#ngl after rereading this in its entirety idk if i like it that much but i wanted to finish it at least

[transmage]

If all is going to end in fire anyway, would it really be so bad to give yourself this one moment? To pretend that you’re happy, feeling the rise and fall of Ortega’s chest? It’s just pretend, right?

this is an extremely self-indulgent chargestep fic that was meant to be soft, and kind of is, but damn sidestep makes it so very difficult for anything to be soft... spoilers for retribution! around 2,300 words.

“Are you going to stay the night?”

“No,” you say, surprising no one. “But I can stay a little longer.”

But heavy eyelids and limbs say otherwise. The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, your mind numbing against the backdrop of whatever is playing on the TV and the ever-present hum of Ortega’s static. You’re pressed against him as if you’ve always belonged here — a missing piece to his heart.

Shit.

When had you become so sappy? This romance is doomed, and has been from the start, but here you are all the same, indulging in his warmth, his scent, his fingers running languidly through your hair. A cigarette hangs loosely between your fingers, smoldering and half-finished. You focus on the smoke instead. Faintest wisps of grey, not unlike your eyes, curling upwards before lost to the vast emptiness of air. Pulled apart in a dozen directions until dissipated. You suppose this is the path you’re headed down. Destruction is inevitable, but each day you’re less and less sure who will die in the fallout. Ortega? Chen? Yourself?

In a small admittance of truth, you realize you hope it is yourself. Perhaps it’s the coward’s way out, but it would be the least painful option. Maybe Chen really can stop you. Maybe you’ll let him. Or maybe Ortega will kill you here in this apartment, at your most vulnerable. The thought is almost comforting; it would be no less than you deserve.

You extinguish the cigarette in the makeshift ashtray Ortega placed on the coffee table. Embers flare briefly in a last, bright act of defiance before snuffed entirely.

If all is going to end in fire anyway, would it really be so bad to give yourself this one moment? To pretend that you’re happy, feeling the rise and fall of Ortega’s chest? It’s just pretend, right? Right…?

“Kafka?”

Oh. You’re doing it again. Thinking in circles until your eyes glaze over and your breath quickens and Ortega notices. He always notices.

“I’m fine,” you mumble in response, flashing him a tired smile. “Just thinking.”

He merely hums, and the lack of questions shock you more than the kiss placed on your forehead. You turn your head to see his face, a taunt on your lips that dies the second his eyes meet yours. Tired. Warm. Happy. And oh, despite all the years marked on his body he looks younger than ever. Radiant, even, with a smile like you’re the only person in the universe. You feel your heart flip with your stomach — damn him, damn him, damn him. He really will be the death of you.

“Don’t give me that look,” you say in an attempt to hide the creeping blush up your neck. It doesn’t work.

Ortega’s smile turns smug. “What look?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

He laughs at that, leaning back against a throw pillow and resuming the soft playfulness with your hair. “I thought you weren’t gonna stay the night.”

“Shut up.” You sound embarrassed even to yourself. “I’m not.”

“Mhm.”

You should get up right then, just to prove him wrong, just to prove to yourself that you still have some semblance of control over this. Over your own emotions. But your traitorous body doesn’t twitch a muscle, too relaxed and melted into him. When was the last time you felt this comfortable? It’s a struggle to recall a moment where you weren’t tense and shaking, hurting everywhere, pushing your body to its breaking point… You need this. This illusion of safety.

Your eyes close slowly. All mental barriers had collapsed several hours ago, and you let the static of Ortega’s mind bleed into your own. Not for the first time, you’re grateful you can’t read his mind. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking. You don’t want to risk ruining the illusion that everything between you is okay. That staying the night might not be so bad.

Against your better judgement — against all judgement — you let yourself fall asleep.

***

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

You peel your eyes open slowly, blinking hard against hazy vision, limbs still heavy with sleep. It’s an unnatural feeling — there had been no…dreams? That doesn’t seem right. You always dream. You always wake up from the clutch of a nightmare, chest tight with panic, curling in on yourself. But now you stretch out like a cat, a tired moan escaping your throat. You’re still laying on Ortega. Oh, god, had you spent the entire night like that?

