Alberto isn't booked for Smackdown this week. He stews over this fact, far from pleased over it, when he decides just to suck it up, hang around for Ricardo's sake, and then return to the hotel and rest until they can fly home. He also hadn't done much on Raw, but at least he had found a reason to appear on TV, even if it was just to briefly confront Batista. Tonight, Batista isn't around and his heart isn't in whatever's going on anyway.

Ricardo has interviews to conduct so Alberto tries to stay away, give him time and space to finish them so they can hopefully leave earlier, but he still finds himself loitering around the main locker room, aware that Ricardo's interviewing the Los Matadores in there. He's waiting, hands in his pockets, when there's a commotion inside. His eyebrows lift into his hairline as the two men dash out of the room, trying to control their little bull, and he frowns at their departing backs, before pushing the door open to enter.

Ricardo is slumped over on a bench, gripping his midsection, but as soon as he hears Alberto enter, he tries to sit up straight and act like nothing's wrong. "Eh, oh," he mumbles, his shoulders falling when he realizes who it is. "El Patron." As Alberto approaches him, he tries to shrug it off, get to his feet. "That bull, he is... something else, isn't he?" He pales, staggers forward and Alberto grips him under the arms instinctively, guiding him back down slowly before he falls.

"Whoa, whoa, mi valiente," he gasps, brushing hair out of Ricardo's eyes once he's safely back on the ground. "What did he do? Hm? What's wrong?"

"Gored me," he grunts, breathing out sharply. "I thought I was ok but... ay dios mio, standing was a mistake... this hurts." He buries his face in Alberto's chest as the older man steadies him with a hand on his chest.

"I'm getting the trainer," he decides, getting to his feet and helping Ricardo lean back against the wall. "Don't move." He's just turned towards the door when Ricardo snags his wrist and holds on, shaking his head desperately. "Mi valiente, you're in pain, who knows-"

"No, por favor," he pleads. "It's bad enough people will see the footage online, I just... I don't want to hear about it from the others. Just... help me out to the car, I'll be ok. I promise."

Alberto frowns, clearly not entirely sold, but he finally grips Ricardo under the arms and helps him up again, listening to his rough breathing as they walk slowly down the hall towards the exit. How they make it to the car, Alberto's not sure, but finally he gets Ricardo settled in the passenger seat and rests a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to look at your stomach for a second, alright?"

Ricardo nods tiredly and drops his head back as Alberto tugs at his jacket, soon freeing him from the shirt underneath it. Cool air brushing against his flesh is the only sign that Alberto's checking his midsection out as silence fills the car. He tilts his head and murmurs, "El Patron? What is it?" Alberto's fingers over the most sore parts of his stomach makes Ricardo jump and hiss. "Que...?"

"I will kill that little bull if I see him again," Alberto mumbles, adjusting Ricardo's clothes and standing up. "It's ok, don't worry. We'll get you to the hotel and I'll patch you up." He leans in and kisses Ricardo's forehead before running over to the driver's side.

The ride to the hotel is quiet, tense. Ricardo feels every bump in the road, every stop and go motion of the vehicle, keeping his eyes closed in an attempt to not distress Alberto further. Once they arrive, it's another excruciatingly long walk to their hotel room, Alberto bracing him in the elevator as it rides up the floors. Thankfully, they're in the first room so the walk out of the elevator isn't as bad, though he's still breathless and clammy once they do arrive.

Alberto rests him on the bed, peeling Ricardo's jacket off entirely before pulling his shirt off as well. Laying him down on the bed, he forces a smile and pats Ricardo's face. "I'm going to get the first aid kit, you wait right here." They'd taken to carrying it after the feud with Big Show, when Ricardo's chest was regularly raw from his chops, but he hadn't seen it in quite awhile.

Worrying his lip, he props himself up on his elbows and stares. There are two, small puncture marks on his stomach- from El Torito's horns- and he grunts, realizing just why it hurt to walk. They're not deep, but still. Definitely enough to cause him pain for awhile. "Ay," he hisses, dropping back against the pillows as Alberto rejoins him.

Resting the first aid kit on the bed, he reaches out and brushes his fingers through Ricardo's hair, smiling sympathetically down at him. "It doesn't look so good, hm, mi valiente? But it's ok, I'll make it better." Ricardo nods dozily, tipping his head to watch as Alberto runs a warm washcloth over the wounds, cleaning them off to get a better look. "It's a good thing he's so little and pathetic," Alberto muses. "These are minor, which is the only reason I'm not taking you to the hospital."

Ricardo sighs as Alberto smears cool first aid cream over them, murmuring to him when he presses gauze over the wounds and taping it into place. The ring announcer is breathing heavily again but, as Alberto clears the first aid kit and its supplies off of the bed, throwing away what's needed, he relaxes and calms down. By the time the Mexican aristocrat lays back down next to him, he's calm once more, eyes fluttering when Alberto carefully wraps an arm around him and hugs him close, kissing his shoulder. "Gracias," he breathes, smiling at Alberto.

"De nada, Ricardo. Any time," he whispers back. "I love you."

"I love you too," he sighs. They lay quietly for awhile before Ricardo closes his eyes and gives into sleep, Alberto relieved to see that it seems restful enough. He nuzzles into him, listening to his breathing, before dozing off as well.