#you have no right to speak honestly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reapersmarch · 4 months ago

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(canon-typical suicidal thoughts, dissociation, and mentions of self harm, so be forewarned)

Forty-nine.

That’s the exact number of ceiling tiles in this room.

You hate that it isn’t an even fifty, or even a lesser forty-five. Granted, you suppose you could round up. There are several half-tiles where roof meets wall that, if put together, would total up to an additional tile to make it a cool fifty. But you also hate that they’re popcorn, and there’s no half-cocked fix for that. You didn’t think popcorn ceilings were still in, and, honestly, it’s a little insulting that they’d put you in a room with such outdated, ugly decor. Even the paint looks kind of grungy for a building that’s supposedly state of the art—a garish, red gash lines the pale white of the walls, and it reminds you too much of blood, making you more than a little queasy. Maybe their budget isn’t as high as you thought it was.

Orrrr… more likely, they put you in a room out of the way so nobody knows you’re there.

Nobody else. Just about everyone relevant to your life knows you’re here.

Of course, none of the interior decorating is remotely important in any conceivable way, you just aren’t interested in facing the reality in front of you currently. If you don’t acknowledge it, then you never have to deal with it. If you don’t have to deal with it, then it hasn’t happened. If it hasn’t happened, then you’re fine.

You know this isn’t how that works, but you can pretend.

Sort of.

It’s kind of difficult to ignore the shattered state of both your legs, or the peekaboo of hideous orange circuitry that taints your skin, or the way Ricardo is sitting in a mirror of your positions not that long ago—only, this time, it’s him with his arms folded on the edge of your hospital bed, head rested over top of his forearm.

You don’t know how long he’s been there—a while, you’re sure. The better question is probably how long you’ve been out, but you don’t want to know the answer to that, either.

Hesitantly, reflexively, your hand moves of its own accord towards his hair. It stops just before you connect, fingers folding in on themselves as you settle it on the bed next to him instead. You’re not sure if this is even allowed. Are you allowed to reach for him like this, so familiar as you once were? Does he even want your comfort? Do you even know each other anymore?

He thought you were related to Hollow Ground; you thought he knew you were Entropy.

Evidently, there is much you don’t know about either of you.

But you love him anyway. You love him so much, it hurts, and you are so goddamn sorry for the spiral you’ve caused because of it. You’re sorry for worrying him, sorry for lying to him, sorry for letting it get too big to handle on your own. You thought you could. You planned so meticulously, calculated every statistic, accounted for all the little possibilities you might not have even thought of. But you never factored in Ricardo because… why would you have?

He was always in your blindspot.

The gentle nudging of fingers beneath your clenched fist catches your attention and you recoil, quickly drawing your hand back. Your eyes glance briefly in his direction before darting elsewhere, anywhere, up. Back up at the ceiling.

“Bel.”

You flinch when your name is called. You aren’t entirely sure why, but you could hazard a guess. For one, you hadn’t actually expected to live through that, so you thought you’d never hear it again; names are hardly relevant to a corpse. And two, had you survived, you fully expected him to wield it like a knife. He has every right to be angry with you—you lied. You betrayed his trust. You let him get close to you, fall in love with you, lose you, regret losing you, hang on tighter than he ever has before. You lost sight of the end goal. Got wrapped up in petty little feelings that should be of no use to you. You should know better than that!

So, you braced yourself for the dagger’s tip, waiting for it to slide between the third and fourth rib and rend you asunder already.

But it never came.

You were so ready for an attack that was never even a passing thought to him, that you hadn’t considered the alternative. No, you can’t read his mind, but you can hear it anyway. When he calls your name, it isn’t sharp and targeted, like you’d so hoped it would be. He says—“Bel, hey. Look at me.”—and it’s soft, delicate. Fragile. It’s tinged with relief and fear and elation and grief. You hear his voice catch, hear him clear it, and try again, a little more urgently this time.

“Please.”

You still aren’t sure you’ve survived. Forgiveness shouldn’t come this easily.

You mindlessly scratch and pick at the thinnest line on your upper arm as if it’s a scab that can be pulled away and made to bleed, then make yourself slide your gaze over to him. He looks exhausted, but his shoulders immediately sag, all the tension momentarily leaving his body at the sight of you. You think you hear a soft, thank fucking god, and it almost makes you want to chuckle.

