#river basri

Her mouth flickers into a half-smirk, half-shocked grin. "Is that yes?"

"You mean the underwear, right?"

She taps him under the chin with the magazine as a warning. He bites back his own smile.

"I would like it better if you were wearing it," he says, sly and smooth and slippery.

He braces himself for a full smack of the magazine, but he is spared this time; instead, he is captured by the wavering vulnerability of her lip. Slipped between her teeth. Back out again.

"Oh yeah? Is that what you'd like?" Half thrown as an insult, half challenge.

To which he could only swallow air and say, "It only matters what you like."

"Whatever," she snaps with no heat. But the energy settles around her, lightning gone to rest. A decision, marked by orange-mottled cheeks. "You buy it, then."

She sets the magazine on the coffee table, curls into his side like a burr, and leaves it at that.

--

He baits her curiosity expertly.

He has played this game long enough that he is the top-record holder in River coaxing; king code-breaker in River-centered magnetism. The right lure and he can capture the glimmer in her gray eyes, caught on something she won't let go, and then, not long after that, he can touch the soft, furious center she hides under porcelain stillness.

But she is the tactician of the two of them. So he has to act carefully.

He left the box, adorned with pretty black lace, under the same coffee table where the magazine fell, tempting her curiosity with it -- because how often does he leave things out like this, so fakely surreptitiously? This is how he plays the gift-giving game with her. Her heart doesn't know what to do with love so brightly woven into a gift directly handed to her, and more often than not, she defaults to a blank, teary-eyed state that makes him feel guilty.

This is better. She likes games. She likes surprising him back -- quietly showing off the gift, whatever it is. A tennis bracelet, icy diamonds on warm gold, glittering on her bony wrist (the fanciest thing she would allow him to spend his god-forsaken money on). A quirky baseball cap for a team she liked ironically, suddenly worn as she enters their bedroom, ready for sleep, just to make him laugh.

He has yet to figure out what he will do about a ring. No. That's another time.

So this...

Well, he does not expect his comeuppance so quickly.

He comes home early from the kind of day that is mostly sending emails and pinning leads on the board. He opens the door, fumbling with the lock while he holds a bag of food in his arm, yelling for her in the way that has become commonplace, the way he never thought he'd be able to do because once upon a time he was too stupid to believe their time could be limited (even though he knows, keenly, the ways life stops short). "River! Did you eat lu--"

Cut off by the sudden, iridescent flash of blue-shimmering silk darting into the bedroom and flinging the door shut behind her.

His heart takes off in five directions at once. His body functions like there's an emergency, depositing the food thoughtlessly on the counter, before he takes three large, bounding steps to his bedroom door. "...River?"

"I was just trying it on, I didn't...!" A shrill yell, and then a growly, high-pitched sigh through the door. "Why are you here?"

"Because I live here?"

He at least hears a cut-off snort of a laugh from that one. His panic subsides immediately -- and curdles into something else. "I mean, you're early," she mutters.

"Work was boring."

Nothing in answer.

"I was hungry," he continues. "And I thought to myself, you know who I bet got caught tinkering with her machines again and didn't eat? My girl, Red."

That usually does it. My girl, Red. Something about it softens the edge of her, makes her melt back into smiling at him. This time, he hears a sound like....groaning.

Well. He shifts onto a foot. "I can...leave?"

"No!" A single, snapped off syllable.

And then the door is yanked open to reveal a river nymph, trapped in his home.

She stares at him, face flushed, silvery-blue silk robe wrapped tight around her willowy middle. Her freckles look half ready to leap from her skin, sharp against her mottled, pale face, orange enough that she may be close to combusting. Her hair -- that fine copper close to strawberry blonde in the Los Diablos summer -- drapes around her face and shoulders in tempting sheets.

Her small mouth, curved in protective fury. Her eyes, glowing like the silver threads in her robe.

"Don't even start," she says, sharp.

He is fine with that. He does not, exactly, remember what 'start' even means. Not when an image from his long-dead, recently-revived dreams, stands in his doorway like she's thinking of how to hit him on the head.

--

Silk feels nice.

That's the thought she clings to as Ortega stares at her like she's from outer space. Silk feels nice. It's cool against her skin, which is nice because that skin feels too warm, and it's nice because she can hold it like a shield against her tattoos, just like with most clothes, except this time it’s only the thin sheet of silk protecting her skin from visibility and...

