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You sit naked in the bathtub of your shitty apartment, heel propped up on the side to properly examine the gash on your leg. You think there's still enough skin there to stitch it closed, and you need to as quickly as possible. Since peeling off the medgel, blood has been sluggishly oozing out.
It's deep into your calf muscles, trails almost up to your knee, but doesn't seem to have hit bone, for whatever small blessing that gets you. At least being a Re-Gene makes you resistant to infection, or you really would have had to find a black market doctor for antibiotics. A bone infection is no joke.
As it was, you were barely able to get away from Ortega. Swearing up and down that you had someone who patched you up when things got messy was the only thing that got you away. He tried to insist on accompanying you, and it was only telling him the doctor had the same level of paranoia about privacy you did that got him to back off.
It wasn't really a lie because you are your own doctor.
The numbness from your pain-gate started to fade before you got home, and you are not looking forward to cleaning your wound. You may not be susceptible to infection but that doesn't mean you want to take chances. You need to flush all the debris out.
Landing yourself in the hospital is a death wish, and you aren't ready to die yet. Not by a long shot.
You load up a large syringe with sterile saline, spread the wound with one hand, flush it with the other. The burn is absolutely agonizing for the scant two seconds that drag on before the blessed numbness of your pain-gate reactivates and brings the level back down to tolerable.
Once again, you can't deny your very few perks of being a Re-Gene. But being human would allow you to get treated like a normal person. In a normal hospital. Is it worth it?
Probably not.
Maybe you should stop dwelling on this.
You finish flushing the wound, stitch it up. Your needlework isn't the prettiest, but it gets the job done. Bandage it up, and fuck, you need a bath but your tub looks like a murder scene right now.
Dancing on your one good leg, you manage to wash enough blood down the drain that you won’t feel like you’re just soaking in your own iron and run a hot bath. Sink in slowly with a sigh, muscles unclenching in the blessed heat, hanging your bandaged leg over the side.
Now that the immediacy of your wound has been dealt with, you’re left with something potentially better? worse? occupying your mind.
Ortega kissed you.
Fuck.
Your heart beats like a frantic bird trapped in your chest at the memory. The look of fear when he found you trapped. Stark relief as you clambered to your feet, his strong hands steadying you. The hesitance as his fingers rolled up the edge of your mask. The tenderness before your own eyes squeezed shut as his lips met yours.
What does it say about you that you were frozen in place? Letting him kiss you once his intent was clear?
You'd like to say it was the first time that you had been kissed. But it was definitely the first time you'd been kissed like that .
He kissed you like you were a person.
Not a thing. Not a toy.
Like you were important to him.
Like you mattered.
His lips were so soft.
You bury your face in your hands, a strangled noise clawing its way out from deep in your chest. Sink lower into the water. Like it can wash away your tattoos, make you human. Like it can hide you from the consequences of your own inaction.
What if someone saw? Got a picture? He's a celebrity in this city, for fuck's sake.
It was just up to your nose that was exposed. No one could identify you from that, right? They can't find you from that… right? No birthmarks or moles or scars there to pinpoint you. It's not enough for them… right? But what if—
The phone going off on the floor startles your increasingly panicked train of thought into derailing. In the pocket of your jacket, discarded next to the tub. You splash a little in your haste to grab it. Only one person would be calling you.
With a death grip on your phone to keep it from slipping into the water, you flip it open and raise it to your ear.
"Hey, you." Two words, maybe not shaking.
"Hey, yourself. How's the leg?"
"Taken care of. I'll live."
"Good!" Stark relief in his voice. "Can you meet for dinner tomorrow?"
You'd think it was a date if it wasn't his standard M.O. for checking in on you after a fight. Making sure you eat a solid meal or two instead of the crap he always sees you snacking on. But after that kiss… Have things changed?
Do you want them to, even though they can't?
You swallow down your nerves. "I— yeah. I can meet you."
"Great!" Why can't you sound as laid-back? "Meet me at HQ at five?"
"S-sure. I'll be there."
"Okay." His voice softens. "I'm really glad you're okay, Riley. When you— I thought— promise me you won't do something stupid like that again, okay?"
Fuck, you're lucky this is a phone call and he can't see how much your face is burning. Why does he sound like that? He can't really care that much… can he?? He can't possibly. He's dating someone else. Why did he kiss you?
