A/N: First time writing these two. Hope it's even a little acceptable =X
He'd never been seriously injured before. Sure, a few minor bumps and bruises from helping Alberto now and again, but nothing too horrible. Luck and Alberto's watchful eye had kept everyone a little leery of touching the personal ring announcer- until, that is, his need to protect Del Rio had caused him to be reckless... Seeing Big Show chasing his boss, his friend, into the parking deck had been enough for him and, without taking a minute to think, had floored it, sending the expensive car straight into the large wrestler, crushing his knee against the concrete.
It wasn't until Alberto began yelling at him in Spanish that his mind clicked back into cohesiveness once more and he almost hesitantly pulled back, not wanting to see the damage he had thoughtlessly caused. Another yell from Alberto and they abandoned the car, running quickly for the exit as Big Show's yells of agony echo behind them.
Only weeks later, Show had returned and, despite targetting Alberto, ended up getting his hands on Ricardo as he had once more tried to protect the other man. The beatdown that had rained down upon him had been unending, the pain following him even as he slipped into unconsciousness, his arms not a very effective shield as the large fists slammed into his face and head.
Weeks later, he's still not sure how the abuse had ended, not willing to ask Alberto about it. The mere mention of that night leaves the Mexican aristocrat silent and brooding, his dark eyes looking everywhere but at Ricardo. All he knows for sure about that period of time is he wakes up mid-morning the next day, his face, neck and head throbbing and different machines beeping repetitively around him. No matter how he tries, he can't open his eyes and he's scared for a moment, his breathing speeding up as the beeping follows its patterns.
He hears a faint curse in Spanish from the side, followed by a hand brushing against his forehead, almost soothing, before dropping to rest on his arm. "Ricardo? Are you awake?"
"I..." His lips are swollen too, each word a further struggle to get past his dry mouth.
"Easy," the familiar voice of Alberto urges him quietly as a weight settles against his bed, the soft surface dipping with the movement.
Hard plastic presses against his lips and he reluctantly separates them, something cold and welcoming dripping onto his tongue. Ice chips, he figures out, his breath ghosting out of him as the insufferable beeping eases off into a more regular rhythm. Heart monitor... The next one is obvious. Hospital. "Alberto?" he manages after a few more ice chips, the words coming a little easier despite how slurred everything sounds.
"Yes." He registers a soft scraping noise and Alberto's hand is back, resting on his upper arm as if attempting to ground him.
Desperate to see, figure out why he's in the hospital, he tries once more to pry his eyes open but nothing happens, not even a flicker of an eyelid. "I can't see," he finally chokes, his English much more fluid than Alberto's.
It had been decided early on after they arrived in the WWE that his only communicating via Spanish would make it easy for their English speaking enemies in the WWE to fall for it and speak more freely in front of Ricardo, enabling him to get information for Alberto. There was that one time he had spoken English on NXT but Alberto never paid much attention to that show so... what he didn't know didn't hurt him.
"It is ok. That mongrel Big Show," he lapses into Spanish for a moment, spitting out insults angrily before returning to English. "He attacked you. Both eyes are swollen shut," he explains faintly, the frown on his face obvious in his tone. "Ricardo..."
Unable to focus on Alberto's words, he reaches up weakly, his arms shaking barely half way to his face, close to touching his own face when strong, warm hands grasp them, holding tightly but not unkindly, keeping him from reaching his goal.
"Do not touch," Alberto chides, squeezing his hands briefly before lowering them back to his sides.
"Is it bad?" he finally asks, sounding younger than Alberto had ever heard him in the time they had known each other. He can't even bring himself to be ashamed, knowing that Alberto will not use this moment of weakness against him.
"The doctor say you will have a full recovery," he offers, smoothly making sure to not answer Ricardo's actual question.
Ricardo notices but lets it go, relaxing slightly in the knowledge that Alberto wouldn't lie to him. As his early promos in WWE had stated, he was a very honest man.
Considering how even the pain medicine only manages to muffle the pain along his face and skull, his hospital stay is rather short. Alberto's loyalty holds true as the man accompanies him on an embarrassing, long flight to Florida- he can now open his eyes but the deep, dark bruises along his cheek bones and down his jaw are horrible and he doesn't blame people for gaping, but it's still mortifying- and helps him settle in, makes sure he's comfortable in his apartment and has everything he needs for a few days before going to the next WWE event, unable to dodge his responsibilities no matter how much he might want to. The mere fact that the desire is there makes Ricardo feel better.
