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Rosita thought she knew fear.
She knew fear when the outbreak started. She knew fear when walkers picked off their group one by one. She knew fear when they were cornered by the fire truck. Rosita is familiar with fear.
But when that truck pulled up and Eugene staggered out with Tara in his arms, crimson blood gushing from her head, Rosita felt fear like she’d never felt in her life. Tara had just looked so limp, so still, so pale and quiet and dead…
Seeing Tara still and limp and quiet just isn’t right. Other people can fade away like that, but Tara can’t. Because Tara is so vibrant and beautiful and full of life, and when Rosita thinks of her, she thinks of a big, ridiculous grin and stupid jokes that Tara laughs at more than anyone else does and a spark of well-meaning mischief gleaming in her chocolate brown eyes.
But now those eyes are closed and Tara’s hand is limp in hers as Pete changes out the scarlet-soaked bandages. And nothing hurts as much as squeezing her limp hand and feeling only dead weight in return, no reassuring squeeze to remind her that Tara is still Tara.
Rosita holds Tara’s hand in one hand and her knife in the other. Because if she really can’t survive this, it should be Rosita to do it. She feels that that’s how Tara would want it. Put down quickly and easily, hand still held by a friend.
She got the feeling Tara didn’t have many friends when they first met. She’d been shy and mistrustful and seemed absolutely stunned when Rosita invited her closer to the fire. But now it’s different, and they’re close now, and Tara Chambler is the most tactile person she’s ever met in her life.
Making the lack of a returning squeeze all the more disturbing.
Tara sinks into her arms at any and all times, when she’s happy or when she’s scared or sometimes just when she needs to not be alone. It’s Rosita she goes to, and Rosita will not let her down.
She knows that Tara isn’t nearly as okay as she pretends. Glenn pulled her aside and told her after the first time, took her arm and told her how Tara had lost everything she could lose in one day, her sister and her niece and her girlfriend all at once. And then it all clicked, why Tara can’t put down the undead children roaming the streets and why she protects Carl and Judith as if they were her own and why sometimes she can’t breathe and can’t speak and sobs into a pillow to muffle the sound until her panic attacks subside.
Tara won’t call them that, maybe she can’t, but Rosita knows. Rosita knows and demands silence from the group when she sees that tell-tale expression and guides Tara a little bit away to get some air and holds her if she wants and stands away if she wants and makes sure that she’s there and Tara can see her and know she’s still got someone breathing in the burning wreckage of the world.
They don’t talk about it. But Rosita squeezes her hand when Tara’s breathing evens and Tara always squeezes back and that means that she’s okay. Still kicking. Still fighting. Still breathing.
And Rosita squeezes again, praying to feel that reassuring pressure that means I’m still here.
And again there is nothing but limp weight.
“Dammit, Tara,” Rosita murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to her clammy knuckles. “You’re not allowed to go out like this, got it?”
But Tara just sleeps on.
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“It’s not looking good,” Pete tells her, and Rosita rips away from his attempt to touch her shoulder. “It might be time to call it. We don’t know if she’s in pain -”
“Tara wouldn’t give up,” Rosita snaps, squeezing all the harder at the thought of Tara being taken away from her. “She’s going to wake up. She just needs some time.”
Pete sighs and shakes his head at her and stands a little too close as he changes Tara’s bandages.
Eugene comes to see her the most, after Rosita. He saved her, carried her out with her blood dripping down his jacket, and she gets the sense that the only reason he found so much courage was because it was Tara. He tells Rosita everything he can think of that means Tara might survive and brings her water and food so she doesn’t have to leave her bedside.
Rosita even sleeps in her chair, waking up with an aching neck and stiff muscles. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t trust Pete to be alone in the room with Tara, that’s for damn sure. And if Tara turns, she’s determined to be there to end it.
Glenn comes often too, having much more free time since he was banned from going outside the walls. The pain in his expression as he brushes Tara’s soft brown hair away from her forehead makes Rosita want to cry.
Rosita thought she’d given up crying. Most people have to, in the wake of the apocalypse. But when she washed the blood from Tara’s hair and came away with her hands dripping in scarlet, the water turned cloudy red from just how much there was...Rosita had clutched Tara’s hands and sobbed, praying to anyone up there who might be listening for her to wake up.
It’s difficult to admit, but Rosita is starting to think no one heard her, because Tara hasn’t even moved since they laid her down. But that possibility is impossible to even consider, so Rosita scoops up her hand again and presses another soft kiss to her knuckles and tries to ignore how clammy her skin is.
Rosita doesn’t really keep up with what happens outside of the infirmary. What happens inside is more than enough for her to grapple with for a few days. She’ll come back eventually. One way or another.
She tries to think about Tara dying, tries to make it register as a real possibility in her brain. Either it doesn’t click or it makes her want to get down on her knees and beg Tara to wake up. She’s not sure which hurts more.
