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1. You’re growing too familiar to see, for someone whose been dead for so long. He thinks it’s the drink talking. Maybe it’s just the drink talking. You knew how that burn of liver-muck sliding down his throat makes him feel, knew what it made him do, what it made him see. So. Maybe it’s the drink- the drinks, that make you easy to recognize, easy to pick out.
Or it could be that raw desperation that’s been gnawing at his throat since all this shits been said and done. Or it could be all those times his heart skipped its beats. Or it could be this. Or it could be that. There’s just so many lights everywhere.
Whatever it could be, you’re still in Hoots this time, wearing a button-up shirt that’s definitely not as buttoned-up as it’s supposed to be, and maybe your skin’s a little darker, and maybe your hair’s a little neater, but hey, it’s you, isn’t it? Is it not?
It is not, the Ortega that was there three drinks ago would have said.
This isn’t tipsy Ortega. This is drunk Ortega, dead-set Ortega, the Ortega that’s currently stumbling through beer-reeking patrons of this bar. Drunk, dead-set Ortega nudges one too many chairs, and doesn’t care if the half-drunk bourbon in his hand spills all over his shirt, because you’re here. Sitting at the bar, nursing a sweating amber beer. Not looking at him.
The lights of the place and the light-headedness that both hurts his eyes should be enough of a red flag, but who cares. You didn’t. So he doesn’t. He ignores the warning bell that is an upcoming headache in favor of you, and knows he should have stayed in place. Thought about what the hell to say and admired in the distance. Should have realized he had nothing right to say and should have been satisfied with you being here.
But he’s never been able to stay away from you for too long. The captain goes down with his ship, the ball of chain brings the man down to the ground, and hands coming up from six feet of earth always dig to fit two.
He finally gets to you and touches your shoulder. Gentle. You hated being touched. See? He remembers that too. See? Look at him, remembering that you hated being touched. See? Look at him, croaking out a light “God, there you are,” because here you are, here you are.
Oh, but you’re not here, nor are you there.
(Ricardo, he’s dead and gone. So sorry.)
Not-you stares at him, concerned and confused.
“Shit-” He whispers, and blinks, dropping his hand from not-you’s shoulder like he got burned. “Shit- I’m sorry. Wrong person.”
Ortega doesn’t wait for a response to let the empty shot glass clink on top of the table and get the hell out of there. Ignore the drying bourbon on his shirt. Ignore the way his eyes blear. Ignore the way he almost throws up in the trash can across the street. Ignore the way he almost sobs. He never does care about what he looks like when he’s shit-faced.
He goes home. He doesn’t change, and he falls on the bed.
“God, there you were,” he says to you. It’s slurred. It’s like a prayer, but not. It’s like a goodnight, but not. It’s like a goodbye, but not.
______________
2. Therapist number three, the one with a charming tilt to her cheekbones, coughs softly to get his attention. She’s very careful with her tone.
“Charge,” She says. “Are you hiding something?” Not accusatory. Just a question.
Ortega fidgets, and his eyes sharpen. He slides a near mean gaze toward therapist number three, and blinks. “Hm?”
Therapist number three smiles, a little sad, a little patient. “You’re looking at something behind me, even though there’s nothing behind me.”
He bristles at someone calling you nothing. You’re not nothing. You’re not nothing to him, and you shouldn’t be to anyone else.
You stand with a hand on therapist number three’s chair, blank stare, no expression. A spot of blood lands from your chin to the wooden frame of her chair. Slowly, - and he watches this- slowly, you take in a breath.
“Idiot,” You mouth, silent. His throat clogs.
“I should have saved some photos of him,” he blurts out. “He-he hated cameras so much, but I should have at least had one.”
He’s never said this to anyone before, and he’ll never say it again. He already regrets saying it now.
She nods, listening. “Why do you think so?”
There you are, not moving, not smiling, calling him a fucking idiot. He wishes he could remember what you looked like when you smiled with your teeth showing. That’s the one thing he can’t place.
Ortega stays silent.
___
3. (He fell, he’s not coming back. Pull yourself together.)
(Ah, no. Oh, no.)
