Chapter Text
You’re going to hurt him. It’s inevitable in the same way the sun rises each morning. In the way a person can only outpace death for so long. Something that can’t be willed away, no matter how stubborn you try to be.
Of all people, you know how cruel fate can be.
At first, you pinned all the blame on Ortega. It was his fault; he was the one that didn’t know when to call it quits. He was never one to give up, even if it was for his own sake. Not when it came to you. Not that you ever understood why . There had to be some kind of ulterior motive to keeping you around, because it couldn’t be for your company. You aren’t kind, you’re unpleasant - you were during your days as Sidestep, and it’s only gotten worse now. Too broken, too tired, it’s so easy to let your mask slip, for people to catch glimpses of the real you. The awful, rotten core of what you are.
And yet, he’s stuck around.
Steel was never one to bullshit, though. Especially when it comes to dealing with you. No questionable interests there, not like Ortega, and his dislike of you meant he never bothered to sugarcoat anything. It was as grating as it was refreshing, most of the time. It made him easy to fit into a box, to predict how he’ll be so you can act accordingly.
As soon as you made a reappearance, hanging around his Rangers again, he was there to call your motives into question. This time around, it felt…off. More than it had been, before. There’s still a heavy layer of distrust to his attitude, but you didn’t need to be a telepath to pick up on the worry there, too. Worry for Ortega - thoughts he wouldn’t voice, but were etched between each dig and thinly veiled accusation. That he’d barely survived you the first time, parts of him broke then that never healed. That he wouldn’t handle losing you again. Because Steel knows you, and knows how this will end.
Always the realist to Ortega’s misplaced optimist.
And somewhere between it all, a flash - concern for you . Realization that you don’t carry yourself right. You look hollow. Would you be okay?
What happened to you?
You cut those threads before it could create a full picture, dreading to think of whatever conclusion he may have been creating. Too confusing - it went against everything you thought of Marshal Steel, and that unease left you scrambling, so you took the easy way out of the conversation: throw it all back onto Ortega.
He was the one that wouldn’t leave you alone. That dragged you back into his orbit, forced you back to a place where you have to pretend like you aren’t a husk of what you once were. He was the one hung up on the idea that there was still some part of the Sidestep he knew in you somewhere. As if he knew you well enough back then to make that kind of call now .
It wasn’t your fault.
…Until it was.
Until just helping Argent became regular visits. It was supposed to just be a favor for an old friend from a time when you used to know how to have those, do the bare minimum so you can vanish back into Los Diablos like the ghost you were always pretending to be. It was never meant to turn into voluntary trips to their Headquarters. And for what? You told yourself it was surveillance on the team, and yet it was always Ortega you’d seek out.
Until giving him your number as a means to get him off your back turned into phone calls and texts. It should have been the number to one of your burners, one you’d shove in a drawer and forget about until he got tired of being sent to voicemail and quit trying. But no, you gave him a direct way to reach out; phone calls that were mostly one-sided on his end and bareboned answers for texts, but he never cared because you answered . And to him, that was progress.
Until a meal between two old somethings turned into making out in an alley. Until it led to you two having sex.
And maybe you’re a liar. Or just weak-willed, because suddenly, you’re ten years younger. Ten years more naive. Ortega was drawing you back in and you’re falling for it all over again. Except this time, he’d gotten what he’d wanted. So afterwards, on your sobering and embarrassing walk of shame home, you swore it would be a one time thing. Any curiosity had been sated; this was the predictable outcome after years of almosts that lingered between the two of you. He’d won, and now his interest would fade.
You’re no longer the mysterious, unattainable target of his affections, and he’ll get bored, and you’ll have that final reason to cut any strings to your old self. That was the only outcome that made sense.
Or, maybe, it was just the easiest idea to settle on. Easier to paint him as someone cruel, to lash out and before it can be done to you. Anything else, any other conclusion, was too terrifying to consider.
Of course, this is Ortega you’re dealing with, and that’s not how it worked out. Always the one too unpredictable to fit into any of your neat little mental boxes. You’d tried to create space, and that just seemed to have him hovering more.
He called not long after. To check in. To see how you were. To give one particularly dramatic lament about how much he missed you, and the embarrassment had you hanging up on him. Chipping away at your resolve, cracks forming in the shell you were struggling to keep around yourself. You don’t know if it’s to protect you or him anymore.