You try to laugh it off. "You first, old man."
"That's… fair." He chuckles. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"
"Yeah. Have a good night."
"You, too. Take it easy."
You flip the phone shut with a sigh and let it fall back onto your clothes. Drain the tub, take a quick shower. Down some painkillers. Fall into bed.
Try not to think about everything.
You succeed only because of exhaustion, but the sleep is erratic. Nightmarish. Too close a call with that car exploding next to you. Too many emotions still running high.
To say you're fitful and restless the entire day is an understatement, but you know you need to stay off your leg as much as possible. You end up bussing to the other side of the city early just to get out of your apartment. Take the long route so you arrive at the right time.
The young woman at the front desk greets you and lets you back to the break room, as usual. You find a couple of the Rangers there relaxing, snacking.
Anathema looks up at you with a shit-eating grin as you enter. "Hey there!"
"Hey, Themmy." You raise a hand in greeting.
Steel glares at you from his seat next to her. He's bruised, scraped, but none too worse for the wear from Psychopathor. Is it your imagination or is his glare colder than usual? Whatever. You flip him the usual bird and limp over to the fridge to steal a drink from Anathema's shelf.
Your hand freezes halfway to the handle, heart dropping into your stomach like a lead weight at the sight of a newsprint photo and headline taped to the fridge.
A NEW BATTLE COUPLE?
By some miraculous blessing, the angle of the photo is terrible. Probably taken from a helicopter, you heard them overhead. You're half-blocked from view by Ortega's broad shoulders, but the position of his hands on your face, the closeness, and the tilt of his head make it obvious that he's kissing you. And anyone paying attention to the hero scene would be able to pick out Sidestep's soot-covered teal and grey color-blocked coat.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
"Fuck!"
You rip the clipping from the fridge and shove it in your pocket. Cast a glance over your shoulder. Anathema's grin has somehow gotten wider. Steel's glare has somehow gotten colder.
"Sooooo, you and Ricardo, huh?" Anathema asks with a snort of laughter.
"No!" You slam the fridge shut after grabbing one of Anathema's sodas. Take a sullen seat across the table from them.
"It works, though. Riley Owens and Ricardo Ortega. Same initials, even."
"No, it doesn't!" That is absolutely not a thought that has ever occurred to you because you absolutely do not have a crush on the man. "Besides, he's still seeing that other Riley."
Maybe that came out a little whiny. You still can't believe Ortega fell for that overdramatic fop. Or that he keeps flirting with you while dating someone else with your name. That doesn't sting at all.
What would Riley make of the picture? Ortega getting paired with other heroes and villains by the media is par for the course but… he doesn't usually kiss them. You can't see this ending well, especially with Riley's penchant for escalation and theatrics.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Steel growls quietly, as though he were the mind reader and not you.
You and Anathema both gape at him. "What?!"
"Ask him yourself."
"You can't just drop a bomb like that and not give details," Anathema says, digging an elbow into his side.
"We have a meeting soon." He rises from his seat, an infuriating little smile settling across his lips. "Let's go."
"Fine, but you're spilling later." She gets up, gives you a little wave as she dutifully follows Steel. "Bye, Riley! Have fun on your date tonight!"
"It's not a date!"
Only a fading cackle answers you, leaving you alone with your pilfered soda and thoughts. You cradle the cold can and stare down at your foggy aluminum reflection.
It's not a date. Couldn't be. But what was Steel hinting at? Did they break up? The cracks in their turbulent relationship had only grown deeper and multiplied in the last month. Maybe this did cause a rift. Irrevocably? A rude little part of you desperately hopes so. If only—
Hand on your shoulder. "Hey, you."
You yelp and the can crunches between your hands, splashing soda on the table. Fuck, you hate his stupid untraceable static brain. When will you learn not to sit with your back to the door around him?
Ortega chuckles and pulls his hand back. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to sneak up on you."
"You always do anyway," you complain, hiding your embarrassment as you mop up your mess with a napkin.
You glance up at him to find him watching you with his usual grin, brown eyes sparkling with the same good humor. If there's trouble in paradise, he's giving you no indication. And you sure as hell aren't bringing it up.
