GHOST RIDER

       “ooh, okay. noted. don’t bring up the actual girl.” he’s had his fair share of complicated relationships, if most of them could even be called that. the guy’s entitled to his secrets. his attention focuses back down on the car. his knowledge about vehicles not pertaining to space isn’t extensive. most of it is old knowledge, at that. 

                he hm’s and hah’s like he knows what he’s doing though.

        “does she do anything… special? like that one car in that one flick. chitty bang. that’s a classic. have you seen it? that car was a beaut. she did everything.” quill glances up, quickly. “not that your car isn’t cool if she just… rolls. that’s something to be proud of.” 

     he lets that pass without comment, neither confirmation nor denial. this isn’t secrecy so much as it’s the less you know, the better, until — if — they move past the acquaintance stage. sort of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ type of deal that extends both ways. robbie doesn’t press for information unless he has to.

     he doesn’t call this guy out on fronting, either. 

      peter takes a good few seconds staring at mister short and spicy. this jumped to “guy talk” really fast. people on earth are eager to share. he blinks a few times, mouth opening and closing before it all processes. “your girl takes good care–” there we go. he gets it now. “oh. oh, car. driving. your car is a girl. that’s cool. progressive.” 

                  nice cover up, quill. you didn’t think he was talking about a chick.

“how old is she? your car. not – your girl. if you have a girl. wow, this is weird. why’d you make this weird? we’re just two guys talking about cars.”

     it was an offhand remark, but he probably should’ve known better when present company takes not from around here to a whole new level — literally. so there’s a little bit of a language barrier, but it’s nothing he can’t work with. just as long as no one mentions the term ‘space ship.’ he’d like to keep every part of this, and himself, on solid ground.

     “nah, man. i don’t.” the corner of his mouth tics a little as he settles into a lean against the charger, palm smoothing over the sleek black hood as if for emphasis. he can count on one hand the number of times he’s flown, and he missed the rev of four tires on asphalt every single time. the flames are just an added bonus. call it a flair for the dramatic. 

     this guy, though — there’s flying, and then there’s flying. robbie doesn’t know which he’d hate more.

     Memory slices into her like a knife.   It presses down hard and cuts in too deep,  leaving the tissue beneath it mangled and bloody.   The weight of her body as he carried her into the hospital must have felt similar.   Broken,  bruised,  black and blue.   Mangled,  bloody.   That night comes back to her only in fragments;  flashbulb images of the junkyard and the gangbanger with the gun.   Robbie,  then the Ghost Rider.   The world became small,  condensed into a single moment  ––  the one second where everything around her changed.   

     She remembers flames that lick and spit from a cracked skull.   She remembers how it felt to fight until sweat dampened her brow,  until needles of pain shot through both her arms and the bones began to splinter and break.   The taste of copper in her mouth,  not knowing whether it was from a molar knocked loose or the blood pouring from her nostrils.   What felt like hours must have been only minutes.   Twenty,  maybe.   Thirty at most.   However long of wading out of her depth until her body couldn’t withstand the strain.   The scream of broken bones and torn ligaments,  gasping lungs,  an aching ribcage.   The blood in her mouth had to be coming from somewhere else.   Pitching up from her throat,  if the splatter of it she’d heaved onto the pavement was any indication.   She remembers how it stood over her,  appearing miles higher than where she was laying,  crumpled like a fetus.

     Her powers couldn’t touch it.   They couldn’t stop it.   She couldn’t stop it.

    Daisy wishes she could comfort him.   She wishes she could hold his hand tight,  or draw him into her warm embrace and hold him there until all that guilt and sorrow bleeds out of him.   She wishes he wouldn’t blame himself;  it wasn’t his fault,  there’s no way this could have been avoided.   There’s a thousand things she wishes she could tell him,  and a thousand more after that.   But each time she opens her mouth,  the words don’t come out the way she wants.   They stick in her throat like shards of bone.   “…I––t…  I tr––ied,”  comes croaking out of her,  and the implication is heavy.   I tried to stop it.   I tried to help.   “How––many?”

     “don’t do that. it wasn’t your fault. stop trying to act like —” the words cut abruptly short, as if he’s the one with a tube down his throat. how many? she doesn’t need to say anything else. doesn’t need to clarify, tell him what she means. she’s talking about the bodies. four, all beaten, all burned beyond recognition. “why?” he asks, in a rasp to rival hers. “so you can start blaming yourself for that, too? it doesn’t matter, daisy, okay? they don’t matter. it ain’t about them, it’s about me, what i did, because i couldn’t control this thing. daisy —”

     again, he has to stop. composure is slipping through his fingers like fine sand. like blood and viscera. his voice is too loud, too unsteady, the grip on her hand too tight. his free hand drags down his face, eyes squeezing shut for a long moment. when he opens them, she’s looking right at him. the bruises are even harsher in this light. he pushes himself to keep talking; it’s lower, but no steadier. 

     It makes her feel something,  but ‘better’ isn’t the right word.   There’s an arch to her brow when she looks at him,  studying him,  how cavalier he is about telling her.   It was you on the hood.   Outside,  broad daylight.   Her tone is leveled and casual despite her fluttering heartbeat.   “––  broad daylight,  huh?”   If there was ever a time to miss having complete range of motion without sharp and stabbing pains,  this would be it.   What she wouldn’t give to pull him into a kiss and bring that fantasy to life.   “Hey,  don’t stop there.   We’re just getting to the good part.   What was I wearing?   Actually,  better question:  what were  you  wearing?”

