#pulp writes

———

"Honestly? I don't think I could've pulled that off if you were in your own body," he muses, nodding at you. "You're faster when you're Spot."

You feel your smile stiffen. Of course, he's going to call you Spot, he knows the truth about Hark. You told him to call you that so he couldn't delude himself about it. Doesn't change the fact that every time he does it feels like a grater against your skin. The truth should feel good. This is you, and Ricardo still wants you despite it. You should be happy.

You shake off your thoughts by cupping a hand to his face, focusing on the way he leans into your touch. On the way his eyes soften as your hand travels from his cheek to streak a hand through his hair, curly and loose and so alien, tugging at hair that isn't your own, nausea bubbling in the back of your throat, wrong, this is…

[You put your hand down.]

also the secret real reason i wanted to share this fic:

———

Cecilia lights up at the question, equal parts excited and smug. "Why? See something you like?" A brilliant flash of an annoying smile before she gets back to business.

"Well, with your clothes I have to guess you know most of the usual places..." she nods appreciatively at Miho's outift, "So I won't waste your time naming all of them. Just take the ones I shop at the most." She had located a pen and napkin for herself while she was talking and is already hard at work scribbling a list of names down. "But I don't like only shopping at a few locations. It feels restrictive after a few weeks. There's some good finds at the outskirts of the city," she's already jotted them down, tapping the names of the stores in question with the tip of her pen, "Though you have to go hunting for them. The smaller ones are usually owned by three, maybe five people? So if you're friendly with the staff they can usually point you to something nice. Or, well, you know." She shrugs, tapping her head. "Mind-read them." She contemplates a bit before adding, "Also, Nehal's good at picking them out. She'd probably love to go shopping with you."

"As for my hair..." she combs through it in an almost distracted fashion, a flash of a wince that's gone as quickly as it came. "I go to a salon for that. The staff there are lovely. And I haven't got a single complaint about their work since I've gone." She finally picks her pen up from the napkin, handing it to Miho with a flourish and a grin.

"Don't do that. I'm going to die anyway." You don't bother parsing whether that's thought or word: it's irrelevant when you're not listening to him. He's lost too much blood by this point; the subsequent delirium will get in your way. Focus on getting him stable enough to go- go where? Not a hospital. Rangers are bad. Your base is underground, but possible, if you can get him there in time.

———

The wound is too big to apply consistent pressure. If you had the time or tools to stitch, you would have done so by now. As it is, the best you could do with the resources avaliable to you was ball up your sweater and hope. You barely notice the cuts on your fingers from the shattered edges of broken armor. What can you do right now? He can't walk. Carrying would be dangerous. More dangerous than his condition now?

"I said don't." More force behind it. Insistent. You keep ignoring him, shifting position enough to pull him up from the wall he's propped against. He pushes your shoulders away before you can do so. You grit your teeth hard enough to hear, permit yourself to finally look him in the eyes. They're hazy from pain and bloodloss, yet somehow with enough energy to stare you down, still holding you a ways from his face. Half his face is caked in dirt and the other half in blood. Normally, you wouldn't go through the motions of talking in an emergency this urgent, but this is Mitchel, spiteful and stubborn to the last. You need to make sure the message gets to him.

Shut up and stop making this difficult, you say.

No, he says in return.

You promise yourself that as soon as you get him proper care you're going to shove your sweater inside of his mouth.

You make one more pass to carry him. This time, he grabs for your face instead, and you realize his intention too late as he pulls you in for a kiss.

No. Your panic bleeds through your shields for the first time, struggling and failing to break free. Mitchel, no.

You won't be able to get him help in time if he keeps kissing you like this. You know this. He does, too.

"Mitchel, please." You're mumbling into his lips now, voice rough and choked with desparation. He has both hands holding your face, and you're only just about keeping him steady holding onto his arm. He doesn't reply with anything more than intention. He is going to die. You can't do anything about it.

"Only because you won't let me," you hiss, still trying to get free of his grip. "Mitchel, get off and let me help."