He spends a quiet few days at home, still unable to do very much due to the concussion messing with his vision and balance, when there's a knock at his door that Wednesday. He's not expecting company- Alberto should be in Mexico, and... the only other thought that comes to mind is a chilling one. What if it's Big Show coming to finish the job? He hesitantly inches towards the door, careful to avoid the windows even while trying to discern the shadows to figure out who's waiting on the other side.
He presses against the wood, holding his breath as another round of knocking vibrates the only barrier protecting him, his nerves and fright racheting with each bang. "Ay dios mio," he mumbles, his still bruised eyes slipping closed.
"Ricardo?"
His breath stutters in his chest as he leans back from the door, hardly daring to believe that the voice he's heard through his door belongs to who he thinks it does. "Alberto?"
"Si, let me in?"
The door is open in a blink of an eye, Ricardo squinting through the mid-afternoon Florida sun to stare at Alberto Del Rio, jaw gaping open slightly. "I... what... I expected you to return to Mexico once your responsibilities were concluded," he finally manages to say, barely remembering to step aside and allow the other man entrance.
Alberto looks out of place in Ricardo's simple apartment but he says nothing, an unreadable look in his dark eyes as he glances around. "Ordinarily, yes. I wanted to, ah, ensure you are alright before I do so, however," he muses, glancing out the window at the beach just visible in the distance.
Ricardo feels a warm pleasure coiling deep within him that he hasn't felt since before Big Show's attack as he mentally lists all the simple ways Alberto could've chosen to check on him- email, phone call, etc., instead of this, first hand. His attention drifts, however, noticing how Alberto's eyes are back on him, traveling along his face, scanning the multiple bruises and abasions marring his skin and lips. He looks away, suddenly ashamed at his lack of ability or strength to defend himself.
Alberto's next words, however, are the last he expects to hear. "They are fading, slowly. You look more yourself."
He doesn't feel like himself, much less look it, but there is no falsehood in Alberto's tone, no mockery in his gaze. He honestly means it. "Thank you," he finally manages, his gaze skittering across the ugly brown and white couch that had been waiting for him when he moved into the already furnished apartment.
"You sound disbelieving," Alberto notes, moving to stand by the other set of windows, the warm sun streaming down onto his as usual impeccable suit and gleaming against his dark hair.
"It will be awhile before the bruises are gone," he finally says, breaking into the strained silence.
Alberto turns, his face shadowed now due to the light reflecting off of his back, and stares once more at Ricardo. "I want to hire a lawyer," he comments as easily as if saying he wants milk with his coffee.
"Whatever for?"
"Your case against Big Show, of course," he comments, his lips parting to reveal sharp teeth. "Criminal, of course. And a civil case should be beneficial..."
Ricardo's chest twists uncomfortably as he considers the consequences. Dragging the courts into anything to do with WWE is always a long, tiresome circus and he's not sure if he'd even be up to something like that so soon after getting out of the hospital. One look into Alberto's gleaming eyes, however, and he knows he can't deny. "Fine."
The weeks pass with lawyers coming and going, strengthening his criminal and civil cases. Pictures are taken of the bruises as soon as the lawyer arrives the day after Alberto leaves back to Mexico, footage is collected of the beatdown itself, Ricardo goes through hours of repetitive preparation for court. Before long the only thing they're missing is eyewitness testimony, because people are either too frightened or fond of Big Show- or dislike Alberto and Ricardo both too much- to speak up against him.
At least once a week, Alberto too drops in to see how things are doing, check on his friend's progress. Ricardo's bruises fade more and more with each passing day until four weeks later; his skin tone is more or less back to normal and he can open his eyes like nothing had ever been wrong, form words without feeling like he's gone through a botched plastic surgery procedure.
It's this week, however, that another curve ball is thrown at him, Alberto with a weird look on his face that Ricardo's never seen before as he sighs out, "I can't wait to get back to announcing." They stare at each other, that look never leaving Alberto, before he whispers, "What is it?"
Alberto swallows visibly before leaning forward. "I think it is in your, ah, best interests to avoid Raw for awhile."
"What? Why?" he asks, his face clouding over as he tries to figure out why, now, Alberto would suggest such a thing to him.
Mumbling to himself in Spanish, Del Rio adjusts himself so he's eye to eye with Ricardo, his posture rigid and sure. "With the cases pending, there is a temporary order of protection out on Big Show," he explains quietly. "The lawyers set it up to keep you safe. He cannot get close to you until after the court case." Ricardo sucks in a deep breath, wondering how long his life- career- will be put on hold and Alberto smiles mirthlessly. "You can occupy yourself with Florida Championship Wrestling until this is sorted," he urges, trying to ease Ricardo's visible unhappiness.