"Maybe you're just too easy to sneak up on." Unrepentant asshole. He's the only one who can. "Did I keep you waiting long?"
You glance at the clock. He's predictably twenty minutes late. "No more than usual." There's no fire in your voice. You hadn't really been paying attention to the time anyway.
"Sorry." At least he has the grace to look a little ashamed. "Anything you're in the mood for tonight?"
You shrug. "Surprise me?"
"Oh, I can definitely do that." The grin he gives you makes your insides squirm. He slides an arm around your waist and guides you to the door. You'd be cranky about it if you weren't half-using him to take some weight off your leg. "Let's go!"
A short cab ride later, you find yourself at a little hole in the wall Italian joint. It's dark and homey inside, a rich brick interior with classic red and white accents. The matron in the front of the house greets Ortega more like a son than a guest, leads you both back to a quiet corner table, takes your drink order, lets you settle in with your menus.
He keeps giving you a look over his menu like he wants to say something but can't quite find the words. You're similarly tongue-tied, flushed, your eyes keep finding their way to his lips as you settle on a choice.
Fuck, why did he kiss you?
The waitress grants you mercy from the awkward silence, brings your drinks and takes your orders. Ortega's easy smile makes her mind light up, and you hide your grimace with your soda until she leaves.
He takes a long swig of his beer. Having something to hold, or maybe just the alcohol, seems to steady him.
"How's your leg doing?"
"Hurts." You shrug. "But it'll be fine. Give me a week or two and I'll be back in action."
"Don't rush it." He's serious, using his Marshal voice. "I really wish you'd join the Rangers. You know we would—"
"Not this again." You roll your eyes. "I'm trying to stay out of the spotlight."
"Heh. Sorry about that." He rubs the back of his neck. "At least it was a shitty photo?"
"... I guess."
"Are you mad?"
"About the photo?" You smirk despite yourself, kick him under the table. "You know I am, you idiot."
"Give the press a week, they'll pair me with someone else, you know that." A little reciprocal smirk tugs at his lips. "What about the kiss?"
Fuck. How does he just do that ? Your gaze drops to your glass. "I… no… but— You're… seeing someone else. I don't—"
A heavy sigh and you glance up to find him not quite looking at you. "Riley won't be coming around anymore."
You stare at him incredulously, waiting for him to continue.
"It was probably a long time coming but… we broke up." Ortega drags a hand down his face. "He's not taking it well. I thought we were just having fun, but apparently he thought we were serious."
"And you kissed me because…?" You're not about to become another fucking notch in his belt.
"When I thought you were…" He swallows another gulp of beer, hands white-knuckled on the glass. Meets your gaze with far more steadiness than you feel. "I realized there's only one Riley I really like."
The look he's giving makes your heart leap into your throat. Makes your face burn. You bury it in your hands.
"You can't mean that." He can't. He's the Marshal of the Rangers. You're just a weird little Re-Gene with delusions of personhood. He has no idea what he's saying.
"Why not?"
You make the mistake of looking up and his brown eyes are glowing in the low light, wide and plaintive and searching your face you and fuck. You can't even begin to explain why not. You don't want the way he looks at you to change.
The waitress reappears with your food, gives you an opportunity to get yourself under control. The reason for coming here is obvious now; the portions are huge. You'll be eating pasta for days. You attack your plate with fervor as you try to sort out what to say to fill the expectant silence hovering between you. Swallow it down around the knot in your throat. You still don't know. He seems content to let you sort yourself out. You can't though.
"I— fuck. How do you just… say things like that? I just… fuck."
His apparent calm by comparison as he cuts into his chicken is driving you crazy. You can't brush the surface of his thoughts to see if he's internally even half as riled as you are.
"If you don't feel the same, it's oka—"
"I… I don't know?" You do know. But you can't. He's already too close and it kills you but you can't bring yourself to pull away. He's a brilliant flame and you're just an idiot moth of a Re-Gene that can't fly away. That wasn't built for this. Wasn't meant for this.
Fuck.
"I just… I've never… it's… it's complicated?" The last word comes out a cracked plea. You don't know for what.
"It's okay , Riley." A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Let's eat. We can talk more after."
Dinner is a tense affair. You resolve to keep your eyes on your plate. They betray you and keep sneaking glances that get caught almost immediately. His smile returns every time. Not mocking, but definitely smug.