___
4. Despite everything, the memories always come right back. Every time. Every single time. Routine, perhaps. A staple of his own being. They’re loud, and they’re rude with the way they don’t leave him alone, but no matter how bad they get, he can’t make himself push them away.
Illogically, he can’t be Charge without those things clawing at him, without them getting in between his fingers and under the grooves of his mods, without them rustling in his paperwork and bedsheets alike. He can’t, you know? It’ll be like a betrayal. It’ll be like accepting you’re actually gone, and where would that leave him? Rounding forty, with crow’s feet and smile line and nicely-healed scars? Where would that leave you? You with your neutral, clawed-in face, not even half-way to thirty? You, just a speck on the ground when he finally made himself look down?
No. It’ll be like leaving you all over again. It’ll be like a prayer. It’ll be like a goodnight, like a goodbye.
So. What does one do when they want to keep from saying goodbye. What does one do when they want to see you right there, or right here.
Ortega sits on the kitchen countertop, eating something not in-diet, not giving a shit about how Wei stiffens when he starts talking about you.
“Sidestep used to do this thing,” He starts, and around comes that merry circle of routine and repeat penances, “Where he’d make whatever Anathema told him to make and then he’d eat it.”
The blonde rookie, Herald, swerves in his seat, head jerky from all the stars already in his eyes, munching away at his chips. It’s always just a little push that gets Ortega going, just a small amount of encouragement. Doesn’t matter how rickety Wei starts making his coffee, how quickly he starts leaving the kitchen. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Angie snorts, and steals Herald’s bag of chips right from under his nose. Herald sighs at her sadly, and she shakes the bag at him.
“Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” Angie says, while Herald’s swallowing fast to say something as well. “Did someone get sick?”
“No-wait-” Herald coughs, having not chewed enough apparently. Ortega pats his back.
“Only Steel when he saw Sidestep chug an entire cup of spicy- uh, something.” Ortega answers. “Apparently the fact Anathema shoved enough tobasco sauce to give someone first-degree burns meant nothing.”
Herald laughs, grinning. He’s as wet behind the ears as they come when it comes to public hero work. Already they’re making him get rid of the way he rolls his vowels, prissing up his wavy hair into actual curls, and already he’s falling right into it.
Ortega likes him, though. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone about you without making them nervous. You know. Someone who doesn’t see the way the room gets thick and bad.
“What happened?” Herald asks.
“What do you think happened?” Angie waves her hand over to the fridge. “Bet he emptied his guts.”
Angie treats Herald nicely. Teases him a bit, sure, but she likes him. It makes Ortega feel better about what she was like when she just came in.
“Nope,” Ortega says. “Didn’t even blink. I think Ashfall crossed himself.”
“Oh my god,” Herald says, delighted. “That’s- wow. Oh my god?”
“Stop talking with food in your mouth,” Angie says, with food in her mouth.
Herald ignores her. “That’s amazing-” He laughs again. Delirious at the thought of knowing a bit about you not a lot of people do. Bright-eyed, with his hands still smooth, after working for some cute medicine tablet company or other, smile still genuine. Ortega doesn’t know how he does it. Maybe he did, before- before everything. It leaves an ugly twist in his stomach.
“Yeah,” He whispers, and the smile turns strained.
He doesn’t say that you really were, or that you didn’t think so. Killing the mood is always so easy when he does say things, and he needs this. Someone to remember you by, think of you in that way he did before everything went to shit. A tribute, if you will. Maybe a penance. A small ‘Hey, he was here. Not just here, but alive and here.’
He watches the Herald and Angie argue light-heartedly with each other. He makes his excuses to leave. The food is forgotten, and this part is always the part where he kind of understands why Wei never stays. It’s always a bit easier to walk away.
Ortega hasn’t walked away from anything in his life. This time, however, it’s different. This time, someone’s not letting him.
___
5. (His heart thumps in relief, and he’s funnily enough, scared.
He’s not scared because of everything that happened before. He’s not scared over how close it was, no matter how much his chest felt heavy and his mind started blaring sirens, no matter how all he could think about was the possibility of you not answering him a wave and a ‘here!’.
He peels off your mask, and you’re giving him a loopy smile, that one you get when your teeth start showing. That one you get when you’ll be okay, later.