He finally pulls away to look you in the eyes. A striking pair of green and brown boring into you, matching the glare you're giving him right now. You can feel his thoughts, as intrusive as the hands digging into your skin. There's a bone deep surety to his death you can't fight anymore, but more importantly, there's a plea. Let me have this. If he's going to lose everything the next moment, at least let his last ones be with you.

This time, you don't stop him when he kisses you. You just cling to him and kiss him back, your grief and fear and acceptance mixing into the melting pot of emotions swirling between you two. Everything is smeared red, touched with a familiar metallic taste, but nothing gives you pause. You just keep going even when his mind wanes and his hands falls slack on your shoulders. You don't stop until the raggedy breaths peter out into nothingness. You don't use your telepathy to check— you can't feel him anymore. No more mind. No more Mitchel.

His head is resting on your shoulder now. When did it fall there? You can't remember. Memories not clicking into place like they're supposed to. Can barely tether your awareness to your own body, what with the way you were using whatever scraps were left of your mind to stay with him. Your hand is on his head, you realize belatedly, tracing just over it until it finds purchase on one of his beads. A dark, navy blue. Softly clicking with the other two in line with it when you run your thumb over them.

"...Why would you need to know?" A little more fidgeting, glasses being adjusted. "I mean, even if I do answer, how I would do it would depend on the situation? There are variables I'd need to work through in the moment. Not to mention the mess that would make of Los Diablos..." He brings a fist to her lips now, contemplating. He frowns deeper, but now it seems less like suspicion and more like a wandering mind. You can practically hear the cogs turn as she contemplates the logistics. His concentration seems to make her gaze go right through you.

———

Chance's brow furrows, taken aback by the forwardness of the question. She scratches her arm as if it itched, eyes narrowing at you.

"I mean, beating the Rangers is much different from eliminating them. Removing the right one might be possible—or even useful—if Juli is any evidence, but removing all of them risk calling the attention of the greater US government. They'd be in trouble without their form of influence on the FWT... the mayor would have a field day with that—god, those Guardians would become such a pain-"

———

"The painting's supposed to be stolen. The whole point is that it isn't paid for," Alex complains, frowning at the document she's sitting next to as Cecilia scribbles away on it. Ceci only chuckles.

"Sure, but nobody else needs to know that. I need to explain why I have a genuine Kahlo in my office somehow."

"But forging a reciept?" It's a damn good one, Alex can't deny that, but the fact it's well done doesn't make it any less boring. "Can't you just say it was a gift? It's not like you'd be lying."

"Of a painting Vex stole?" She snorts, not looking up from her forgery. "Sure. Want me to introduce her to the LDPD too? I think they'd get along swell. "

Internally, Alex curses. She's right about that much– Alex wasn't exactly subtle about her heist. If she did her job right, the fact that some of the paintings she stole are up for sale, peppered around the city through various black market dealers, shouldn't be subtle either if you know where to look. She's betting that's what Ceci's banking on, too– in the eyes of the law, buying from a shady seller is a lot better than having it dropped off at your doorstep by the villain who stole it.

"I still think there are other ways you could be spending your time."

That gets Ceci to look up, putting down her pen to prop her chin on her hand. The smile playing on her lips is wide and amused. "Really? Like how?"

"Like me." There's no hesitation behind the suggestion or the easy way Alex lounges on the desk, both hands settled beside her. Cecilia pretends to consider it, humming to herself.

"There's a lot of better ways I could be spending it too," she points out.

"Really?" Alex asks, grin all challenge as she leans in closer.

"Am I wrong?" Cecilia's voice has dropped into a whisper, but it's as much of a challenge as Alex's as she lets her hand graze her cheek.

"'Course you are," she says, voice equally low when she pulls her head up to meet hers.

———

Caine has always preferred to work on circuitry alone. Delicate work requires focus and concentration, and there's only two outcomes when somebody else is in the room with him: they either get completely distracted by the background noise of the other person's thoughts, or the other person is Ortega, and suddenly their circuitry has bigger problems.

Three. Three outcomes. Because the man walking into their room doesn't fit neatly into either of those two.

