Hiiii!~ :DD I just can't believe no one has asked for this yet, but ISAAC AND PICKLE GARDENING TOGETHER!! <333 I think they would be just ADORABLE!! Maybe both of them will have a little picnic together near the lake... (I think Saku mentioned that he owned one...) Pickle making a flower crown for Isaac :33 And Isaac reminiscing about his mother!
Enjoy The Silence
Isaac Rhoades x Reader
Warnings: grief
Isaac was a little nervous. He was very nervous, actually.
There was a strikingly clear reason why he always hired a gardener. There were two reasons, buried in the ground under the little blue flowers that grew by the headstones.
Why he had agreed to this, he did not know. The thought of having you in the garden — the garden, the one where he had lost half his heart and the majority of his years alive — made his stomach clench in painful knots. It made him anxious, threatening to pull him into the very depths of a panic attack because only the possibility of losing you to a shot fired from the trees beyond made his eyes tear up as a painful lump formed in his throat.
You had asked him for it, though. You had suggested tending to the delicate blue flowers together — with your eyes glinting in compassion, begging him to allow you this grand gesture of affection that would ease his pain like the first time you had visited their graves together.
His blood had frozen. The firm, absolute, and forever unchanging ‘no’ stuck on his tongue as he took in your expression of gentle hope.
I can’t live my life trapped in this house, Isaac. I can’t, no matter how much I love you.
He swallowed thickly and conceded.
You had been so happy, turning the whole day into a little event to ease his mind from the heaviness of tending to the flowers growing on his family’s graves. There was a picnic basket, complete with a blanket, standing by in the kitchen for when you were done. The very idea of sitting outside — waiting like sitting ducks to be shot — made him shudder.
He dreaded this day. He hated that he did.
“Ready?” you asked, smiling brightly at him as you pulled on gloves for gardening. You had had many occasions to demonstrate your varying skill with plants, although you supposed ridding the flowers of weeds and trimming the bush a little was different from tending to houseplants.
He stood staring at the front door, trying to hide the shaking of his hands.
“Isaac?”
“Do we have to?” he whispered, the vulnerability seeping into his tone wiping the smile from your face. He sounded close to tears. “Do we have to? I— I’m so scared something might— might—”
You pulled off the gloves, letting them fall to the ground. “Hey, look at me,” you said, resting a hand on his cheek. Isaac turned to face you, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears of fear and, you supposed knowing him, shame as well. “We don’t have to do anything if it hurts you this much, sweetheart.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning into your touch. “What if I can’t?” he croaked, tears escaping his eyes. “What if I’m never ready? What if this always happens? What if I can’t keep it together at the thought of us going outside? I— I don’t want to lose you. I can’t—”
“Isaac, look at me,” you requested, raising your other hand to his cheek as well. Your fingers played with the strands of hair at his temples, thumbs wiping away the tears trailing down his cheeks. When he slowly opened his eyes, searching your gaze with eyes full of sorrow, you continued, “It’s alright if you’re not ready. It’s okay. Overcoming trauma is hard, I get that — I know that. Healing takes a lot of time, love. The important thing is that you try, and I know you do. You’re so brave every day for me, love, and I will never leave you because of this. Alright? Never, Isaac. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, I know you are doing your best.”
“My best is not enough sometimes,” he admitted quietly, the words tasting like defeat.
“Don’t even think that!”
“But it’s true! Look at me,” he cried, stepping away from your soft touch to bury his face in his hands. “I can’t even keep my word because I’m so scared. I— the fear feels like it’s eating me up, gnawing away and keeping me paralyzed. I’m forever stuck in this— this house because they are outside and I can’t— I can’t tear myself away and nowhere else is safe.”
Your heart shattered. “Come here,” you said, keeping your voice airily light. It cut through the spiral of his thoughts like a knife, and he crashed into your open arms as if they were his lifeline. You held onto him tightly, running your fingers through his hair in a gesture you knew helped him calm down. “Small steps, Isaac. Yeah?”
“Steps?” he asked incredulously, his voice muffled against the fabric of your shirt. “I’ve been immobile for years!”
“That’s not true, love. These things take time,” you said, listening to his breathing slowly even out. The tears stopped, although the patch of wetness on your shoulder would remain a moment longer.
Isaac slowly raised his head, wiping at his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, his voice strained. He hesitated before retrieving his phone and checking the CCTV. “Just give me a moment, yeah?”
You blinked in surprise. “A moment for what?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“A moment to make sure nobody is there to— to hurt us. I checked already, but I want to make sure again before we go out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Pickle.”
