerte, but I'm afraid your time is up, so now is your chance, your one chance, to save yourself and this infernal land from utter destruction. Come clean! Just tell me what spell it was you used, what potion you slipped me at that banquet those two months ago, and I promise you that no harm will come to you, your land, or your subjects. Even though they should rightfully be my subjects. But I suppose I can let bygones be bygones for the moment if you simply name the spe—"

It wasn't until he fully took in the scene that he realized quite what a situation he had found himself in. He was standing in a mahogany sitting room with a high ceiling, a golden chandelier hovering lazily above and casting everything in a gentle, dusky light. At one end of the room was an impressively sized grey stone fireplace, roaring with flames, and at the other end was a balcony framed by tall French doors. Every inch of the floor was carpeted with red, oil paintings lined the walls, and vases of yellow and orange marigolds filled the room with their musky scent. But none of these things were quite what had gained his attention so swiftly and completely.

Indeed, what had suddenly so arrested the god was presently rising gracefully and calmly from one of the plush, scarlet armchairs to the left of the fireplace, a curious—but remarkably fearless—sort of surprise written on her face and a book clasped in her hand. The firelight scintillated in her sugar skin, casting multicolored reflections against the walls that rose and fell hypnotically as she breathed. Atop the table to the left of the chair was a steaming mug of what smelled like chamomile tea.

He stood, rooted to the spot, even as her blazing, ember-like eyes found his and held them, and he suddenly felt as though those eyes could read his thoughts, his very emotions. His knees buckled and he clutched his staff for support, all traces of insults dying on his tongue. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

And that's when he realized another thing. Xibalba's eyes widened.

She was barely dressed.

One long, sheer red nightgown flowed around her to the floor, resting on her curves and pooling at her feet. She wasn't wearing her sombrero, and her hair was not tied at the base of her neck, but flowing like a waterfall of licorice about her face.

She was glorious.

His wings, which had fallen limp the moment he'd entered her chambers, promptly popped out again with a very loud flap.

She merely stared at him. "My king?"

Her words shocked him back into reality more effectively than a bucket of ice water. Clearing his throat and battling the blush he could feel rising gleefully to his cheeks, Xibalba instantly straightened and smoothed his wings back into position, taking the moment to assay a proper course of action.

A gentleman would have turned around and allowed her, prompted her to don anything, something, a robe, at least, a napkin, to make them both more comfortable. But he was no gentleman. And besides, he refused to be flustered by this woman, this creature who had invaded not only his lands but his very dreams.

Dreams that resembled this scene a little too closely, in all honesty. His heart was suddenly pounding. He gulped.

"A-As I was, ah, saying." Coughing, Xibalba straightened still further, and finally clasped his hands behind his back, meeting her innocent stare with a calm, cool one of his own. "La Muerte, I demand to know what you have done to my ability to sleep peacefully through the night."

She blinked, staring at him blankly. He fumed. Ah, so this was how it was going to be? Very well, he could play her little game.

"Oh, come now," he smirked. "You surely didn't think I wouldn't notice? My dear lady, I am the god of manipulation and trickery, at least have the decency to admit what you've done."

She was a marvelous actress. If Xibalba didn't know better, he would have believed she was utterly befuddled. She glanced about the room, tapping her book with one long white finger, before finally meeting his gaze once more, saying slowly, "What, exactly, is it that I am being accused of, my lord?"

The outer traces of amusement were quickly beginning to wear off. He scowled darkly, one hand strangling his staff, the other clenching and unclenching behind his back.

"Out with it, La Muerte. What spell did you use? What charm? What incantation? I know we didn't exactly get off on the right foot when we met again all those months ago, but if I had known what I had said would elicit such a violent response from you—"

Exasperated, La Muerte threw her book into the armchair. "Xibalba, I'm afraid I'm very confused. What have I or have I not done to so offend you that you feel the need to barge in here at this hour of the night—"

He sputtered to defend himself. "I wouldn't have had to barge in here if you hadn't pulled this little stunt in the first place, and I would be oh, so happy to leave if only you would just tell—"

"Tell you what, Xibalba? I have nothing to say to you, I have done nothing to you, and I'm afraid if you persist in this outrageous interrogation, I will be forced to—"

"I can't sleep!"

She froze, mouth agape, staring at him in utter shock as the shout ripped itself from his throat unbidden. Frozen similarly at his sudden confession, Xibalba looked like a statue; his only movement was the infinitesimal twitching of one, baggy eyelid. But he barreled onwards, unstoppable, beyond furious. Had he veins, they would have been popping at his temple.

"Whatever you did to me, I can't sleep. Every night. Every time I try to sleep I can't, my mind is everywhere, all at once, with thoughts of…"

He paused, and she opened her mouth as though to speak. But he wouldn't let her. He forged on ahead.

"And the dreams. When I finally do manage to sleep despite myself, I dream such…such vivid dreams about color, and music, and light, and," he took in a mighty breath, vainly attempting to stop the word before it came out. But come out it did, nevertheless. "And you! I dream of you."

She stared at him, hands limp at her side as though she had forgotten they were there at all, and he struggled to beat back the stubborn blush rising to his cheeks.

"So. Whatever you did, just," he stammered, "undo it. Please. I cannot go on like this, I won't endure it. Or, if you won't undo it, tell me what to do so that I can undo it. The spell. The incantation, the potion, whatever you used, just tell me. Please."

She said nothing. He was beginning to wonder if he had shocked her into speechlessness by his confession.

"At least," he said, meekly, "Would you tell the mariachi band outside to play a little softer?"

Finally, it seemed her stunned brain managed to fully process his words and all that they implied, and in answer her bewildered expression melted away into a glorious smile that lit her fiery eyes like the Sun and made Xibalba's stomach perform several complex feats of gymnastics in rapid succession. Without a word, she turned away, gathered her book, and glided toward the high set of doors that must have led into her bedroom, clearly announcing the conversation was over.

The Lord of the Underworld was flabbergasted. Nobody walked away from him. Ever. "La Muerte—"

"I wish I could help you, Xibalba, but dreams are not one of my specialties." He didn't need to see her face to know she was positively beaming. He could hear it in her voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me," she continued, "I'm going to change."

And even as she spoke she slipped one, white shoulder out of her nightgown to glisten in the light like it was studded with diamonds. Xibalba's throat went dry and his heart, which had only just managed to return to normal rhythm, stopped beating altogether.

La Muerte cast him a coy eye over her shoulder. "Unless you'd like to watch?"

He transformed into his tar-ball without so much as another word, zipping back to the safety of the Underworld and pretending he hadn't noticed her knowing smirk. He lay in bed for the rest of the night, fell asleep only once, and woke himself dreaming of white-sugar skin and red nightgowns.

A/N: To my anonymous reviewers, I wish you had accounts so I could thank you all personally for your encouragement; specifically Impressed, thank you so much! And I promise an update in the near future will definitely feature the Candle Maker…