Spoilers: Major spoilers for the events of the movie.

Disclaimer: I still don't own Coco, but Ernesto is insisting on hanging around for now. I'll happily give him back when I'm done. ;)

A/N: After re-watching some clips from the film recently, I couldn't help but wonder about how the poisoned drink scene wound up in Ernesto's movie, and this little plot bunny hopped along. :)

As always, I also thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.

Confessions

1936

Ernesto de la Cruz had never enjoyed meetings. He'd always thought of himself as a man of action, and sitting and talking, no matter how important the subject was, had simply never appealed to him.

But, he had a meeting today. It was, as so many things were, a necessary evil.

When he'd made his first few movies, he'd still been quite new to the industry. His fame in the music world certainly helped, but being a successful singer hadn't immediately meant that he would be successful in front of a camera, at least, not in the eyes of those making the films. Ernesto himself had always known that he would be a success, of course. But the producers and directors had needed to see his skill for themselves, needed proof that the audiences would love him as much on a screen as they did on a stage.

Now, however, he had several lucrative projects under his belt, and Ernesto was a bona fide movie star. Better still, he was helping to finance this film, El Camino a Casa, which gave him even more control behind the scenes...though that controlling interest meant he had to sit in on meetings while they finalized the script.

It was always rather dull, but nonetheless, he stood and offered his best smile as a group of three writers, two other producers, and the director and his assistant filtered into the studio's meeting room. (The room itself wasn't much to look at – it had beige colored walls, a large, oval table, and a simple wooden floor, but a pretty, little señorita had brought him a drink while he waited, and she had told him, with a sultry smile, to ask if he wanted anything else. Ernesto planned to find her again later.)

Ernesto made a point of greeting the other producers as they passed him – you never knew when such connections might come in handy – and clearly, the director, Alejandro, was thinking along similar lines because he stopped to shake Ernesto's hand. He was a suave-looking man, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit coat with pleated trousers, accented with a matching gold tie and folded handkerchief in his pocket.

"Always an honor to work with you, señor," Alejandro said.

Ernesto's smile widened, and he patted the other man on the back, then poured on the charm with his assistant as well, telling her she looked lovely. The mousy woman blushed faintly at the attention, and clutching a spiral notebook to her chest, she hurried over to her seat at the table.

It wasn't long before Ernesto and the others followed her, and the director wasted no time getting the meeting started.

"Well," Alejandro began, "when we last met, we approved everything up to Act 2, scene 3. What do you have for us today, Manuel?"

Manuel, the head writer, was a small man, with his dark hair slicked back and parted on one side, and wire frame glasses perched on his nose. He readjusted his glasses with one hand and flipped through the copy of the script in front of him until he reached the page he wanted.

"As we all know," Manuel said, "at the beginning of Act 2, Diego's father dies. Naturally, he leaves everything to his son, Diego, our hero."

He nodded at Ernesto, who straightened up in his chair automatically, graciously tipping his head in answer.

"In Act 2, scene 3, we learn that there's a rumor in town about the estate. Supposedly, hidden among Diego's father's possessions is a map showing the location of a secret cache of Aztec gold...some of Montezuma's lost treasure."

Ernesto's eyebrows rose faintly. That was certainly a twist. A treasure like that... He couldn't help but ponder the possibilities if something like that actually existed.

"Diego doesn't believe it himself," the writer continued. "His father's lawyer doesn't know anything about it, and his father never mentioned anything about a map to him. But Diego's father came from old money, and there had always been whispers about the family. Don Hidalgo is convinced that it's true...and he wants that map more than anything in the world. He would give anything...do anything...to have it."

Ernesto's right hand twitched; he moved it below the table and curled it into a fist.

Who could blame the man, really? Who wouldn't want such riches? (Who wouldn't want greatness?)

"Diego, on the other hand," the writer continued, "refuses to even look for it among his father's things. Don Hidalgo doesn't understand what he could be thinking. How could he have such a priceless treasure, such a gift, and simply let it go to waste?"

Ernesto grit his teeth, feeling a muscle along his jaw twitch too. That was the question, wasn't it? (Hector, who had all but breathed music, had cared so little for his own gift. He would have wasted his songs in Santa Cecilia.)

"It's at this point that Don Hidalgo realizes, if he's going to get that map, he'll have to get rid of Diego."

Ernesto's gaze dropped down to the table in front of him, unseeing. Greatness, true, greatness, came with a price. You had to be willing to pay it. (Ernesto had been.)

"It's not an easy decision. Diego is his oldest friend. They're like brothers. But-"

The words slipped from Ernesto without a thought: "It's the only way he can get what he wants."

Manuel nodded enthusiastically. "Si, exactly! So, he takes a gun and-"

"No!" Ernesto said, already shaking his head. "No, no, no, no. He wouldn't do it like that."

The writer looked over at him, puzzled. "Then...how would he do it?"

"Poison."

"Poison, señor?"

Ernesto nodded, moving to rest his elbows on the table; he folded his hands in front of his face, stroking his upper lip with his right thumb. "Si, poison. It's easier to hide. And just as effective if you use enough."

"I could see that," another one of the other writers agreed thoughtfully. (Ernesto could never remember his name. He just wasn't important.) "If you put it in something with a strong flavor, it would hide the taste...but what would he put it in?"

"Tequila," Ernesto said immediately.

"How would he get him to drink it?" Alejandro wondered.

Ernesto snorted faintly. "Simple. He'd offer a toast. To their friendship. 'I'd move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo.' He'd never suspect anything, either. Why would he? He's too trusting. Always has been."

Ernesto realized distantly that the room around him had abruptly fallen silent, but he paid little attention, his mind far away, lost in a dingy hotel room back in 1921.

"It wouldn't be so bad. He'd make it quick for his old amigo. What other choice could there be? After everything...a gift like that, and he was just going to throw it away! Let it rot...like it meant nothing!" Ernesto's hands came down hard on the table as he shook his head again. "No! No, he wouldn't let that happen. It should be his!"

A soft gasp from the director's assistant drew him back to the present. The others were all staring at him uneasily, their eyes wide.

Ernesto smiled broadly, offering them a wink. "That's what Don Hidalgo would think, of course."

Just like that, the spell was broken, and the room filled with relieved laughter. Everyone's attention quickly returned to the script.

"It's perfect," the head writer said as he reached for a pencil and began eagerly scribbling notes in the script's margins. "You really are as brilliant as they say, señor."

Ernesto leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

Indeed, he was, he thought, nodding to himself. Indeed, he was.

Fin

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!

Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)