Work Text:
Rosita makes the necklace on a whim.
Because the red glass glinting on the asphalt makes her think of him, bright and red and eye-catching, calling out danger even as it encourages a closer look. Sasha's the one with her on patrol when she finds it, and watches Rosita thoughtfully as it gets picked up. She wonders if Sasha sees the connection too.
(Sasha’s watching Rosita’s back, the slant of her shoulders and the knife holster on her thigh. Watching her expression, watching her hand. Watching her, and wondering what the hell Abraham’s thinking. Wondering if he even knows.)
There are other motivations at work here, too humiliating to mention. To call it love is to peel herself open, and to declare this some sort of possessiveness-- staking her claim in a town full of strangers who always watch a little too long-- is still revealing enough to make her grimace. To be possessive is to admit fear-- isn’t that what she’d always thought when Abraham pushed Eugene behind him, eyes wide and wary?
Pocketing the glass, she resolves not to overthink it. To dull the edges of the shard, to drill the hole and thread her string through it, and to trust that she won’t have to explain herself to Abraham. That she can sit him down and hand it over and he won’t even blink, just loop the necklace over his neck, following orders.
And he does, and nothing is difficult, and Rosita ignores the way her eyes prickle when she looks at him-- laying there naked in her bed, smiling, red glinting between his collarbones-- like her body’s honed enough to know something’s wrong before she does.
(Necklace in the dirt and Sasha smiling his way, flashing a peace sign and saying she knows him, she knows him, she knows those ugliest parts and Rosita is damn near perfect but near isn't enough anymore and the guilt curdles in his stomach but not enough to stop him thinking this can't be it, this can’t be all.)
The necklace is gone when he comes back from Hilltop, and she knows something’s wrong then-- knows it deep in her gut, and it has her itching for her holster, for something to hold onto--but she underestimates the lows he’ll sink to until he’s packing his bag, practically refusing to talk to her and moving her aside like there’s no weight to her at all.
It's infuriating to watch him pretend he doesn't care about her, to try and act like he'd never cared, not in any way that matters. But that shouldn't be surprising to her, he's always liked to pretend that nothing matters as much as whatever mission he's decided on, so sure that everybody else is just standing in the way of that. But when had she become everybody else?
Last goddamn woman on earth-- like she didn't work for it, shaving with no shaving cream, just that cheap razor that left her legs bleeding and raw, sweating through her short clothes and wearing pigtails even when her hair hurt, even when she felt fucking ridiculous. Like he hadn't turned away from any new woman they met to look back at her, wanting her approval like he'd wanted Eugene's approval. Seeing her work and appreciating her work for what it was.
Like there had never been seeing, or appreciation, or mutual faith between them. Like all that had just been months and months of convenience, of last woman left and nothing more.
She ties her hair back into a ponytail, thinks of Eugene in the hallway and that makes her angry too, thinking of him lingering out there with nothing to say, waiting and waiting but never having the balls to do anything about it. She lives with cowards, stupid goddamn cowards who'd rather leave her and watch her then look her in the eye and tell her what they really want.
(Sasha doesn't understand those three, and she thinks she's got a handle on it cause Abraham flirts like he's free but there's a necklace around Abraham's throat that wasn't there yesterday and Eugene's voice is curt when he asks to switch shifts with her, like there's ties around Abraham that nobody's quite admitting to, and everybody's waiting for her to catch up but nobody knows what direction they're running in.)
She thinks about finally fucking Eugene, just to show Abraham, but there would be no satisfaction there. If he can declare that Rosita doesn't matter, he can say the same for Eugene, for whatever the hell's been going on between the three of them, been almost going on for months-- she can hear him now saying she'd been the one that wanted it, that he'd let Eugene watch for her and nobody else, that it didn't even matter anymore anyway, because he's got options now.
Like she wasn't there when the lie had cracked open and she'd watched Abraham’s whole world die, seen the light leave his eyes and the fallout almost take Eugene. Like there hadn't been a moment where Rosita had thought she'd have to put him down-- where she knew it wasn't her he was seeing anymore. Her hand on the gun and his bloody bandages, scars on his knuckles and a dead-eyed stare that lasted hours as Rosita made her escape plans, angry and scared that she had lost them both and it'd been their own damn faults.
The importance of not being afraid, at least not visibly. That it was always about her ability to follow and not flinch and be steady when he wouldn't be, to assume he wouldn't hurt her but not forgive him if he did. To know he had that power and never forget it.
(The can drops to the floor with a clatter and her husband is soaked through with blood, blinking at her like he doesn't understand the damage he's done, like he thinks there's still a way of coming back from this, and Ellen is already deciding when will be the best moment to run.)
But Abraham has underestimated her again. Or maybe Rosita’s overestimated him. It’s hard to see what’s the bigger problem here. Everybody loves to promise her a future but nobody but her is willing to do the work, to stick it through to the end.
Standing in that silent bedroom, back against the closed door, Rosita curses Abraham, and she curses Eugene, and she curses herself. Hasn’t she learned by now? Loosen your grip, forget that this is work, work that ties necklaces and pigtails and lives together, and you’ll lose and lose and lose.