He invited you over again. Tempting you out with booze and food like those are the only reasons you’d ever consider going to his place for.
And of course, you agreed. Because you’re you, and he’s him - and this thing between you, this thing Ortega believes is a gift of some kind, is a hand grenade that’s primed to blow up in both your faces. You’re both just too stubborn to keep away.
Now, you’re lounging on his couch. Eating the food he’s bought for the both of you, sharing his alcohol. Existing in his apartment, in his life, because he’s desperately trying to carve out a space that you’ll let yourself fit into. And you know you’re still going to blame him, all the way to the bitter end.
He’s got his arm slung around you, leaning more on you than the cushions at this point, but his weight is more comforting than stifling, so you haven’t bothered to push him off. There’s a movie playing in the background, some cheesy action flick Ortega picked, but it’s become mostly background noise. Alcohol has made your thoughts fuzzy at the edges, bouncing and drifting through your head like bubbles. You’re happy to let them come and go.
Your hand finds his, grasping the one he has hanging off your shoulder. It earns you a happy sort of hum from him, one you feel rattle through you as much as you can here. His fingers hook between yours. Casual touching. Somewhere along the way this became easier to initiate with him.
Tomorrow is going to bring a new wave of uncertainty. Nothing is set in stone, and you’ll look back at this with a heavy dose of guilt. But right now you’re alive. You’re here, existing. And that has to be enough.
“I’m glad you came.” The words come during a lull in the movie. You’ve seen this, you finally realize with a start. The cartoonish supervillain is delivering their monologue, dramatic in the kind of way only an 80’s hero flick can be. It won’t last, it never does with these kinds of things. Pretty soon the fresh-faced, screen pretty heroes will show up just in time to stop their plan. Evil will be foiled and the day will be saved. Conflict settled, wrapped up and tied with a bow.
Before, you’d called this corny. It sparked a heated debate between you, Anathema, and Ortega about what was classified as ‘cult classics’ and what was just a bad film. Fights with no stakes involved, just for fun. You didn’t have any experience to draw from, if it wasn’t something artistic or independent you could use as a talking point during an infiltration, you didn’t know it. You’d just been happy to be included.
Now, it just makes you feel old. And tired.
“Still with me?” Ortega tries again and it finally registers that he’s said something, expecting some kind of response
You move like you’re trying to shake him off. He just takes it as an excuse to lay further on you, now he’s half slumped on you. “I’m here. Where else would I be?”
He shrugs and it makes his shoulder dig into your chest, so you pinch the back of his neck. He swats your hand away with a laugh, but doesn’t budge from his spot. “I figured you’d fallen asleep.”
“With your big head crushing me? Not a chance.” He lets out an affronted gasp and there’s a sudden swell of affection that rushes through you so fast it startles you, so you shove him back to his side of the couch. Busy yourself with looking for the bottle of tequila you left on the floor so you don’t have to see him. “You’re the one that always fell asleep during movies, not me.”
“Yeah, you guys never let me forget it either.” He’s a little quieter now, as if he’s miles away. You wonder if nostalgia has its claws in him like it does you right now, dragging you both back to before .
Too soft. Dangerous sort of territory. Finally grabbing the alcohol you take a pull directly from the bottle, hoping the burn will flush out the fluttering in your chest.
“Only because you snored.” And he did. Terribly. Loud, mouth hanging open kind of thing - it was a spectacle. Themmy called it his “dad snore”. You didn’t really know what she meant by that, so you’d taken her at her word. You both also took turns throwing things at him - usually whatever food you had readily available.
“Yeah, and you tried to kill me.” Your gaze cuts over to him, but there’s a fond look on his face and you realize he’s remembering the same things you are.
The memory is blurry, hazy in the way only time can cause. One of you threw a piece of popcorn, you can’t remember who. You just remember it landing in his mouth, that he’d started coughing right afterwards. And your knee jerk reaction in a flurry of panic was to punch him in the stomach.
You don’t even know if he’d been choking, considering the wheezing that followed was because of you . Neither of them let you live that moment down.
“And you took that as some kind of sign that I liked you or something.” You mutter, tracing your nails along the raised lines etched into the neck of the bottle that you’re still holding. “Never figured out how you came to that conclusion from a punch.”