Punching him and fleeing doesn't seem like it would quite solve the issue—not that you can even run right now— so you bury yourself in the meal instead.
You fill up fast, both of you, utensils slowing down, heavy sighs of satisfaction. It's good. It's always good wherever he takes you. He orders you a piece of cake to go when the waitress checks in because he always does. Has her take the plates back to box them up. Pays the check, tips heavily.
You still don't know what to say as you follow him out to the street. He carries the bag, walks slowly enough for you to easily limp along in his wake. Not far though, he takes a seat on a bench and you settle in beside him. You are absolutely not overly aware of the fact that there's only about two inches between you.
"So…"
"... yeah."
You both laugh but it's forced. Awkward. You glance up to find him glancing down and you both turn away. A leaden silence hangs between you.
He finally breaks it, saving you from doing it yourself. "I meant what I said before."
You turn cautiously to him. "About…?"
He meets your gaze evenly. "If you don't feel the same. It's okay. Nothing has to change if you don't want it to."
"It's not— I never…" You trail off into uncertainty.
"Been in a relationship?"
You nod after a moment. You had been thinking about how you never meant to get this close, but it's a moot point now. You're here.
"I can't imagine why, you're so easy to get along with," he teases, half a grin canting on his lips.
You punch him in the shoulder. "You're such an ass, Ortega."
He laughs, rubs his shoulder. "You like it."
"Maybe." Your own lips twitch in an answering smile. Fuck, how is he so good at getting to you? "But I am not rebounding for you. Your rebounds are even messier than your break ups."
He actually flushes at that and looks away. Score one for you, for once. "Fair enough. Revisit the subject later? You set the pace."
That gives you time you desperately need to sort yourself out. Get yourself back under control. Quash this little crush of yours that you absolutely do not have.
You give him a level look. "I'm not promising anything."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"Good."
"Ready to go home?" He stands, offers you a hand up.
You nod and take it, using him to balance and keep the strain off your leg. His grip shifts once you're settled, fingers intertwining with yours. He gives you a smug little grin. You look away, heat creeping up your neck, but don't pull away. Not because you like it, but because you know a challenge when you see one.
Maybe if you keep telling yourself that, it'll become true.
He hands you the bag of food so he can wave down a passing cab. Talks to the driver and hands them too much money. He helps you in and rests his arms on the frame.
"I'm not riding with you so you'll actually take it all the way home this time."
He's on to your little game of picking a spot several blocks out and walking the rest of the way. Maybe you should have been less obvious about it. Oh well. Better for your injury this way. You nod.
"Text me when you get there, alright?"
"Okay."
He closes the door and turns away. You gesture to the driver to wait a moment and roll down the window.
You know what? Fuck it.
Maybe you weren't built for this, but you weren't built for escaping or living a life (sort of) or vigilante work or anything you've been doing since your handler died and you fled for the hills. You've been winging it for almost two years. Still alive. Still free. What's the point of pretending to be human if you can't actually live a little? Consequences are problems for future you.
"Hey, idiot!"
He comes back, grins despite the insult, leans down. "What's—"
You grab him by the collar of his shirt as soon as he's in reach and pull him in, lips crashing into his. It's awkward, he's too damn tall. He doesn't even try to right himself, instead lets out a surprised, pleased little noise as your tongue slips in. First time you've chosen to kiss. May as well make it a good one.
You draw back and say "Thanks for dinner, Ricardo," before letting him go.
He stumbles upright, unbalanced in more ways than one. It's the first time you called him that, you think. You give him the same wide smirk that usually looks at home on his face and roll the window back up before he can say anything. Bask in the stunned wonder on his face as the cab pulls away.
It's nice to get the last word in for once.
As much as you're loath to give him another opening to talk this evening, you follow through and shoot him an all-clear text when you get home. Ignore the phone when it buzzes back. Strip off your outer layers and toss them over the arm of your lumpy xth-hand couch. A crinkle in one of the pockets snags your attention and you pull out the news clipping.
It's so ridiculous. So stupid. But so are you.
You add it to your growing collection of articles featuring Sidestep in the shoebox under your bed. Your little box of proof that the world thinks you're real, even if you're not.
Maybe if you keep pretending, you can be.