He is not scared because you’re stuck underneath all that rubble, or because of how quickly the fabric on your leg starts dampening. You’re easy to stitch up, and he pulls you out of the debris, pulls you right on his lap. You breathe out a sigh, or maybe a gasp.
He’s scared of this:
“I’ve never kissed a man before,” Ortega mutters, fast. Like getting out in the air quicker will let it die quicker.
You snort at that. Annoyance flashes for just a second, but then you press a rough, dirty hand on the back of his neck and he leans in.
You’re a lot smaller than he thought you’d be, if that makes sense. Nothing makes sense. You run so hot for a second he thinks you have a fever.
It wasn’t even really a kiss. More like a press of mouths, a whisper. The implication of one, the idea that it could be there. He breaks off, or maybe you do. You hold the back of his neck and he holds the back of your head, both of your hands knotted in damp hair.
There’s that fear again. It’s just about to get into his ears when you bark out another laugh, close your eyes to grin even wider.
He kisses you again, or maybe you kiss him, and this time both of you feel like fever.)
Ortega wakes up. God, turns out he regrets so many things.
___
6. He’s awake in someone else’s bed in the middle of the night and the woman whose name he already forgot sleeps too deeply to notice him sitting at the edge of the bed, glancing over to where you sit on the windowsill.
Always the same face. Still clawed, still bloody. It wasn’t even that kid that made you do it.
Your eyes aren’t anything but puncture holes that show off the night sky behind you, and still, your knees seem silent. If that makes sense. You don’t fidget like you used to. Scars on your hands where there wasn’t before, but the same bulk of body. Just like you, but not. More angular. More lined. More ripped and un-seamed. You don’t smile, you never do.
He wants a drink.
“Love you,” Ortega whispers, and you don’t blink.
“Stupid,” You answer. And you leave, just like that. You can imagine how you do. Window, man, pavement on the ground.
He closes his eyes, runs his hands through his curls, doesn’t sleep.
The woman shifts around in bed. He doesn’t look. All he sees when he opens his eyes again is the moon, and his reflection from the window.
There’s a story you once managed to tell. Something about looking in mirrors and seeing something you don’t have. He can’t remember the details.
He knows this, though: Man, window, pavement on the ground. You didn’t get away from window fast enough, and he didn’t get to you fast enough.
Sounds like something you would have spun on about, as a story. A sick one.
___
7. Angie does a lot of things she doesn’t do, such as beat up Herald, and break buildings, and run from the police, and hurt civilians. She does so many things she would never do, no matter what Wei thinks, and when Wei finally picks her up from the ground she’s curled herself up on, and yells for a damn explanation, her voice is weak.
Something’s wrong. Ortega knows.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” She starts, and pulls her arm out of Wei’s hand. She stumbles, nearly trips if it hadn’t been for Wei catching her again. She looks around, and her eyes widen. No doubt she sees the smoke in the corner of her eye, or the trail of shrapnel and glass from where she caused a rampage. No doubt she can hear the faint LDPD sirens in the distance.
Herald’s being held up by Ortega’s hand on his waist, and Angie looks at him strangely. Then, she flinches back, mouth wide and voice high with panic.
Something is really, really wrong.
“What the fuck- I- “ Angie stutters. “What the fuck just happened-”
She starts shaking. If Ortega didn’t know better he’d have thought she’d start crying.
Wei blanches.
It’s simple math. Wei doesn’t trust Angie. She’s too old-vigilante, she’s from San Francisco, where everything is worse, and she’s too much. She doesn’t pull punches. She goes straight for guns, instead of the people behind said guns.
You and her are alike, a bit. Too restless, too close to the streets. Not a liability.
Yet you’re dead, and she’s here, in this backstreet alley, worried and confused and banged up.
Wei reaches out to grab her shoulder again, but this time he’s soft and careful about it, and he picks her up.
She lets herself get picked up, and closes her eyes.
“Is she-?” Herald rasps, leaning heavy on Ortega.
“I don’t know,” Wei replies. The military in him starts seeping in, and he’s back to nothing but poise and bark when he says. “We need an ambulance. Something’s wrong.”
Ortega already knows what Wei is thinking. God, you know you’re getting old when you start seeing the same patterns everywhere.