But, that’s about as far as either of you gets before you both settle into the world’s most uncomfortable staring contest.

What the hell are you supposed to say in a situation like this—actually admit that you’re sorry? Christ, like an apology is going to just… make all of this go away? It isn’t as though they taught you how to handle a crisis of this caliber back at the Farm, and all your time spent on your own could not have prepared you for the emotional fallout of all your idiotic decisions.

The explosion of pain any time you move wrong or too suddenly—it makes you want to fucking black out again, but that you know how to handle. It’s another cruel reminder that you’re still alive, and, while you are in unbearable amounts of it, it’s nothing you haven’t endured before. You’ll either survive, or kill yourself before the Special Directive can reclaim its property; of this, you can be certain.

And, really, what the hell would you even apologize for, anyway? ‘Sorry for all the crime, it will happen again’? Or maybe, sorry for lying to you? Sorry it had to be this way, or any of the other hundreds of regrets you burden yourself with? You might be the sorriest bastard in Los Diablos, but that’s not about to change anything, and saying it aloud will make you look like a jackass.

Yet, “Sorry,” is what flies out of your mouth in a short, half-gasped, pathetic sounding voice you don’t recognize.

You look like a jackass.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Bel?”

You don’t know what he’s referring to. Any of it. All of it. His eyes settle on your twitching fingers, scraping and scraping and scraping at the thin orange line with your nail. Ah, that first.

Even still, there’s no accusation in his tone, though there really ought to be, and when you spare him a set of eyes, you feel the impact of his love for you hit you squarely in the chest. Why? Why, why, why, why? Why won’t he just hate you? Why won’t he just condemn you for every ounce of betrayal? Why won’t he just make this easy? Hate your guts and leave you alone already so you can sever the last ties you have that make this so fucking difficult? You want to shout, just swing the fucking axe and take my head off. My neck’s finally on the block.

But he looks at you, and there’s nothing accusatory. No venomous hatred. No vitriolic ire. Not even bitter disappointment. Just the tired, melancholic eyes of a man who almost lost you again, and a plea for you to be honest. To let him in. Let him help you. Let him pry open your rib cage and nestle in between meat and marrow, as though he doesn’t currently occupy that space as it is.

Please just fucking hate me. Please. Please. Please.

You are buckling under the weight of how much he cares.

“What was I supposed to say, Ricardo? That I’m a re-gene?” you ask flatly. He winces, remorse evident in his body language. Every disparaging comment, every absentmindedly spoken sneer, it all comes rushing back to both of you—him, mostly. You could never forget. Which is why the fact that you’re sitting here, face to face, stewing in how much you love him still, despite is almost an affront to everything you stand for.

You should’ve stood your ground from the jump, insisted that this would not and could not happen. You should have been a better tool.

Tools are there to be used. They know their purpose, and even if they don’t, they don’t care what they’re used for.

People are messy, burdensome creations. They care too much, think too much, feel too much. Is that what you wanted? To feel? Well, congratulations. You felt. Was it worth it?

“But you’re—” he starts.

“Don’t—”

“—will you let me—”

“ —don’t you fucking dare.”

“—finish!”

You grit your teeth, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t call me human, Ricardo.” You spit it at him like it leaves a vile taste in your mouth. “Humans have rights. I’m just a thing.”

You were out of your depth. This was always how it was going to end.

“I wasn’t going to—” You watch him scrub both palms over his face, then slouch back in his chair, eyes still beleaguered and settled on you. He’s navigating a minefield and you both know it. “I’m not about to—ah, fuck, Bel.”

You scoff out a small, sardonic laugh. “Sounds about right, yeah.”

He watches helplessly for a long, dreadful moment, gaze fixed on you. It’s like being the target of a sudden, focused heat, but you’re too busy looking at your fidgeting fingers. You don’t want to see it, what he really thinks of you.

“Okay,” he says, finally, tossing his hands up in resignation before slapping them back down on his thighs. You flinch at the sound, but it demands your attention. “Okay, we’ll do it your way, then. You aren’t human—your words. So what are you, then?”

You stare at him blankly. He cannot be serious.

“If you’re not human, what are you?” he challenges again. “‘Cause you look and sound human to me.”

