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You knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid it forever - talking about it.
Even still, you tried. Diverted whenever Ortega looked a little too long, complained about needing to sleep so he’d drop the subject - just because it was out in the open didn’t mean it needed to be addressed. Christ, that was the last thing you wanted. But it had been three days, and he hasn’t said anything. He got you your smokes when you woke up screaming and only held you, telling you you were safe. He didn’t ask.
Course, your luck had to run out eventually.
You hear the door opening, and with it, your mouth opens to protest whatever statement Ortega is about to make - but pause when you see what he’s holding.
“Why the hell are you holding a trash bag?” The words slip faster than intended; have you really let your mental guard down that much? Five days ago, you would have waited patiently for him to speak first. It’s odd to see him dressed down. A rangers hoodie and black sweatpants - those you swear have to be Gucci, and even if they aren’t, you’ll keep referring to them as such.
He’s got a smile on his face, crooked like always, as he points at your casts. “Shower time! Need to wrap the cast up, so it doesn’t get wet.”
“You’re joking.” Your voice is flat as he approaches the bed.
“It’ll be good! At least for a change of scenery, let me at least help a little.”
“I don’t need you to wait on me - Ricardo, put me down!” You protest as Ortega picks you up bridal style,
“Ren, you pulled a muscle in your shoulder; I doubt you’ll be able actually to wash your hair.”
You can only roll your eyes. “I’m not helpless. You’re having far too much fun playing nurse.”
“If I was playing nurse, I’d at least have the sexy outfit on.” Ortega snipes back with a wink. You laugh involuntarily at the thought and look away - maybe blush a little, but you’d never admit that to him. His smugness is already riding at an all-time high.
This is too easy. The back and forth, him picking you up, mindful when you wince. You hate the helplessness - but shit, it’s nice to be cared for, for once. Even if he could kill you right now if he knew the truth, the whole truth.
he wouldn’t.
You’ve seen Ortega’s bathroom a handful of times, years ago when things were less complicated. You slept on the floor one time after drinking too much, the third time you’d ever gotten properly drunk; the smell of tequila still makes your stomach churn to this day.
maybe it always was complicated? I just ignored it back then.
Ortega sets you down on the chair in the shower - no tub; he says he can’t soak in water without short-circuiting and frying his mods. Once the plastic bag is over your legs, the inevitable moment hits, you need to take your shirt off.
It’s not even yours, it belongs to Ortega, and it’s an ugly shade of Ranger blue.
“I know I said….” Ortega starts, hesitating before he continues. “But I can leave, whatever makes you most comfortable.
You can’t avoid it forever. “It's…fine. Just stand behind me?”
He nods, moving behind the chair as you struggle out of the t-shirt.
He knows - he’s seen; it doesn’t matter anymore; it’s fine. Your mind repeats over and over as you toss the fabric to the floor, and you stare. The blue makes your eyes hurt the longer you look at it. It's too bright to be proper Ranger blue, too dark to be Sidestep - some terrible place in the middle.
“I know you’re dying to ask, so just get it over with.” It’s a bitter statement, harsh and quick but lacking the venom you want it to carry. He’s making you soft - is that a bad thing? Yes, it is a very bad thing.
“I…You tried to get them off?” Ortega asks voice so low you hardly catch it.
Them. The neon orange tattoos and barcode, the brands burned into your skin before you could even breath or think, marking you as merchandise, as property . You know where he’s looking without even seeing his face. It’s in his hands, tracing - not touching, tracing - over a section on your upper arm.
You know the patch far too well. Where the skin is grafted, craved off, it’s only the size of your palm, messy from the scalpel which had shaken in your hands as you had carved your flesh. One success in an array of failed knives and burn scars to remove your labelling.
He moves his hand to your wrist, turning it, tracing his thumb over the smaller scars - ones that found themselves in an attempt at feeling rather than freedom. Ortega is too gentle now, like you’ll break in his hands if he gets too close. Maybe he’s not wrong; maybe you’re teetering on the edge, hoping he’ll push you over, shatter you and make you stop what you’re doing.
“I wish you’d stop hurting yourself.” He says as he kisses your temple.
You stop yourself from laughing. Isn’t that what this is? Being here in his apartment and near him is its own form of self-harm.
You know Ortega cares, fuck, he’s said he loves you - says it all the time, reminding you that all things considered, what you are, what lies you spouted from your mouth - the lies that keep coming from it, that he cares . He doesn’t know everything - Phantasm is a dirty little secret you’ve managed to keep contained with whatever skeletons you have left in your closet. At least, you think. His mind is static, the silent hum of steady noise. There are no thoughts or surfaces to skim looking for the lies; you can only rely on body language and facial expressions, just like they taught you.
He doesn’t need to know.
He just needs to keep looking at you like you’re real.
Are you going to cry?
“Renee?”
Ortega’s voice snaps you out of it finally. He’s moved slightly, so he’s squatting next to you in the shower, able to see your face now. Suddenly you feel too exposed; he can see every scar, every orange line - can he see the exhaustion? You can’t let him, so you soften your face and smile.
“Yeah, sorry - thinking too much. I don’t think I’m used to having you seeing me like this. Knowing and everything.”
He puts a hand on your face, then his forehead to yours. “Nothing’s going to change how I feel about you? You know that, right? Especially after everything, after I got you back.”
Your throat clenches. You want him to stop talking.
Quickly, your eyes search across his face for a mote of doubt, of I know what you’ve become, I know who you are. You won’t find it. Just dark brown eyes that edge on black, grey hair that didn’t use to be there, wrinkles and scars that are new and you haven’t memorized yet and that terrible moustache you can’t get the heart to tell him to shave off.
He doesn’t know. He can’t.
“You’ve made that very clear.” It’s a forced laugh that bubbles through your throat, but your half-hearted smile is enough to soften his gaze and help him relax.
“Good,” Ortega says, kissing your forehead, then leaning over to start the handheld spout on the shower.
He cares too much, and you think you do too. This won’t last forever. You’ve got maybe a month and a half - maybe two before people start to ask questions about Phantasm. It’ll be easy to figure out and make the connections. Ortega’s so paranoid about Hollow Ground you might be able to skirt by, but Steel? That’s another story. You doubt the Marshal fully trusts you now, and you don’t blame him.
The water’s warm when it hits you, not scalding as you usually make it, and it’s….nice.
Maybe this isn’t bad. Maybe you should let yourself enjoy the lie a little longer. That you can be ordinary people, have an everyday life and have a normal relationship. He’s not a hero; you’re not a villain. That he doesn’t stand for everything you want to tear down until your fingernails are gone and your hands bleed, and that he’ll die trying to stop you. You know that in five months, three if you're lucky, you’ll be in a metal suit, he’ll be in his mesh one, his neck under your boot and your heart in his hands.
It’s inevitable.
He might accept the Re-gene side of you, but the villain one? You know Ortega, and the chances of that are slim.
So you can afford be a little selfish before it comes to that.
Right?