"I suppose," he murmurs with a nod. Despite his attempt at calm, he hates all of this.
The cases carry on, the lawyers doing their job while Ricardo watches Monday Night Raw enviously and tries to put his all into the little bit of time he spends in the Florida Championship Wrestling arena. As interesting as it is to see Brodus Clay again, he can't deny that something is missing.
Around mid-July, he can't take Florida any longer, feeling like he may scream if he sees another palm tree. So he decides to go across country and visit California. Though similar to Florida, it's just the change he needs as he plays the role of tourist and visits Hollywood, the star walk and as many other things as he can work in for the few days he's given himself.
Friday night, he's thinking about returning to Florida the next day, staring blankly at the plane ticket in his hand when disgusted anger wells up within him. Ricardo Rodriguez doesn't run, he thinks viciously, stamping his fist against the unwanted ticket.
Late the next day, he arrives in Chicago, taking in the bright lights of the O'Haire airport. This is more like it, he decides.
Alberto is a creature of habit so it's not hard to figure out what hotel he will be staying in, even easier to convince the staff to let him hang around and wait in the classy lobby with his bag. Alberto is a bad influence, he thinks with a pleased smirk as he walks off to sit and wait, his pockets a few hundred dollars lighter.
Despite there being a houseshow a few hours away, Ricardo knows that Alberto will more likely than not be driving straight from the arena to this hotel so he can get some sleep before the Money in the Bank. It's in the middle of the night, nearing 3 AM, and various members of the hotel staff keep walking by giving him funny looks until the girl with his money burning a hole in her pocket quickly distracts them with waiting customers or to go fetch something.
Money well spent, he thinks, returning to peer outside the large floor to ceiling windows tiredly as the late hour grinds at him. Where are you, Alberto?
Nearly another hour passes and he's slumping in the chair, trying and failing to pinch himself back to consciousness as he falls further into sleep. Distantly hearing the hotel door open, he focuses as footsteps walk past him and up to the main desk.
"Room for Alberto Del Rio," he hears, struggling to wake up, open his eyes, say something... anything.
His fight is unneeded however, as he hears a somewhat familiar, female murmur, thinks he hears his name. Not long afterwards, footsteps head his way, a steady hand resting on his shoulder a few moments later. "Ricardo," Alberto's voice bites through his exhaustion, finally shaking his sluggish body from its slumber. "Why are you here? You should be in Florida?"
"I was tired of Florida," he says, barely half-awake as he sits a little straighter, his body protesting the shift from its relaxed position. "I know what you said, but I had to... to be here..." He looks frustrated, angry that his friend is more likely than not going to win the Money in the Bank briefcase in under twenty four hours but because of Big Show, he is unable to be there to witness destiny taking hold once more.
Understanding and sympathy passes across Alberto's face and he steps back. "Come along, Ricardo. We both need sleep. We will figure this out in the morning."
Ricardo feels pathetic as he grabs his bags and, before he can reach for Alberto's, is rebuffed as Del Rio keeps ahold on his own things. He says nothing, however, his face aimed towards the ugly beige carpet at their feet as they head for the elevators. His exhaustion returns to him on the ride up, his eyes fluttering as Alberto unlocks the hotel door and steps inside. He's uncertain where he's stepping as he wanders further into the room, stopping short of walking right into the nearest bed.
He barely reacts as Alberto chuckles softly somewhere behind him, the next thing he remembers is his fingers being pried carefully from his bag. "Long travels, Ricardo?" He's unable to respond, his eyes only open a slit as he stares down in confusion at the bed only inches away from him. It's the bed nearest the door, which means for convenience sake, Alberto would always take it but before he can even attempt to voice this or walk around it to the other bed, a hand grabs his shoulder, easily turning him around. "Sit, Ricardo. I'll take the other bed." He's still blinking languidly when Alberto's hand shifts and pushes him down onto the bed. His brain too muddled to argue or even attempt to stand back up, he gives up on making sense of anything in this half-asleep daze and rolls over, not even caring he's still in the clothes he traveled in.
Alberto is long gone when he awakes late the next morning to find his shoes missing and a very muddled, sleepy feeling clinging to him. Registering that he's been in the same clothes for uncomfortably close to twenty four hours, he stumbles to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he returns to the main room, clean and different clothes on. Now what am I going to do today?