     “Mm…  I bet you say that to all the girls,”   half-murmured as she bends forward at the waist,  leaning in to catch him by the mouth.   Daisy kisses him slow and deep,  shifting so her body is flush against his.   Her skin is damp with sweat,  strands of dark hair plastered against her temples;  even her cheeks are still flushed pink when she pulls away to look at him.  “…  ––  no,  we never followed up on that because you  freak out  every time I even have to take her half a block.   You sure your sanity can handle it?   I mean,  God forbid I hit a curb.”

     “I’m almost positive  Rite-Aid  is still trying to figure out what the hell happened the last time we walked in there.   Their splints are way overpriced,  anyway.   We should probably just stick to Walgreens.”   Daisy’s been waiting for the opportune time to drop that bomb;  his reaction is priceless,  and somehow so wholesome,  as if a grown man couldn’t enjoy time to himself in the comfort of his own home whenever he pleases.   She isn’t insulted.   Maybe feeling a little deprived,  but that’s it.   “My ass  was  asleep,  until your alarm woke me up with this  godawful sound  I’ll hear in my nightmares.   I got up to get a glass of water and heard the shower running,  so I put two and two together,”   she pauses for a beat,  and there’s a slight hitch at the side of her mouth when she says,   “––  please say it was  me  you were thinking about and not Lucy.   I don’t think I could handle that kind of rejection.”

     the last time they’d walked in, they strong - armed two gangbangers out the door and left a pair of busted security cameras in the back. so it’s a fair point, but one he doesn’t get stuck on.

    It might have been easier on her ribs and his conscience to have waited,  but loneliness and detachment was a worse feeling than the ache in her bones.   Daisy had missed him.   Every part of him.   She missed the intimacy that made her heart want to swell and burst,  the same way it is now.   She even missed the weight of his hand on her hip when they’re through,  and how he smiles up at her with that crooked lazy grin.   “Hey,  take as long as you need.   The view from up here isn’t half bad.”

     Her mouth meets his for one final kiss,  sweet and lingering.   It’s been weeks since they’ve been able to do this  ––  weeks since Robbie had felt  comfortable  enough to do this with her,  and she’s cherishing every second of it.   “…  told you I’d be fine.   More than fine,  really.   I literally don’t even care that you’ve been holding out on me for this long,  ‘cause  that  was totally worth it.”   @hishellfire

     It’s hard to hope for something and lose it.   Daisy’s well-acquainted with loss in every capacity;  she knows what it feels like to have something so special ripped away from you.   To have a home and watch it fall to pieces.   She wants better this time around.   She wants to believe she deserves that much,  but how can she?   How can she hope for more,  for better,  to even believe she deserves it after everything that’s happened?   Every day is a work in progress.   He’s been patient with her,  and that’s all she can ask for.

     “Good luck with that.   I was trying to bust open liquor cabinets  way  before the eighth grade,  so,  if our kids are anything like  me,  we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”   She only notices in hindsight,  after the comment is made and Robbie’s pressing a tender kiss to her forehead,  that the conversation is veering into uncharted territory.   The scribble of nerves inside her chest begin to twist and grow,  trying to climb up into her throat.   She swallows them down instead and clears her throat.   “––   yeah,  nope,  that’s it.   I still can’t believe you like ham on your pizza.   Just for the record,  that was  almost  a deal breaker.”

     that’s the thing about daisy. she can pull out all the stops, hide behind smoke and mirrors, wear humor peppered with a little self - deprecation like a second skin, but she wasn’t as hard to figure out as she might want to believe. she’s afraid of promises. she’s been afraid of them all her life, it seems like, because they were always fragile as glass, always ready to shatter. he knows this isn’t easy for her. to feel solid ground underneath her feet and still be braced for the fall, like the floorboards are already rotted, just waiting for one misstep. maybe he’s letting this ride on a hail mary, thinking he can undo so many years of that. but he still has to try.

     After being without for so long in the past,  Daisy had forgotten how good tenderness felt;  she’d forgotten how to be touched outside of an abrasively aggressive hand.   She doesn’t miss how cold and empty a life like that was.   It isn’t just about the sex.   That’s just a bonus.   “––  can’t break what’s already broken.  Just saying.   We’re not in an episode of Sex Sent Me to the ER.”   Fingertips ghost across his jaw,  coaxing him in for another kiss.   Soft and persuasively sweet.   “…  but,  I mean,  you did have a little  me time  in the shower yesterday morning,  so maybe I should’ve waited to ask until the playing field was even.”

     Everything is still healing,  from her ribcage to the bones in her arms right down to her fingertips.   The bruising makes it look worse than it is  ––  or at least that’s what she tells herself.   She tips her head forward after the second kiss,  just a fraction,  enough to rest forehead to forehead.   Daisy pulls back after a beat to look at him with an eyebrow quirked.   “Oh,  is  that  all I do?   Just…  breathe heavy,  nothing else?   Geez,  way to kick a girl while she’s down.”