“I don’t want to push you, Isaac. Maybe it’s best if we put this off—”
“No! I need to do this,” he said, his tone firm despite the tremor in his voice. “I need to! I can’t stand this anymore. I need to face this. I— I don’t feel ready, but— but I want to.” His eyes roamed over the footage, analyzing every rustling of leaves, checking for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. Isaac swallowed, closing his eyes to compose himself before plunging into his deepest fear. “You’ll stay by my side, yes?”
Your gaze softened. “Of course,” you said, taking his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “I promise.”
He bent down, picking up your gloves. “Alright,” he breathed, waiting for you to reappear at his side with the picnic basket and gardening tools in hand. “Alright, alright.” His hand hovered above the doorknob.
I want you to know your parents would have been proud of the man you have become, little one.
There was no big event. There was no gunshot — thank god. There was no sound out of the ordinary.
The birds continued chirping. The sun, although occasionally hidden behind a cloud, did not change color. Nothing changed at all as you both stepped outside. Isaac was weary, his eyes darting across the garden in search of something. He barely realized that he was outside at all, that he did it, with your hand tightly clasped in his while his other rested on the gun he couldn’t feel safe without.
“They don’t look so bad. I think a little trimming on the sides is all they need. Look, there are barely any weeds.”
Isaac looked down. After all these years, reading the names on the headstones still knocked the breath out of him. It was also the instance in which he realized — fully and without argument — that he was outside with the love of his life. The realization made him squeeze your hand harder, the feeling of having something incredibly valuable in a place where they were not safe was nearly enough to plunge him into a panic again.
But he had also faced his fear. He had kept his word, well, half of it. The first step was done, now he only needed to follow the path.
“You alright?”
He thought for a moment. “Yes,” he replied, surprised that he meant it despite his heart racing. “Do you want to trim or free them from the weeds?”
Gardening was surprisingly relaxing. You were carefully ridding the beautiful bush of flowers from its outreaching branches while Isaac plucked at the weeds growing beneath it on his knees. The conversation turned light, and for the first time in a decade, he forgot the overwhelming fear that came with being beneath a clear sky and allowed himself to chuckle fondly at something you said.
He paused, practically feeling the flower petals glow with happiness.
Yes, mom. I miss you too. It hurts every day that you’re not here — I miss you so much it burns a hole in my chest when I breathe. It has gotten easier with them. I love them, and I wish more than anything that you could have met the person who fills the void in my chest with love. I miss you every day. Tell Dad I miss him too and give Grandpa a big hug. I think I missed my chance when he was still here. I love you, take care.
“Isaac?”
He had not even realized that he was crying. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks in rivers that felt like they would never end. His hands were balled into fists, clutching at the earth beneath the flower bush, reminiscent of the time you had prompted him to talk to them for the first time.
God, it still hurt so much. Why did it still hurt so much?
“I’m fine,” he said, wiping at his eyes. It was useless, the tears would not stop falling. “I— I haven’t— the flowers and— I miss them. I miss them so much.”
You knelt beside him, gathering him into your arms again. Isaac slumped against your side, his blurry vision rising towards the headstones with the names of his family. The sight made his lower lip wobble, the feeling of drowning in his grief and sorrow overwhelming. He thought he would have if you had not been there to hold him together.
There was a reason he had never allowed himself to feel the extent of his pain when he was alone. He could not have born it. The misery and grief of his life would have crushed him, leaving him untethered in an unforgiving world with people who relied on him, expecting him to carry on his grandfather’s legacy like he had promised he would.
He had never allowed himself to feel the extent of his loss, and now that he knew he could — no need to hide from it behind whiskey glasses and ceiling-high towers of paper — it devoured him whole. He let it because he knew you were there to anchor him.
The flowers were done, and once the sun had begun its descent and noon turned into late evening, you found yourself spread out on the picnic blanket by the lake, plucking the daisies with the longest stems as Isaac’s head rested on your thigh.
He was eating one of the chocolate muffins you had baked, his tears long since dried. There was a slight downturn to his lips, betraying his somber thoughts despite the peaceful scenery around you.
“She hated baking,” he admitted quietly.
You halted your weaving, glancing at him. Instead of the bleak, sorrowful expression you had been expecting, there was a fond smile on his face.
“I used to make cookies with my father. We would— we would spend hours decorating them with icing and putting little designs on them. My mother liked cooking. She— she tried teaching me, but I wasn’t very interested. I mean, I was a kid. I preferred baking, but— You know, I wish I would have listened to her more. I wish I— I had appreciated them all more and now—” he broke off with a sigh, the fond memory charing at the edges as he was reminded of the harsh reality that they were gone. He would never again roll out dough with his father, or listen to his mother’s gentle instructions on how to make the perfect Goya.
You finished the flower crown, turning it around in your hands before placing it on Isaac’s head gently. He looked up at you, the expression of melancholy fading as he gave you a sweet smile.
“We’ll make the most of our time as well, love.”