"What is that?" Caine hears him less than feels him, the physical words quieter than the mental imprint of his mind. Mitchel slinks up on the headrest behind him, his head resting next to theirs. They don't have any idea how he's balancing on it, and he doesn't turn to find out. However he's doing it keeps Caine's hands free to move– that's good enough for them. They place an absentminded kiss on his cheek, eyes not looking up from the breadboard though Mitchel's hair itches his face. He doesn't bother to answer out loud, letting their own mental schematic fill him in on the details.

"Huh." Mitchel clicks his tongue, and not for the first time, Caine is glad at least somebody knows what they're thinking about. "Medical readings are gonna suck to collect in the middle of a fight."

Caine shrugs. It's probably true, but if they can get readings from a single good grip on the opponent, the information could be invaluable. They can feel Mitchel's eyes on him as he works, two pairs of striking green observing him as he wired and coded.

"What's the LCD there for?" Mitchel interrupts the silence building to reach his free arm over Caine's other shoulder and point at the small screen, the mess of wires pouring out of it overlapping the rest of the circuit. "It's just making things more complicated."

"Stand-in for the armor's HUD," they mumble, unfocused, resorting to speech more out of habit than anything else. "It's supposed to be complicated." That way he'll know how to interface the mod with the rest of the armor's system. Technically speaking, it should be more complex, but-

"-but that's useless if it doesn't work now. It worked without the LCD?"

A nondescript note of confirmation. They can feel Mitchel shift position, reaching a hand over Caine's head to tap one of the many colourful wires.

"You didn't ground the LCD right. That's the 5 volt, not the ground. This is gonna fritz on you."

Caine blinks. Rewires it. Uploads the code and watches the LCD blink "functional" at him.

He groans, rubbing his face as Mitchel shifts again to rest his chin on their head. They can feel his smugness, little pebbles of amusement in the back of their mind.

"And this took you how long to figure out?"

"That's not fair." They don't quite whine, but almost. How was he supposed to see that? The pins are all small and angles get funny when you've been working on one thing as long as they have. They debate pushing him off as retaliation, but his chin is a comfortable, familiar pressure on his head, helping them think.

Mitchel snorts. "Sure it isn't." A poke to their back. "What else you gotta connect?"

Caine considers it for a moment. Figuring out the wiring for the cooling can be left for last, when the energy drain for all the components are accounted for. It's the reader that's the problem, that has to be fitted into the hand, which means they have to make it work with the other systems in there. Inside their pocket, their phone buzzes. It has to be close to the surface of the palm, if not on it itself, which means-

"Your phone buzzed," Mitchel points out.

"I know," Caine reassures him.

"Open it. I wanna see who it is" Another poke, this time to his chest. Caine sighs, weary and heavy, before taking out their phone and squinting at the offending notification. Mitchel leans over to read it too, though there's no real need to when they're both telepaths.

...Oh.

It's a single message. From Chen.

'Are you free to walk Spoon with me?'

"Ignore it." The words are practically hissed out. Mitchel never liked Chen for understandable reasons, and liked him even less when he found out Caine had kissed him. Caine's been too busy to deal with what happened since then, and they suspect Chen's the same. Honestly, they're tempted to take Mitchel's advice and stuff the phone back into their pocket. That would be the safer thing to do. The smarter thing.

They mull over the decision before texting back a one word reply:

'Yes.'

"Cheese and rice, man!" They can't see his glare, but they can feel the irritation. "Why would you answer that?"

"I want to walk Spoon." That's part of the reason. They could use the walk anyway, a few things pop when he stretches, and the sound makes him wince.

"I'm going to steal that damn dog," Mitchel mutters, fuming enough to make Caine snort. Already, he is slinking off, landing on the floor without even jostling the chair he was resting so precariously on. Mitchel has always been lighter on his feet than Caine was. They plant another kiss, this time on the top of his head, before heading for their shoes. That's the nice thing about always keeping socks on– leaving is always faster.

Caine doesn't wait for him as they walk out the door, and Mitchel doesn't hesitate as he falls into step beside them. It's a familiar enough routine that, once they're walking, it's easy to slip into the same conversations they're used to, comfortable steps to retrace because it's Mitchel, and Caine doesn't think they could ever really be bored with him.