Chapter Text
Isabelle knew they needed to go when Ricardo twitched in almost-sleep against them on the couch. They had stopped paying attention to whatever was playing on TV a long time ago, and had rather focused on trying to convince themself that the path they were on was the right one. The more time they spent here, with him, with the Rangers, anything that brought them too close to who they once were, the more their anger seeped out of them. The entire evening was reason enough to run away. So they poked him in the ribs.
“You’re falling asleep, old man,” they teased.
Ricardo scoffed. His hair was still a mess—Isabelle had to hold back from running their hands in it all over again. But…they didn’t have to do that anymore, right? Hold back? With an elbow on the back of the couch, their hand sank into Ricardo’s hair, soft and bouncy against the skin of their palm.
“It’s like 4am,” he croaked, leaning his head back into Isabelle’s touch. “Can you blame me?”
Isabelle blushed inadvertently as their mind went back a few hours and recalled certain…activities.
“Um, yes?”
That got him laughing for real.
“Alright, you win that one.”
Just by the look in his eyes, Isabelle knew what would come next. He hovered close, gaze darting to their lips, but leaving just enough space for them to flee. It would piss them off if it wasn’t so painfully considerate. They accepted the kiss, but firmly held Ricardo back from going any further—again.
“I have to go,” they sighed. They didn’t even have to pretend to be disappointed.
“So you’ve said before, and here we are,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows.
“No, I really have to.”
The smile Ricardo got was hard-won as Isabelle pushed themself up from the couch and walked to the door of the apartment, pretending their heart wasn’t still back there, with him.
“Oh, wait—I’ll be back in a sec,” Ricardo bolted from the couch and ran to the bedroom. Isabelle picked up the frantic opening and closing of drawers while they stood awkwardly alone. What the hell was he going to bring them?
“Ortega, if this is an autographed photo or something—”
Whatever snarky comment they were about to make died on their lips when Ricardo returned and they saw the look on his face. Worried, vulnerable. His hands were cupping something that seemed as fragile as an injured bird. He smiled, though his eyes were too sad for it to reach them, and took a deep breath.
“I, uh—we went to empty your apartment, since—well. There wasn’t much, but I…found this.” Ricardo opened his hands to reveal a worn rosary. “It seemed important to you, so…”
“Oh,” their voice was doing something funny, like it was getting trapped in cobwebs. “You kept it…”
Isabelle had cried enough (not cried, they had made an effort to stop tears from actually falling) for one night, but could not help their eyes from getting misty. Religion was not taught at the Farm, of course it wasn’t; it would have been stupid to believe in any of that when they were a thing created in a lab, which they were pretty sure went against the whole God thing. Still, their memories of the childhood that didn’t belong to them had overridden that bit of programming. At least for a time.
a dress with a scratchy lace collar
glimpses of colourful stained glass
tracking the Roman numerals of the Way of the Cross
the aftertaste of communion wine
They knew it wasn’t for them. They were never that child.
And yet, when Ricardo released the rosary in their palm, a strange and overwhelming sense of peace settled their nerves. That was also bad. They were supposed to tear down everything that had ever caused them harm. Instead, they were going to therapy, and spending time with Ricardo, and reconnecting with a faith that was never theirs to begin with—and finding comfort in that?
“Bel?”
They didn’t flinch when Ricardo, with his index under their chin, angled their head up to look at him. Did he wipe a tear from their cheek?
“I have to go,” they said again, though this time their voice cracked, and carried no conviction. Ricardo seemed to deflate. The static of his mind grew even cloudier with emotion.
“You don’t have to,” he coaxed. His hand settled at the back of Isabelle’s neck, and his pinky found the edge of a scar, right at their hairline. “You can stay. Please stay.”
Isabelle shook their head and regretted it immediately because the motion dislodged more tears.
“Thank you for holding on to this for me,” they whispered before wrenching themself away from Ricardo and his embrace, his warm hands, his kisses, his stupid kind eyes.
“Of course,” he replied, patient to a fault whenever it came to Isabelle. Apparently.
Isabelle unceremoniously dropped the rosary in one of their pants’ many pockets before grabbing their shoes. Putting them on never took longer than it did now, with Ricardo watching their every move, clearly seconds away from reaching for them again. They couldn’t let that happen, else all their resolve would most definitely crumble away—whatever remained of it.
“Text me when you get home?” Ricardo pleaded more than asked.
“I’ll be fine.” They had to clear their throat for the words to come out.
“I know, just—”
They kissed him to make it stop and left before he could say anything else.
The cold air outside should have helped, but they were fairly sure nothing could, at this point. The whole night replayed in their mind, over and over again. Years. Ricardo had kept this cheap plastic rosary they probably had stolen for years. Where had he stored it? Did he forget about it as soon as it was out of his sight? Did he ever pull it out? He still had that stupid mug, so—
Stop it. Stop that. Stop thinking about him.
Isabelle shook their head, hard enough to be dizzy after. Enough distractions. Though they pretended to not think about any of it anymore, their cheeks were wet with tears all the way home.