You’re not. You’re not. You aren’t.

“I’m not—”

“A person?” he fills in. “So then what is it?”

Clenching your jaw that hard is giving you a migraine on top of everything else that’s going completely and utterly left. You don’t know where he’s going with this, what stupid point he’s trying to make. You don’t know, but you’re starting to think whoever painted this room didn’t have much of a creative vision, and the anticipation is making you want to add your own splatter of red to jazz up the place.

“Do you want me to tell you?” Ricardo asks, leaning forward, elbows rested on his knees. It forces you to lean backwards, away from him. You’re within kissing distance at this point, less than a few centimeters apart, and it infuriates you that that is the prominent thought in your mind at this very moment. Regardless, he doesn’t wait for an answer. He wasn’t looking for one; the question was rhetorical: “You’re you, Bel.”

Well, no shit.

“And I was an asshole.”

Okay…?

“You could have two heads and four arms for all I care, and I’d still love you because… you’re you.”

You think you’re going to vomit.

“So, I’m sorry for being an asshole, but I was right that one time; you deserved so much better than what I could give you. So, forget that. Forget all of that, none of it is true, all right?” Ricardo smiles crookedly, morosely, and you don’t know when your hands started shaking or when he took hold of them, but he lifts your left one to press a kiss to your pulse point. “I love you. I love you.”

The sound that escapes you is completely foreign to your ears—a deep, full-bodied, broken sob that forces you to double over and press your palms to your eyes, as though that might stop the tide spilling through your fingertips; it’s like someone took a sledgehammer to a fire hydrant. You’re bawling so hard, you might really throw up if you don’t settle down, but you’re not wholly in control of yourself. It feels surreal, as though you’re experiencing it from above and within at the same time, both the watcher and the watched, floating further and further away into the outer reaches of space.

This entire situation is completely and utterly fucked. You are in excruciating pain, you’ve never been more hopeless in your life, everything you’ve worked towards is compromised, you’re trapped here, you’re going to die, and Ricardo Ortega still loves you, unrepentantly.

Every time you think of speaking, you can’t find your voice. It isn’t yours. This isn’t you it’s happening to, you’re watching it happen to your vessel. The machine, the ship. Simultaneously, you’re in the thick of it, the pilot behind the controls, feeling as though the tapestry of your life is unraveling before your eyes, stretching across the accretion disk of the black hole. What do you mean he, too, loves you still, despite? How is that possible? After all you’ve done? Who you are? Not human. You’re not. Mars bids you return. Return, return, they’ll come to collect soon.

Then his arms envelop you as tightly as they can without hurting you, calling you back, waiting for you to return safely with your feet on solid ground. Anchored. Secured. Mission control waits for your re-entry. They want you to come home.

Okay.

Are you certain you survived?

You didn’t just… make up a scenario in your head to make yourself feel better? Go figure that, if you are dead, you still find a way to make yourself miserable. Your face finds the curve of his neck. Warm. Familiar. Probably not dead. Even if you were, you think he would still feel the same—warm and familiar. Safe.

Home.

Eventually, you calm enough that you aren’t heaving, so Ricardo moves to sit beside you, letting you lean up against his side instead of making you twist towards him, arms still locked around you, thumb sweeping back and forth against your shoulder.

“You need to get me out of here, Ricardo.” Your voice is hoarse, and still thick with tears, but you’ve found it again and it’s as calm as you can make it, so that’s a start. “I can’t stay here. I can’t, I cannot.”

You half-expect him to interrogate you, now that the worst of the storm has passed, but instead you feel his chest rise with a deep inhale, then fall with a sigh. It’s not directed at you, you don’t think. You’re almost positive he’s just lost in thought, but you can’t be sure and you can’t read his mind. Right now, you really hate that more than ever.

“I’m as good as dead if I stay,” you plead. “We all are. They’ll finish what the truck couldn’t, and then some. I can’t go back there, Ric. I won’t survive it this time.”

“Go back where?”

“The Farm.”

It all comes tumbling out at that point, your voice laced with fatigue. The Special Directive. What happened after Heartbreak. Where they took you—what they did to you.