Silk feels nice. Silk feels nice.

The bra straps feel strange, scratchy on her skin. She's small enough everywhere that some days she can get away with wearing no bra at all. She's nothing like the voluptuous mistresses Ortega surely paraded about with in the past; the bra is more like a fancy couple of triangles, there for modesty. Why do people decide to do this for fun?

"River..."

Ah. That's why.

The choked sound of his voice makes her freeze up, but in a pleasant way. She holds still, hoping she isn't dreaming all of a sudden.

His hand hovers midair, like she's trapped behind glass. It's just the robe he can see -- just snatches of her bare shoulders and knees and collarbones -- and he's already like this. "Can I..."

A kernel of heat unrolls in her gut. She grabs his hand. Gently. Tries not to think about the way his eyes track the bit of robe that slips from her control. "It took me an hour to figure out how to put this on. We are going to eat first."

"I can think of something else we can-"

"No."

But damn him, she's smiling.

--

The tactical reason for this is because it's funny as shit. Maybe that's reason enough.

She pointed to one of the dining room chairs and Sparkles sat down like a good boy, legs wide in an invitation she promptly ignored.

And so now she is sitting at the ass-end of the table eating her panini while wearing lingerie that cost an amount of money she couldn't have fathomed for underwear, probably getting crumbs all over it, her knees curled up into her chest as she hums and eats and doesn't look at him.

"You aren't eating," she says, mouth full. She chances a glance at him and he watches her with a dreamy look on his face, head cradled in his palm.

"I'm having a great time watching one of my oldest fantasies come to life, actually."

Her skin warms. Again. "Me sitting in underwear at your table?"

"You sitting in underwear at my table while eating food I brought for you, yes, exactly. Glad we're –" He dodges a cherry tomato thrown at his ear. " –on the same page."

"Idiot. I'm not coming over there until you eat."

"Not falling for this one again, though you do tempt me so well."

Her smiles come faster these days, like in the Before times. Less ice and crust to cut through, melted away by ozone and laughter. "But I'll still have to wait 30 minutes…"

"Mi vida, we aren't going swimming."

Everytime he uses that name for her, a hook pulls, right in her gut, but instead of a wince of pain like she's so long expected, her body starts to go slack. Betraying her to an ocean of warmth, writhing inside her.

"Whatever," she says again. "There are rules."

"Always rules with you, my homebound little anarchist."

His smile is beatific and white as light. It turns blinding in her peripheral when she unfurls her legs from her body, placing her feet flat on the floor, and stretches.

Breathe. Everyone knows the game here. Everyone knows you are doing this on purpose, to rile him up by a full view of your waist, by letting the light skim across the silk and the slight swells of your body and shadow of your bones. That's what he gets for teasing you. This is definitely all a punishment for him and not…

Not…

Therapy. For you.

That takes the wind out of her sails a little bit. Thinking about it.

Ricardo notices immediately, because of course he does. “Oh, hey. Hey. What happened?”

She gestures blandly to the screaming orange markings that crawl over her body. Complex circuitry she wishes could disappear, and yet…here she is, almost goddamn naked. A fully unshaded window is right behind her. There’s a joke in here somewhere. She will find it. Give her a moment.

“I dreamed of this too, you know,” are the words that fall out of her mouth.

Damn it.

She swivels her head to look at him, eyes wide, but he is completely still, brimming with expectation and curiosity and interest in her feelings. She could drown in those brown eyes and no one would ever know.

She groans. "Therapy has ruined me. Now it just all comes out like…puke."

He does laugh, so it wasn’t a complete failure. “Come here.”

“I did, though,” she says. “Dream of it.” She rises from her chair and uses her hands to sweep crumbs off her tiny excuses for titties and uses the movement to get the fucking words out. “Spent a lot of time. Thinking about a world where this could happen.”

“Me too, funnily enough. Do you think we met up?”

She chances another glance at him, at his strange teasing. It’s the shadows in his expressions that always interest her — the hints of the things he thinks he can keep out of her reach. Her arms linger in front of her navel, wrapping around her waist, while she rolls forward onto the balls of her feet. It’s her attempt at reflecting back his body language. His head, still on his palm. A fist on one knee. Foot tapping out some wild rhythm.