You sit up abruptly, untangling yourself from Ortega’s limbs, double-checking your clothes hadn’t ridden up in the middle of the night. Safe. Okay. Breathe.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is breathless, but the smile is…genuine, for once, as your eyes turn soft. “Sorry for…trapping you all night.”

“I didn’t mind. You’re cute when you’re asleep, you know that? Peaceful.”

“Smooth-talker…”

His laugh is infectious, and soon you’re smiling wide and half-heartedly hiding it behind the back of your hand. He stands a moment later, taking your hand in his and kissing it like it was a perfectly natural gesture.

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For staying the night. I was worried, for a moment there, that if you left, you’d… Disappear forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you lie, turning to hide the way your smile falls, instead picking up the empty glasses from the coffee table to bring to the dishwasher.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Ah. You don’t respond — suddenly the stakes are all too real, and you know you’d be a hypocrite to promise anything. Time to not-so-subtly change the subject.

“Mind if I use your shower?” The second the words leave your lips you kick yourself. Really? How many stupid risks can you take in 24 hours, Kafka? You can even see the confusion echoed in his face, the questions bubbling up to the tip of tongue, the ones he won’t ask out of respect for the privacy you insisted on last night. Ortega’s forehead smooths out a second later, gracing you with another light kiss.

“Of course not. I can even wash your clothes, if you’d like? Since they, uh…”

Another blush erupts over your face. “I — it’s okay, I can just — ”

“Kafka.” You half expect him to roll his eyes. “You can borrow some of my clothes in the meantime, if you’d like.”

You mean to reject the offer immediately, but you can’t deny the discomfort of your pants. “…Okay.”

His eyes widen. He wasn’t expecting this either. You suppose you’ve been checking off a lot of “firsts” in the past day.

You enter his (ridiculously spacious) bathroom with a pile of folded clothing clutched against your chest. Underwear, sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt. Tight on him, which means it should be fine for your smaller frame. You don’t dare risk a collar slipping down your shoulder.

To your great relief, the bathroom door can be locked. You even do a quick scan for bugs or cameras before undressing — overkill, you know, this is Ortega’s own bathroom, but the paranoia refuses to stop gnawing at your conscious until the space is analyzed. Documented. Moved tentatively over to your “safe” list.

You don’t mean to look in the mirror, but it’s appallingly massive. As you step out of the last of your clothing the orange flashes in it, turned almost neon under fluorescent lighting. A familiar sense of nausea tugs at your stomach, urging you to smash the damn thing, before you notice blooms of purple across your skin. Your neck. Your collarbone. Your hips. Your thighs. Even next to one of your nipples, nearly over…nearly over your barcode.

Part of you is appropriately embarrassed. These are from Ortega, after all, as he worshipped your body last night, his lips and tongue and fingers feeling out every scar, every imperfection, every… He couldn’t see your tattoos. But he’d kissed them. Caressed them in his ignorance.

The louder part of you is horrified. If he knew — if he knew what he’d been kissing, what he’d been fucking, would he turn away in violent shame? If he walked through the bathroom door right now, would he throw up in disgust at what he’s been touching? A Re-Gene. A tool. Not even human.

It’s a sour line of thought, one you’ve been dwelling on far too much lately. The hot water scalds your skin and the steam obscures the mirror. You find relief in the pain, in the way your skin turns red as you scrub it raw. Dried sweat and other fluids wash down the drain until the only record of your idiocy remaining are the hickeys. You’ll have to chew him out for the one on your neck — looks like you’ll be living in turtlenecks for the next few days…

With a hand against white tile you shut the water off with a feeling of finality, inhaling deeply, head bent so you can watch the droplets fall from your hair. You can feel yourself beginning to break down again; it’s been happening with increasing frequency. No doubt a direct correlation with each time you let Ortega closer. But you close your eyes instead, forcing yourself the visualize the cracks forming along your mind. Seal them over, tape them together, whatever it takes. You won’t lose it here. You refuse.