“Drugs muddle the mind,” you state bitterly. “They needed me at optimal performance to see just how far they could push. They always pulled back just before they broke something. I was too valuable an asset to lose. Do you know what that’s like? Being awake and aware and unable to do a thing about it? No one cares when you’re not a person in the eyes of the law. I think they did, you know. Break me.”

Ricardo, to his credit, stays silent while you speak, listening intently to every word and periodically reminding you that you’re still here, grounded, and he’s still there with you. Squeezing your shoulder, waiting for you to continue, to land. You wish you could hear it, what he’s thinking. Maybe it’s better you can’t.

“Sometimes, y—” Your fingers dig into his shirt as you tense, clutching at the soft cotton tightly, and his hand finds yours, covering it where it’s tangled. Your grip slackens some, but stays wound up in his shirt. “Sometimes, you feel like them. On good days, it’s kind of nice. I don’t have to think so hard, try to keep the door shut to force out the noise. I can relax, because it’s just you. It’s just Ricardo, I’m okay, I can be myself. And… I know it’s not your fault, I know. But I can’t read you, and on bad days, you feel like them. The coats. You feel just like them, and it scares me.”

The silence settles heavily between you, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s regretting his decision to stay, but you feel it then. The slightest tremor in his hand. His fingers curl around yours and squeeze, gently, firmly.

“Bel, I’m sorry,” he says, and you aren’t wholly sure why. At first you think it’s pity, and it sours your stomach. You don’t want him to pity you, you don’t ever want pity from anybody, but you are trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all that, all this, he’s stayed beside you and hasn’t looked at you any differently. Why would now be the turning point? “I wish I’d known, I—fuck!”

You lift your head quizzically, watching him drag a hand down his mouth and over his beard. You watch it trail down his throat, watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I understand,” he says after a beat, “why you didn’t say anything. Why you never felt like you could say anything. Why you always kept pushing when I got too close. I was the nearest reminder, and I was a fucking idiot, and I’m sorry. For my part in it, I am… incredibly sorry.”

The remorse is genuine. You know Ricardo well enough at this point to know when he’s giving lip service, and you know that he isn’t—whatever he's thinking or feeling, it’s genuine. In fact, he looks a little ill himself. You wonder if he’s turning it all over in his head, replaying the things he’s said in passing, the moments when you were more prickly than normal, more combative about your personal space.

Every time he startled you, or you got a little flighty, or jumped out of your skin, and shouted at him not to sneak up on you. They must be on repeat, but that isn’t for you to know.

“The last thing I want is for you to be afraid of me.”

“I know,” you respond quietly. “I know, but I can’t help it.”

“I know,” Ricardo echoes, moving a loose strand of hair out of your eyes. “I’m not asking you to stop something you have no control over, Bel. I’m asking you not to endure it alone.”

“Then get me out of here, Ricardo. Please.”

“You aren’t staying.” He takes your face in both hands and presses a kiss to your forehead. Your fingers curl around his wrists. “Just give me a bit to think of something.”

Something, as it turns out, was Ricardo swaddling you in several-sizes-too-big clothing and hauling your ass out of the building. You admit, it’s not what you had in mind when he got Chen to watch over you while he stepped out of the room for a ‘quick sec’, but you’d be hard pressed to complain about it when the alternative was. Well. That.

You’re sure the embarrassment and shame will catch up to you when you’re clear of this place, but for now, you don’t care. Sprawled across the backseat of Ortega’s car, you do not fucking care. Currently, the only thing you care about is sleeping. Eating, maybe. A smoke would be great, too. You know this conversation isn’t finished—why the fuck does he think you were related to Hollow Ground?

You’re too tired to think about it now.

#vico said “spare ricbel regene reveal scene?” and i said “bet”#bel.docx #so as u can tell i played a bit with the order of operations lol cuz i forgor that you don't get Told what went down until after you wake-#up and get an exposition dump MY B LOL #seems obvious i know. using player knowledge instead of character knowledge. worst ttrpg player ever </3 #thats a joke im a delight to have at ur table #had to dig deep for this one and pull from a Place™ to get bel's reaction described juuust right lol. fuck it we bawl!#also you will have to pry the space references from my cold dead hands #i have many Many opinions on the canon scene but honestly i'll just let the work speak for itself #there are look before you leap references if you squint #canonically this takes place after the last chapter of leap so its TECHNICALLY a leap chapter but

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