“That’s cute,” she says flatly.

He extends an arm out, mouth curving into a smile she absolutely does not trust.

“I mean it, you dickhead,” she says, smiling back despite herself. “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m proud of you.”

And he means it, which makes her lip do that thing where it trembles like the fucking earth. She bites down on it, hard.

“River.”

She lets go. No blood this time. “You aren’t going to believe me when I say this.”

“Try me.”

“But I think this…outfit. Is helping.”

He does not say anything to that just yet, which feels like a win, finally, so she takes another tentative step toward him and then another and another until her thighs bump his knee.

“I’m already basically naked so what the hell else can happen to me. You know. I can just say…things and it doesn’t feel like I have to make a thousand calculations about what I intend to mean because I’m already. You know. I’m…”

She’s getting somewhere with this, she knows it. Her eyes narrow, but for once, not at him. To his credit, he’s kept very still, despite the heat rolling off his body.

“It’s easier to tell the truth when it feels like you have nothing to lose,” he says.

Truth without fear. Faith in what's said. This is their homework for the rest of their lives.

She puts her hands on her hips. She’s a living, red reed of a person. She doesn’t curve so much as jut out, sharp and angular and thin. And once upon a time, that was a defense against the worst that the Farm could offer. And once upon another time, she cursed this body in the mirror, thinking of Los Diablos’s most eligible bachelor smiling at some new woman, soft and lovely and smooth. Tall, usually. Can’t forget that.

The opposite of her, in every respect.

But now, these days, in this strange future she’s living in that broke all her expectations, she is certain that no other person has made his face do that.

Because they were the opposite of her for a reason.

“So what do you think?” she asks, finally.

He tilts his head.

She can't help it. She grimaces. She grabs his hand, the one knocking his knee, and squeezes it tight until the fear passes because she knows by now they both need it when her face twists up like that.

That old fear says he doesn't see the whole of her, just what he wants to see. No. Not true, she says back, not true. Look at her. Look. Isn't this proof enough?

“You aren’t going to believe me when I say this,” he says, voice low.

And something in his tone does it.

She sits on his thigh and crosses her arms over her chest and closes her eyes and nods. One of his hands braces her bare lower back and the other snakes around to her far shoulder, melting her fully into the solidity of him — his heat lightning, his musk, his certainty settled after years of erosion and cracks. “Try it now,” she says.

Daniel takes one step in. Starts hovering. Doesn’t stop hovering until he’s close to Ricardo’s desk, which prompts Ricardo to lean back in his chair until it creaks, because — what? Why is their heroic little flyboy looking at him like that? Like he’s about to break the worst news of his—

Yeah, get out of that thought spiral before it begins. Jesus.

“What is it, Herald?” he asks again, harder this time.

The use of his hero name gets the boy back on the floor, at least. “I just feel like you should hear about what happened from me…first…”

Nervousness and shame rolls off Daniel in waves so strong that Ricardo stands up. He’s not sure how to make that sudden motion casual, and any attempt to seem cool about it clearly fails by the way Herald takes an immediate step back. Ricardo puts his hands up.

“What?” he asks, hoping confusion is more clear than annoyance. “Did something happen during therapy?”

“Um, so, I talked to River.”

Ricardo feels gravity pull him hard into the floor. “Yes?

“And, I…I may have carried hertoarooftopwhereshefaintedandI’mreallysorryIdidn’teventhink—”

“Hey, woah, slow down.”

Daniel takes a breath. Eyes not meeting Ricardo’s. Face flushed red as a crack in the earth. “I’m sorry, I know I should have thought about it. I know—I mean it makes perfect sense that she has trauma around heights because of—”

Ricardo raises a hand. Keeps it flat. Get that tension out of your body before it starts tingling. Put the mask on. “Stop. Start over. What the hell are you going on about?”

Daniel grounds himself. Feet squared, like he’s ready to be hit. Ricardo resists the urge to click his tongue. Easy to knock over; stance not wide enough. “Well, I know how you are about…her.”

A weight, thunked right into the gut. That spit-up glop of words, coming together slowly. A rooftop where she fainted. A…

His heart twists, 180. Agony, right down to the gut.

“What did you do?” he manages to ask nicely.

Daniel’s gaze sharpens. Confidence coming back, slow and then all at once like sunrise. “At least give me a minute to explain myself before you punch me.”