And she had forgotten. That’s the part that pisses her off the most. She’d forgotten what she was trying to avoid, that hurt didn’t have to be him beating her to death-- Eugene’s forehead gone red and slick, eyes cloudy, all the best parts of him leaking out onto the road. All that should have taught her that there were many ways to betray-- and many reasons to do it, all so easy to justify. Again, a world lays dead at her feet.
Still, the weeks spill on, slow and unforgiving.
Now that Rosita’s looking, really looking, it’s not hard to see it’s Sasha he’s been watching, Sasha he’s been smiling at, fingers flashing a peace sign. The anger resurfaces first, unrelenting, seeing them stand so close together on the street-- why does it have to be Sasha? Dead-eyed Sasha, with her funeral shawl of a jacket, who Rosita has been worried for, really, since Sasha had started insisting on going on the offensive.
Because going on the offensive means tireless, unending work-- it means never starting at 100%-- always moving the goalpost out a little bit further. Alone, going on the offensive means death.
(Don’t stop if you’re sick, don’t stop if you’re hurt, don’t stop unless you’re dead-- the quiet, feverish mantra taking them all the way to DC. And it costs, it costs them name after name, person after person, and Abraham and Rosita carry on relentlessly through it all, like none of that matters. Eugene carries on with them, struggling to match their pace, and wonders if they ever envy the quiet stillness of the dead.)
And Sasha’s goalpost was always moving, further and further out, away from Alexandria and away from them, and Rosita had been starting to brace for the morning where, willing or not, Sasha didn’t make it back.
But Sasha’s been doing better lately, ever since the herd, Rosita had noticed that, and she’d been glad. The worst part is she’d been glad-- or maybe the worst part is that deep down, she’s still glad, because she likes Sasha and she wants Sasha to live. Clearly, Abraham is helping her stay alive-- Sasha watches over the wall now, instead of the woods-- and maybe Sasha even feels that she needs him. Abraham likes to feel needed-- Rosita understands that. She’s no longer sure that he does.
(He can’t go live with her yet, he can’t ask for anything even if he wants it, there’s something tangled inside his chest that he thought for sure he’d unknotted, but Abraham keeps getting caught in the loose ends.)
Rosita wants to believe that she doesn't need anybody. That having Spencer in her bed and Eugene in her house and her holster on her thigh will keep her safe and satisfied. When she leaves Alexandria's walls with Daryl and Denise, part of her just wants to stay in the car and keep on driving, further and further out. Alone, going on the offensive.
It's Denise, of all people, that calls her bluff.
Then there's enemies coming out from the treeline, there's Eugene on his knees, shivering visibly--dead weight-- and Abraham stalking out in the woods-- eyes on the mission and nothing else--and Rosita wonders if time is just a flat fucking circle and everything always comes back, arrows finding homes in skulls and bullets in bodies. Love wearing itself out.
But maybe it will get better, and maybe there's time to change again.
(They come back inside the gates carrying a bloody, unconscious Eugene and Sasha descends from her perch almost immediately for a closer look, because Abraham's terror is a physical thing and Rosita's jaw is so tight it looks like it hurts. And Sasha's faith in god is delicate but she still prays for life and time for more misunderstandings and the chance to catch up.)
Rosita had spent a year fearing Eugene's death more than her own, so convinced of its world-ending consequences. In the shadow of that, nursing a smaller, quieter but no less fervent fear, she sits at his bedside and waits for him to wake up. She does not do it alone.
Your services are no longer required--jesus. Said it straight to my face. Abraham scoffs beside her, I forgot that when he's not pussying out, he can be cold as hell. He isn't looking at her head on, gaze stuck on Eugene.
And she raises her eyebrows and says wow, can't imagine, cold as hell, even though she wants to say so much more, wants to kiss Eugene for having been the one to say it-- uncharacteristically brave-- and Abraham winces: Uh, right. Might’ve been a little harsh, earlier.
Might’ve. She agrees, curtly.
And he turns to her then, brow furrowed, looking her straight in the eye and he apologizes to her before he apologizes to Eugene, which is what matters most. An echo of an earlier infirmary visit and proof of the fact that they do keep coming back to each other, despite everything.
(Sitting up in bed, Eugene finds it notable that the relief comes less at his own survival than it does at their shared presence at his bedside, there and worried for him, even when his pretend purpose has long since worn itself out. Like there really is more to him than that.)
And maybe in a few weeks she'll nod at Sasha and Sasha will nod back, and there will at least be acknowledgement-- an understanding met. Maybe even an actual conversation, where Rosita tells her she’s happy Sasha’s here, with them. Maybe Eugene will approach her, brave at last, and Rosita will close the bedroom door behind him. She'll talk to Daryl and Tara and Glenn and every other member of their group that she took for granted, she'll take Denise's advice-- she'll even talk to Abraham, and ask if this really is as cut and dry as he wants to pretend. She'll grab her life by the reins and refuse to be alone.
At the very least, she assures herself, she's got time.