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It's been three days since you stopped the Nanosurge and your head is still killing you. Will this migraine ever pass? The thoughts around you in the apartment complex and streets below beat against your frayed shields like a drum line. You're barely holding down water, much less food, and sleep has been almost out of the question entirely. Fitful. Broken. Leakage coming in from others now without you consciously keeping it out.
You crack your eyes open and groan. Even the scant sunbeams that creep through the edges of the blinds are too bright. Your phone buzzes. Another check in from Ortega. You fumble a hand out onto the beat up shelf you use as a bedside stand and rip the phone from its charger. Not to answer his text this time, though.
Ortega always makes fun of you for your ancient touchtone phone, but you don't need anything better. Can't really afford it either. But you don't need to look at the brightly lit screen as you dial his number, so who's the dummy now?
Still you for calling, but you don't know how much more of this you can take before your shields finally cave and you lose what little of yourself you have left to the frenzy of the city.
"You're calling me? Are pigs circling overhead?"
"Can it," you moan, flinching and jamming the volume down. "Did they… let you get out of the hospital yet?"
"Yeah, I decided I was good this morning and checked myself out." You would roll your eyes if you weren't concerned they might fall out right now. "You don't sound great, Ry."
"I don't feel great." You can't quite keep the pathetic whine out of your voice. It's an admission you hate to make.
"Tell me what I can do." He's eager. Probably itching to do anything after three days in the hospital.
"Get me out of the city?"
"Are you actually asking to go to the ranch?" His teasing can't quite keep the concern out of his voice.
"Yes. Please?" You'll beg if you need to.
"Of course." His tone gentles. "I'll come pick you up. Seaton and Fifth, right?"
Fuck. You forgot he brought you home before getting himself looked at. You swore you just needed to sleep off your mental strain. He didn't believe you, wanted you to go to the hospital as well. You argued, as usual. Blood oozed through his hasty field bandages. You can't remember what you said to get him to back off. But he finally did.
Doesn't matter. You can move again. Wouldn't be the first time your apartment was compromised by Sidestep. Probably won't be the last.
"Ry?"
You left him hanging too long. "Yeah. Car please?" The thought of clinging to him on the back of his motorcycle right now makes you want to vomit. You've done entirely too much of that the past few days.
"You got it," he says softly. "I'll be there in an hour."
"Thanks, Ric."
You end the call and it takes everything you have to not slump back over on your bed. You leave the lights off and strip down for a shower. You need one desperately, but haven't been able to muster the energy. The promise of getting out of the city spurs you into painstakingly slow action, but you have time.
After your lukewarm shower, you slip into a clean layered outfit. Long underwear, jeans, long sleeve t-shirt, jacket. Too many layers for July. Always too many, but you can't risk it. You shove some more clothes and a few necessities into a thread-worn backpack and lock up. The sun sinking towards the cityscape pulls a swear from your lips. Way too bright. You're stunned to find Ortega already waiting for you in the parking lot, leaning against his car and keeping an eye out for you. He's always been late before.
He jogs over to meet you, concern knotting his brow, mouth upturned in a deep frown. You know you look like death warmed over, even after the shower. You certainly feel like it.
He catches you when you trip on the uneven sidewalk, loops an arm around your waist, and takes your backpack over his other shoulder. "Jesus, Riley—"
"Can you please save the lecture for after we get out of here?" You cut him off through gritted teeth.
Something in your voice convinces him to stop. Makes him flinch. "Yeah. Okay."
This close to you, the dull static of his mind cushions yours, eases the pressure of so many others in the vicinity. You almost slump with relief against him. His arm tightens around your waist. Maybe you did slump. He helps you into the passenger seat, buckles you in. You can't quite bite back a whimper as his soothing static withdraws with his touch, and you're bombarded again.
The engine rumbles to life a minute later, sweet, sweet air conditioning blessing you from the vents. You would kill to not have to wear layers in the summer heat. The mental noise battering you leaves you limp in the seat, head lolling with the movement of the car. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shattered focus tries to maintain the little bit of shielding you have left.
Ortega is unusually quiet, taking your request for a lecture later seriously. His hand tentatively tangles with yours and you give it a small squeeze, a sign there's life still in you. He doesn't let go. He's plenty capable of driving with one hand.
The pressure against your shields eventually eases as the city vanishes over the horizon behind you. You let them drop, finally. The pain in your head still throbs, but now at least the waning evening sun doesn't burn through your eyelids. You open your eyes to watch the world go by.
Ortega is a soothing static presence beside you, a balm to your frayed nerves. You feel him watching you out of the corner of his eyes. "Can we talk now?"