“ Because your immediate reaction to my choking was to save me.” His delivery is so matter of fact that you can’t bite back your laughter. “You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t like me.”
“Seems like it was only fair considering it was our fault. We nearly killed you with some popcorn.” You point out.
“Eh, I would’ve been fine.”
“Wouldn’t have been a really heroic way to go out, huh?” The smile you have feels foreign, like it should belong to somebody else. Pulls on muscles you don’t have a lot of practice using anymore. “‘Killed by a kernel of corn’ wouldn’t have made a great obituary headline.”
It should feel morbid, sitting together in the dim light of the living room, joking about dying. Maybe on some level, it is. You know you’re probably not the best person to make that call. Everything about tonight, about being here with him, has a bit of melancholy staining the edges.
“Right up there with ‘burst intestine from a punch-happy friend’.” He’s still watching you, and the look you share feels significant. It’s the kind of look between old friends - something private, just for the two of you.
Shaking your head, you look back at the T.V. The credits are rolling now, names creeping by at a snail's pace as the room is filled with the soft beat of whatever song probably topped the charts three decades ago. “Shit. We’re getting old.”
It’s a feeling that’s been dragging at you for a while now. Aches, the mundane kind of pain a person should expect as the years stretch on. But right now, everything feels muddied. A sort of overlap between the old you and the one here on his couch. You should be frustrated that he’s got you feeling like this, that he’s got you thinking like this. You try to dig into your anger, the one that’s kept you alive this long, but nothing comes up. Too much alcohol and too many trips down memory lane has your defenses lowered.
Dangerous. He’s dangerous, you need to remember that.
“I’m being serious, though. I’m glad you’re here, I missed you.” He continues, any joking dropping from his tone. A tentative twitch of his fingers, like he wants to reach out and take your hand. You think you’re almost disappointed he doesn’t.
That’s…new. And not good. At all.
“Yeah, well I wasn’t about to pass up on food that I didn’t have to pay for.” You deflect the sudden serious turn this conversation has taken. Another drink, this one deeper than the last.
The bottle is nearing half empty thanks to the pair of you. Passing it back, he holds it up in a mock cheer. “Or my liquor.”
“Or that.” No point denying it. Ortega liked the expensive things in life, and that taste carried to his liquor cabinet. You weren’t going to turn down to enjoy the top shelf stuff he kept on hand.
Ortega shifts beside you. Moves enough to get your attention, twisting in his seat so that he’s facing you instead of the screen. His face is drawn, like he’s chewing on his words to try and figure out the best way to phrase them, and you’re immediately tensing up. Whatever direction he’s going, you’re not going to like it. “You vanished for a bit, and I was worried I’d- that what we did scared you off…?”
Oh. So he does want to talk about it, then. Shit. Up until now, it had gone unmentioned, so you came to the conclusion that there was a silent agreement to just let it go. Apparently not. And if the pained grimace on his face is any indication, he’d just been trying to figure out the easiest way to bring it up.
He couldn’t ease into it, so he decided just to bulldoze through it
He’s still not sitting still; he tucks his leg under himself, just to move it a few seconds later. Glances over at you just to jerk his gaze back to some other point in the room. A far cry from the usually unshakeable Ortega - his struggling would’ve been funny if your own embarrassment didn’t make you want to vanish between the couch cushions.
“I was just busy.” Simple. Nonchalant. You fight the urge to cross your arms because that’s going to look too defensive and isn’t the image you want to project. “I have a life outside of you, you know.”
“Oh. Okay, good. That’s good!” His shoulders slump like a weight had been taken off him, palpable relief in his voice. As if the idea that he’d hurt you, that he’d crossed some kind of boundary of yours without realizing it, had actually been eating at him. And that- that shouldn’t be as surprising as it feels. His smile is back, eyes so warm and bright, and it’s like a strike to your chest how handsome he looks right now. Dressed down. Relaxed. Happy . “I wouldn’t know much about that life though, would I? Can’t blame me there.”
A dig. Playful rather than barbed though, just poking at your unwillingness to share anything with him. Still it rattles you, so you snatch the tequila back before he can react. “You act like it’s been years, idiot.” A few weeks, maximum. Sure, maybe going radio silent after having sex with him for the first time wasn’t your brightest idea, but it was the easiest choice at the time. You just have to deal with the fact it’s back to bite you in the ass.