Carl comes sometimes, peeking around the corner like a shy infant, Judith in his arms. It’s sweet, how protective he is over his sister. Neither of them understands yet, at least not fully. Maybe they will one day. But Tara would die without hesitation for either of them, fling herself into a crowd of walkers to buy them time to run. And maybe Carl gets that just enough to know he should be there.
Rosita wishes she could be like Tara. Tara is who she always dreamed she’d be when she watched apocalypse-style movies. Tara is good-spirited and brave and selfless and the best person Rosita knows. She defends herself and her people, but she doesn’t kill needlessly; she does what she needs to do, but she’s not cruel. She’s steady and trustworthy and there when she’s needed and not afraid to put her life on the line to help someone in need. And Rosita just...isn’t like that. She’s grown even tougher than she was before and much meaner, and definitely less selfless.
The end of the world has brought out the very best in Tara, and the worst in Rosita.
I’ll go to church every Sunday and save everyone I can find and memorize the entire book of Psalms, Rosita offers God, more desperately than ever. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll do anything, kill me if that’s really what you want, but don’t take this out on her. Not the one person who doesn’t deserve it.
And there is still nothing. No squeeze.
Her eyes burning, Rosita sighs, lifting up the Bible Father Gabriel brought to the infirmary. “It may bring you some comfort,” he’d said, and while she’d initially snorted at the thought, it doesn’t seem so ridiculous now. If anything, since she’s already trying to get through to God, she might as well see if he has anything to say to her. His book might be a good start.
She flips it open to a random page, setting her finger down on a verse. Then she looks down, studying whatever luck or God, whichever it may be, has chosen for her.
Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
It’s not enough to make a believer out of her. But Rosita smiles a little at the words be anxious for nothing and squeezes Tara’s hand.
And nearly falls out of her chair when Tara squeezes back.
She’s alive. She’s alive and awake and she’s going to be okay. And then it hits Rosita that she made a deal and now she’s stuck memorizing the entire book of Psalms, and she doesn’t even care in that moment because Tara is okay and that alone is the most compelling evidence for organized religion she’d ever heard in her life.
Tara opens her eyes slowly, and she’s too tired to even smile, her face the color of condensed milk as she winces in pain at all the light. Rosita rushes to dim the room, but not before catching a glance at Tara’s eyes and seeing that warm, familiar spark of mischief that she’s missed so, so much.
She wants to sit up, and Rosita doesn’t blame her; she’s been lying flat on her back for days. So she places her hands on Tara’s shoulders and guides her to lean against the rails of the headboard, steadying her when she falters and building up a support of pillows until she’s comfortable. Tara blinks up at her slowly, still so, so horribly pale and obviously in pain, and she looks so un-Tara-like it hurts Rosita somewhere deep.
“Thank you,” Tara murmurs, and Rosita nods a little, still focused on how weak she looks and how pale her skin is and how close she came to dying and how beautiful she is in the now-low lights of the infirmary, and then before she fully knows what she's doing, her mouth is pressed to Tara’s.
Tara is unresponsive for a moment, most likely stunned, but then Rosita feels her smile into the kiss, and her hands come up to pull Rosita closer. And time grinds to a halt as she kisses Tara, kisses her like she’s never kissed anyone before, and Abraham is nothing compared to the soft, tender sweetness of kissing Tara Chambler.
Abraham is all rough edges, firm grip and white knuckles and rough kisses and midnight fucking that feels almost desperate, like Rosita’s body is a temporary eraser for whatever it is he’s lost. Tara is nothing like that. Tara is soft and warm and open, her hands gentle and graceful and respectful. Tara is intuitive and loving and safe, and Rosita feels more cared for in one kiss with her than she has in all her time with Abraham.
They finally break apart so Tara can breathe, still so, so pale and washed out, her face tense with pain. “Took you long enough,” she mumbles sleepily, and there’s that ridiculous mischievous grin on her face, albeit a pale reflection of its usual shit-eating glory. “Abraham…?”
“Forget Abraham,” Rosita murmurs, perching on the edge of her bed. “I’d rather have you. I’d rather have had you for a while now.”
And Tara actually laughs at that, her face immediately twisting with pain afterwards. “Miss Espinosa, you’re going to kill me before I get the chance to recover enough to kiss you right if you keep talking like that.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” Rosita gently brushes a thumb over her soft cheek, not wanting to stop touching her now that she’s finally gotten the nerve to start. “Get some rest. You deserve it, you’ve been through a lot.”
“Wait.” Tara catches her hand, pressing a shy kiss to her knuckles, a hint of a flush in her pale cheeks. “Will you stay?”
“Of course,” Rosita murmurs, because how could she refuse Tara anything, and she settles in next to her, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. “One more thing. Don’t ever, ever come that close to leaving me again.”
And Tara is already on her way out, clearly exhausted, but she hangs on just long enough to murmur a teasing “yes, ma’am” before falling asleep in Rosita’s arms.