You nod and sit a little straighter in the seat. He still hasn't let go of your hand. For once, you can't bring yourself to mind. It's private here. Safe. No paparazzi to dog you. No team to tease you.
"You should have come with me to the hospital."
You scowl and turn your gaze out the window to the scrub. "I wasn't injured. They had enough to deal with."
You feel his withering stare at the back of your head. "You look half-dead, Ry."
"I don't know what they could have done, it's all in my head. Literally." You sigh irritably. "I thought if I just got some rest—"
"Level with me, have you slept at all?"
"... not really. It hurt too much."
"Riley—"
You turn back to him and growl, "I called you, didn't I?"
"You did. I have to give you credit for that." He sighs, wind slightly taken from his sails. "Wish you would've sooner though."
"I didn't know it would keep hurting so much. I've never done anything like that before." You struggle to not let your volume rise, to fall into familiar arguments. You're too strung out.
He thankfully relents as well. "I guess that makes sense. I wonder if it's like a torn muscle?" He hums in thought. "It probably won't get better if you don't let it rest."
"That's what I thought. And I can't relax my shields in the middle of the city. So… ranch. No one lives there but your mom now. I think I can handle that."
"It's as good a plan as any. I let her know we were coming, she's fine with it. I'm on medical leave for the next couple weeks anyway."
Your eyes drift to the bandages covering his forearms. You hadn't noticed them before, too focused on your own mental agony. "Are you okay?"
He scoffs away your concern. "I got off easy, thanks to you. Just needed some skin grafts."
"I'm glad."
It hits you like a punch to the gut now that you can focus on something other than your own head. You should have stopped it sooner. So many people didn't get off easy. Died horribly. Your fault for not doing anything sooner. Hot tears track down your cheeks before you can stop them and you scrub at them with your free hand.
"Hey. Talk to me." His hand tightens on yours. "What's wrong?"
"I should have done something sooner. I was scared. A coward. All those people… "
"Ay, no. A coward is the last thing I'd call you." He gives you an appraising glance before turning back to the road. "Did you know you could do that?"
"No. I had no idea."
"Then you can't possibly be a coward. And it's not your fault people died. It's those pendejos that made those things in the first place."
You don't quite agree, but you appreciate the sentiment. The support.
"How did you do that, anyway? Control them."
"I don't know." You haven't been able to really think about it around your migraine. "You started screaming and your skin was…"
Melting, muscle and wire exposed, mods flaring out of control—
You shake your head to derail that train of thought. Regret it when your head aches more. "I was so scared of losing you that I screamed too and they… heard me? I connected with them. Stopped them. Held them back. It hurt so much. But if I let go, they would have—"
The implications of what you're saying dawn on you, and you glance over to find him with a dopey grin on his face.
"You like me that much, huh?"
You flush hot in your face and stutter. "D-don't be an idiot."
He laughs and you return it with a shy smile.
"I think you're a lot stronger than you realize, Ry," he says after a moment, suddenly serious. He's said it before, you've never agreed. You aren't sure you can discount it anymore.
"Maybe."
Your thoughts drift to the Farm. Tests. Rankings. Did they have any idea you were stronger than your given rank? Wouldn't be the first time they lied to you, if so. Maybe you've grown stronger in the past few years as you've used your powers outside the Farm's narrow applications. Ortega might be onto something with the muscle theory. Will you continue to grow? Could you go beyond alpha level? They'd stop at nothing to get you back if you were. You can't help the shiver that runs through you.
"Don't know if that's a good thing."
He gives you a confused look. "Why wouldn't it be?"
Fuck, did you say that out loud? You shrug and try to cover but you can't think of anything. Too tired, too sore.
"I don't know." You can't say why, you would have to admit to so many more things first. "It's complicated."
He shakes his head with a wry smile, returns his attention to the road. "Par for the course then."
"I guess." A huge yawn escapes you before you can stop it.
"Get some sleep, Ry. We're still a few hours from the ranch." He chuckles. "You show up looking like a zombie, mamá will never stop fussing over you."
"She about fed me full to bursting last time, what more can she do?"
He gives you a pointed sideways glance that speaks volumes. "You really want to find out?"
"Nope." You smile and lean the seat back to a more comfortable position.
He still hasn't let go of your hand. You don't want him to now. Not after being reminded just how close you were to losing him permanently. The physical reminder of his presence is comfort you hadn't realized you craved until now.
You aren't going to tell him that though. He's already too smug.
It doesn't take long before the hum of the engine and rocking of the car send you to the slumber you desperately need.