“I know. Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you, though.” He says it so simply. Throws those words out with an ease you could never have. Casually cracking himself open, exposing the vulnerable parts of his heart like you can be trusted not to crush them.
You don’t know what to do with that sort of admission. What to do with him. “I’m sure you could’ve found somebody else to keep your bed warm.” It’s a biting remark. The kind of caustic meant to leave a mark, and you nearly wince as soon as the words are out there. You can’t handle kindness, so you lash out like an animal backed into a corner. You can see him frowning out of your periphery, the flash of real hurt that’s too blatant to miss. You try to focus on peeling strips of the label from the glass. “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”
More muttering. Something In Spanish that you don’t quite catch before the bottle is being pried out of your grip. Before you have a chance to argue he’s taking your hand and cradling it between his. “I thought we cleared this up before everything. This wasn’t about sex, this is about us. I just want you .”
I fell in love with this new you all over again.
He couldn’t have meant it. He can’t . Even if he doesn’t understand why, you do.
There’s a self-destructive part of you, the part that hurts and wants to hurt back, that considers throwing the puppet’s name in his face. Like a bruise you can’t resist pressing down on just to feel the ache. Their name is on the tip of your tongue, proof that his interests flicker and fade with whatever he’s drawn to at the moment. As easy to extinguish as a candle. That there's nothing special here. But bringing them up is just going to open the door to conversations and fights you don’t have the energy to deal with.
Instead, you settle for shrugging as you pull your hand from his. “I don’t know what you want me to say here.”
“Anything?” He tilts his head, tries to catch your gaze. He smiles, but it’s more uneasy than happy. “If you regret it, I’m not going to be upset about that. Or if I crossed a line, I want to know. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I told you, I was just busy.” You finally manage to muster the courage to face him. You can’t read his mind, but the look he has is so painfully earnest. He’s worried - he thinks he’s hurt you somewhere along the way. The irony that realization leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. So you force yourself to hold eye contact, something you never found easy, and try to ignore the way you want to crawl out of your skin. “No ‘regretting’ or anything. You were- it was fine?”
“Just ‘fine’?” Teasing paired with a ridiculous waggling of his eyebrows that should be more annoying than endearing. In a matter of seconds he’s managed to cut through the tension that had been building and has you fighting to keep a straight face. He may have made it easier to breathe but you won’t give him the satisfaction of a laugh. “Sounds like I need to step it up if that’s the impression you left with.”
“You say that like there’s going to be a repeat performance.” You throw back, “Is that why you invited me over?”
It was one of the few reasons you’d come up with as you trudged over to his apartment. One that popped up somewhere between ‘making sure you’re eating meals regularly’ and this turning into ‘staging an intervention’. Ortega is a lot of things, but a ‘strategist’ never made it on the list. Swing first and deal with the repercussions afterwards was his usual motto, so you had crossed off any potential that this was a trap of sorts. If he had information on you, you can’t imagine him inviting you over for dinner to bring it up.
“Of course not.” He sounds adamant, and the shock on his face seems genuine. You still can’t shake the thought that it’s an act though. “I told you, I missed you. I’m happy to just watch a few B quality movies and eat take-out.”
“That’s it? No ulterior motives?” The accusation leaves him looking stricken, not that you can blame him. What was meant as a joke came out too serious to be taken lightly.
“None other than wanting to enjoy your company.” Hearing that is enough to make you snort, which clearly wasn’t the correct reaction because now he looks frustrated. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
He’s offended, and you belatedly realize he took your laughing to mean you’re doubting him. Which, it isn’t about that. Not really. Ortega has never pushed you past your limits. He’s been relentless in his pursuit to drag you out of your self-imposed lifestyle, but he’s never been one to demand anything. Eager to accept whatever you’ll give him, even when it’s nothing at times. He only wants what you’re willing to give, what you want him to have.
Still, you can’t manage to wrap your head around the fact that he truly seems to want you around. Waving a hand towards yourself as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “Because I’m me?”
The comment should have made him scoff. Or roll his eyes, at least. Instead, he props his arm up on the back of the couch, lazily leaning his head against his fist. The smirk curling at his lips is at odds with the way his eyes soften. “And I happen to like you, so what’s the problem?”
Well. You walked into that.