The hotel is done with breakfast once he finds his shoes (resting almost obsessively neatly next to his bag; his lips twitch into a fond smile, knowing the cause) and makes his way down to the lobby so he settles for lunch at a nearby restuarant, a quick BLT and french fries. By the time he's done, it's barely 1 PM. Despite how gorgeous the weather looks, he doesn't feel like being socialable so he returns to the hotel and watches random things on his laptop, relieved that Alberto had left behind a keycard for him before leaving this morning. Attempts to keep his mind off of the Allstate Arena and the pre-pay per view bustle that he's not had a part of since Big Show's attack fails, his fingers twitching as he remembers the feel of the microphone in his hand, the smooth Spanish rolling off of his tongue as he announces Del Rio's entrance. He misses it like a thirsty person misses water, tapping his fingers pointlessly against the case of his laptop as he finds himself glancing now and again towards the clock.
It's only a bit after 2 PM by this point but he knows that the random shows he's watching aren't helping; he's almost tempted to cue up and go through the whole registration process- funny, registering with a company he technically works for- but he thinks ordering the pay per view and watching it from his laptop would only make him feel worse when he's in town and could be there. With so much time to pass, he goes to Youtube and spends some of it watching various clips of matches and other things... until he comes upon footage of Big Show's beat down. Everything tells him it's a bad idea to watch, warns him not to click... be smart about this... but curiosity about what Alberto hasn't been able to say to him since that night overwhelms common sense and he clicks.
He watches with a detached look on his face, unable to believe that he had been manhandled so viciously and saved by Kane of all people while Alberto watched on from the ramp, simply walking off without even attempting to do anything. The whole situation grows in surrealness as Kane, the demented Big Red Machine who used to think it was funny to torture people with spark cables and fire, yells at Show to stop, that he'll kill him. That finishes it, Ricardo quickly closing it out before something else happens. He isn't angry, not really... understands why Alberto reacted the way he did, and had continued on in the feud against Big Show until the much larger man had been defeated in one way or another, claiming it as some pay back for Ricardo... but even so he feels too empty to really notice much else.
Shutting the laptop off, he spends the next couple of hours peering out of the window, thinking about the past few months. In the end, Alberto had been there for him, getting the best lawyers and encouraging Ricardo on through the next steps of the justice system, helping him through the whole situation in ways no one else ever has. In comparison, the brief horrified indecision that caused Ricardo to be left behind seems less important, especially since if Alberto had tried coming to his aid, they both would've ended up in the hospital or worse... By 5:30, he orders room service, which comes by six. He tries a grilled chicken club this time, munching on it as the time clicks slowly by, mocking him. He feels slightly better emotionally, though he wishes he was still at the arena, warming his voice up for the announcement of the future Heavyweight Champion.
Once more he considers ordering the ppv but knows inwardly that it wouldn't help. Instead he settles in to flip through the channels provided by the hotel, finding some lame comedy and half-watching as he glances now and again at the clock. When exactly he falls asleep, he's not sure but the next thing he knows, it's pitch dark outside and someone's standing over him, the lamp between the two beds blinding him as he tries to focus. "Alberto?" As he sits up, something awkwardly shaped and red is thrust into his hands and he clutches to it, blinking a few times before he realizes. "The briefcase..."
Alberto looks thrilled, his grin wider than usual as he sits on the bed next to Ricardo, his eyes gleaming victoriously in the artificial light. As he describes the ladder match, and what happened with the title belt at the end, his smile dims slightly but quickly regains its luster as he presses a hand against the briefcase. "Now you have something to watch over during my matches, Ricardo."
It takes a moment for his sleep-muddled mind to catch up and he shakes his head, not entirely understanding. "What? But..."
"A-ha, I forgot to explain the rest of the good news, hmm?" Alberto's grin does the impossible and grows even more. "Mark Henry destroyed the Big Show's ankle- he will be out for quite awhile, probably long enough for the cases to resolve. Which means the order of protection is no longer an issue." His eyes soften as he peers at Ricardo, takes in the reluctantly growing hope in his eyes. "If you choose to, there is no reason you could not return to Raw with me tomorrow night."
It's with a lingering bit of trepidation that Ricardo does indeed return the following night, microphone back where it belongs in his hand, but he takes one look at his waiting El Patron and immediately calms. If anyone has his best interests at heart, it is of course Alberto Del Rio, there is no denying.