Angie doesn’t protest, which is answer enough. The sirens grow louder, and all he can think is you would have known what to do.
Would you?
“Chen,” He says, quiet. Ragged. Wei looks toward him, and the hardness of his face softens again. Ortega gives him a look, and Wei’s face further turns into concern. Herald starts floating in and out of consciousness, and they’re two men holding up two banged-up heroes, standing in the street, tired as hell. “I can’t do this again.”
Wei sighs. “We don’t have a choice.”
The heartbreak was just a kid, when Ortega found them. A banged-up one, that made two of the people he know die. Made a lot of different people do a lot of different things.
____
8. You tried helping it, Ortega thinks. Man, window, pavement. Or man, gun, mouth and hand.
No choice.
___
9. He’s shitty when he’s bored and working. A normal person would be at a shrink’s, but if he has to deal with people asking questions he’d rather shoot his foot through then answer, he’ll do exactly that.
So. Here he is. Bored and working. Being a shitty person.
It’s nice being shitty from time to time, funnily enough. It’s nice to work on things that don’t involve HQ, or Herald kicking himself out of misplaced guilt, or Angie’s paranoia-infused temper flares. There’s too much in him right now. Too much tension, too much static. If he tries to fit in any more, he’ll break something. Either himself or someone else. That’s how it usually goes.
Working, or rather ‘working’, lets him focus on something that isn’t helping Angie with whatever she’s going through. Ortega doesn’t have a clue on telepathy, or possession, or a warm hand of comfort. Wei does, but he doesn’t talk about it. Or he does, and Ortega loses another argument.
He’s not actually working. It’s just a habit he picked up in case the real work would just. Plop right into his lap.
The diner is on the poor side of the city, where the families with too many kids and not enough bedrooms live, and where petty crimes are a hassle to deal with. He doesn’t know the street, not as much as he should. Only knows how to get here, and who comes in and out.
There’s a mediocre sized line, with groups of people all shuffling themselves into cheap tables outside. The street smells of cigarette and oil, and the lights flicker weakly against the twilight. It’s not a nice place to stay. In fact, it’s shitty.
Like recognizes like.
He looks around, so drained that he barely processes anything. It’s always like this when he’s out of shift and out of public-eye. It’s using up more and more energy to keep pretending that his shit-eating grin is still genuine.
And of course, you’re here too, because the world likes making him as miserable as fucking possible in any situation. The merry go round creaks relentlessly as it turns and chugs, making him see the same horse over and over and over all over again.
So you’re in a shitty diner, this time. For some reason, it looks like this place suits you. The way you sit on one of the plastic tables, alone.
He sees you, sitting on one of the plastic tables. You look older, hunched, bone-exhausted and aching. The scars on your face are old and raggedly healed, the expression on your face lonely and unsmiling. You’re wearing something too thick and warm for the weather, and your hair is cropped short, patchy from a bad trim and tangled from lack of brushing.
His heart twists, and nausea in his stomach churns. He looks away. God, there you are.
He’ll turn away, and he’ll see someone else. Another Not-You. Or maybe he’ll see you seeing him. Eyes blank, face bleeding, hands shaky. ‘Idiot. Stupid. Fucking thick in the head.’
He shouldn’t look again. That’s what therapist number three told him to do. Don’t look back, stop thinking about it, ghosts can’t hurt you if you don’t let them, graves are always only meant for one single person, and hatchets should be buried alone as well.
But. But but but. Who cares. You didn’t. So he doesn’t.
He looks again, content to admire in the distance.
You’re the same. Bruised black eye and all. Haven’t moved from the spot on your chair save to breathe in a cigarette and glare out into the brick walls.
He blinks.
(You two used to joke a lot. That’s what the whole you telling him you might have loved him thing was. A joke. It was a joke.)
You’re still there.
He gets up.
You’re still there.
This joke isn’t funny.
It’s really, really not fucking funny.
“Jie-Sun?” He asks, loud enough to make the whole world silent.
And you look up, confused and suspicious. A frown is etched on your face, and your eyes flash as you scan the perimeter. Just like you used to, every time.
And you recognize Ortega. Lost for words, you say nothing.
The silence before the hit. Man, window, pavement on the ground. Man, diner, man.
There you are.