Months ago, the clothes you now slip into would have only emphasized how underweight you’d become, but they fill out nicely. You’ll never achieve the muscles Ortega can flaunt (and Chen is a whole other beast), but you’re proud of how strong you’ve become. Another added bonus of being Mirage. You are undoubtedly in the best shape of your life — more so than your Sidestep days, you would guess. Certainly more powerful, thanks to your vastly improved telepathy and Dr. Mortum’s suit. You told Ortega you’ve been trying to get back into shape, and he knows you’ve been training Herald, so you hope he doesn’t find the toned muscles suspicious. Probably not. Given last night, he appreciates them more than anything else. If not for the jarring tattoos and an ugly patchwork of scars, you might even be a model male specimen.

At the very least, you were designed to be so.

That wipes the smirk from your face.

Just once you’d like to go an hour without thinking about the Farm, but you suppose that scar runs far too deep.

“Well, well, don’t you look charming.” Ortega greets your reemergence with a wide grin. He’s making breakfast in the kitchen, a pot of coffee brewing to the side.

The clothes smell like him and you admit that’s enough to take the edge off, but your hands make a grab for your cigarettes and lighter anyway.

“Really the height of fashion, I know,” you toss back easily. He’d been kind enough last night to let you smoke inside, but you know it’s a peeve of his. Besides, you’re not in any danger of flinging yourself off the balcony at the moment, so you open the sliding glass door to a breathtaking view of Los Diablos. Rich red sunlight drowns the city as mid-morning sets in. You should feel exposed and vulnerable — you know all too well that a balcony like this would be a perfect target for an assassination. Long ago, it would have been you behind the sniper scope.

Perhaps you rely too much on your telepathy now. It’s second nature to stretch your mind out across the buildings and feel the hum of the city. Harmful intents are easy to pick out. So are the thought-voids of the Special Directive. Not to mention Ortega’s own paranoia after having his apartment blown up — you wouldn’t be surprised if there are even more hidden, intricate security systems in here. For now, you’re fairly confident that you’re safe. The click of the lighter and inhale of smoke is out of habit more than any immediate need.

“Coffee?” Ortega leans his back against the balcony railing, two cups in hand. You take one with a nod.

“Thanks.”

“Mmm. Stunning view, isn’t it?”

Oh, and you just know he isn’t looking at the cityscape. You roll your eyes and give him a pointed look.

“You’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

“What can I say? Who wouldn’t fall in love with a face like yours?”

You nearly choke on your coffee at that, coughing loudly and pounding a fist against your chest to steady your breathing. There’s that word again. Love. He’s never been one to toss it around casually, so the ease in which he does now — in how he did last night — ignites some unknown emotion deep in your chest. It’s not entirely pleasant.

“Don’t say that,” you mumble.

“What, that you’re beautiful?” He’s still smiling. “That you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever — ”

“Stop, please.” A tightness constricts your heart. You aren’t quite sure why.

“Okay, okay, if you insist.” He can’t hide the brief worry that flashes through his eyes, and you turn your head from him. Always worried. It would be endearing if it wasn’t so frustratingly exhausting.

“Let’s just enjoy this?” Your words are barely a whisper. The coffee is a tether to the here and now, so you focus on it intently, on the warmth which spreads through your fingertips and creeps up your veins. A warmth mirrored in the man next to you; in the sun basking the city.

“Trust me, I am.” There is no smugness to his words. You may not be able to read his mind but you can read his posture, the way his face softens and all his lines smooth out. Ortega follows your gaze across the city, a soft hum resonating from somewhere in his chest. In his last act of testing your boundaries, he reaches for your hand. Entwines your fingers together and gives it a reassuring squeeze. You let him. Maybe you even squeeze back.

And for a moment, there is no Mirage. No superheroes or villains. No tattoos carved into your skin. Just you, and Ricardo, and the warmth between your hands.

Blink, and it’s almost real.