Glaring at him just turns that self-satisfied look into a full blown grin, as if he knows he’s got you stuck. He’s told you he’s falling in love with you, there’s no way to easily talk your way out of this. Now you’re caught in a game of chicken, neither of you willing to be the first to look away.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, or your tightly held self-control finally cracking under the iron grip you’ve had on it. You’re not sure. All you know is you want to wipe that obnoxious look off his face. A rush of reckless energy hits you with the force of a rogue wave, the kind of energy that has you brushing aside logic or ‘what-if’s’. You’re moving before your mind even has a chance to realize what you’re doing.
At first, you just shift a little closer. Cut the distance down with something small, just so you can see his curiosity override his cockiness. “So just dinner and a movie, then?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait, not completely. But you can see the gears turning. He wants to see where you’re going to take this. “If that’s all you want, then yeah.”
Before you can second guess yourself, you rise up onto your knees and shuffle forward. Crossing those last couple inches until you’re forcing yourself into his space. He straightens the closer you get, but like this you’ve got the height advantage over him.
He’s not backing down.
Neither are you.
Bracing your hands on his shoulders, you risk leaning closer. It’s only half surprisingly that he doesn’t give any ground, but it’s more of a shock that you’re able to do this. Mere centimeters between you, watching him watch you . Brown eyes that seem almost black this close, surprise warring with desire.
It’s a heady feeling, knowing you’ve got this effect over him. It’s the same sort of rush you get from being on the ledge when you’re in your suit, getting ready to leap. A potent mix of terror and adrenaline that makes time feel molasses heavy. Getting ready for the freefall, flirting with disaster. Your heart is beating wildly against your ribs.
“What’re you doing?” He sounds amused, but there’s a rasp to his voice that has a shock of excitement zipping up your spine. His gaze is trapped flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. You may have won, but the eagerness in his expression has you feeling like you’d walked into your own trap. He’s forcing himself to keep still, making you choose if you’re going to cross that line.
“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest you’ve been tonight, because you truly don’t. You never do when it comes to him. You approach with a carefully created plan, try to decide how you’re going to deal with him, and he always manages to derail you at the last second. It’s a dance between you that you’re always left second guessing the steps to.
There’s a tiny voice that’s screaming at how terrible this idea is, to retreat. Deep rooted self-preservation, and yet it’s like you’re magnets trapped in each other's fields. You lean in, brushing your lips against his, a phantom of a kiss. Just close enough to steal the soft gasp he lets out for yourself. Making your decision clear; it’s the only go ahead he needs to surge forward and catch you in a proper kiss.
It feels all too much like you’ve sealed your own downfall.
This is going to hurt. And at the end of it all, you won’t have anyone to blame but yourself. This is your fault, and yours alone. For falling for him. For chasing something you were never meant to have. You weren’t programmed for this, and you don’t deserve someone like him.
But you’re going to take everything you can from him, because you’re too selfish to let go.
It starts soft, but it doesn’t take long to slip into something heated. A current of excitement that feels as if it’s coursing from you to him and back again, a taste of desperation that has teeth nipping at lips. At some point he ends up on his back, dragging you on top of him. Hands wander, gripping and pulling at clothes. One of yours slips under his shirt as he holds your hips.
It takes considerable effort to break away. You don’t go far, you don’t know if you can , but that doesn’t stop him from leaning up to chase after you. Your lips feel as swollen as his looks and your pulse is racing. “Bedroom?” Is all you can manage to say when you find your voice. This is going to fall apart, but you’re too lost on him to care.
You’ll take one more night, if that’s all you can have.
He looks dazed, but the smile that lights up his face could rival the sun. “The curtains are already closed.” He tries to catch your lips again, but a hand clasping over his mouth forces him to stay put.
You give him a look. “That sounds presumptuous for somebody that wasn’t expecting anything out of dinner.”
You feel his grin against your palm. “I wasn’t expecting anything, I never said I wasn’t hopeful .” And he’s so smug about it, so happy, that it should irritate you. You do try to glare, and hide your emotions with a put out sort of scoff, but something in you cracks. He wanted you. Wants you. He’d been hopeful. He closed the blinds and curtains so you’d feel safe with him.
You get to your feet, dragging him up and pulling him along before he can see your face crumble, before he can notice the pinch between your brows.