Ricardo’s mouth twitches downward. He leans into his desk. Put the damn mask on. “Fine.”

He can almost see the heroic effort Daniel makes not to roll his eyes at Ricardo’s too-serious tone. “First of all, you're not her keeper. But I’m telling you now so everyone is on the same page and because I am sorry, okay?” 

He moves on too fast for Ricardo to snap back. He doesn’t get to say that. He doesn’t know how fragile this situation is — but then, even Ricardo is still left wondering, most days. He must not be playing his cards close enough to the chest if Daniel notices his concern.

“I wanted to talk to her about some…things,” Daniel says. “So I found her on the road and she said she’d listen to me so I…picked her up…and flew off…”

The earlier glob of words suddenly becomes clear as day and just as fucking scorching. Ricardo’s fists clench. “Good god. Are you shitting me?”

“I know.”

Hands. Clenching. Reach, reach, reach. No. Stop. “No you fucking don’t, kid—”

"Don't start with that," he snaps. "This is the problem, okay?”

"Come off it—"

"No, I mean the ‘no one telling me anything’ crap! I had no idea she would react that way—”

He can hear River’s voice in his head. Do you have a brain? “Because, for damn starters, you aren’t supposed to pick up civilians off the street!”

Daniel has the good sense to pause, at least. He sighs, frustrated, and holds his fingers to his temples. “I…know.”

It takes some of the wind out of Ricardo’s sails, but not enough. “You know how most people died during Heartbreak, don’t you? You at least knew that? Did you know she threw herself out a fourth-story window?”

Daniel’s gaze turns the poisonous kind of blue and he bites his lip but he stays quiet.

“This is what happens when you don’t fucking think, Daniel.”

“Oh, that’s rich.”

No. No. Let it go. Let the static in your veins just…go… 

“Is she okay?” Ricardo grinds out.

Daniel nods a bit too fast, but his frown sticks like gum. “She, um, recovered fast. But I…kind of wanted to ask you about that.”

“Really.” He needs to call her, he needs to fix this right now, right now before she— 

His glare turns ice cold. “Newsflash, Ortega, you don’t get to own all the rights to giving a shit about her.”

“She’s not Sidestep anymore,” he says. “Why do you care?”

Daniel steps back a half-step, eyes wide with shock. “Jesus. I forget how much of a fucking asshole you are, sometimes.”

Got the kid to cuss. There’s that at least. Still. You’re not a young roaring lion anymore, act like it. He puts his hands up. Truce. “Sorry.” The words feel hollow but he’s fucking trying. “You’re right. That was out of line.”

Some tension drains from Daniel’s shoulders and settles right on Ortega’s instead.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get punched,” Ortega can’t help but slip in.

“Something’s missing inside her. I don’t know. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Don’t,” he snaps, because it’s cold. It’s cold and it hurts like a bitch, hearing someone else say it. Hearing someone else see the ice behind her silver eyes. The sludge of terror and hate that prompts her whole body to freeze up moments before she screams in fury. Does she hate him? She would have the right. He wonders, every day.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Daniel asks, voice low. “She thought you sent me after her. Maybe you should think about that.”

In answer, Ricardo slowly sits back down in his chair.

Sometimes Daniel is like the worst of Wei and himself rolled into one — smarter than you’d give him credit for, tactical about it, and absolutely unwilling to quit once he’s got the scent.

“So she told you about Heartbreak,” Ricardo manages.

Daniel looks toward the window, squinting into the sun. “Yeah. Not a lot, but…enough.” He turns back. His voice quiets. “Have…do you…”

“What.”

“Do you think about…why they keep so much of it classified? From us?”

Ricardo leans back. “What did she say?”

“Just…” Daniel’s fingers fidget together. His eyes glance around the room. Too many ears. Hmm. “Well, to think about who knows what. And why that matters.”

Yeah. That does sound like River. Make the map, connect the dots, pick the decisive action. Even at her lowest. Of course that’s what she’d say.

“We can talk about that later,” he says, gesturing broadly — vaguely to the cameras. He hopes Daniel is smart enough to pick up on that. “Just…don’t pull shit like that again, okay? Better yet…maybe don’t speak to her unless she talks to you first.”

“Well. About that.”

Ricardo tilts his head, jaw clenching. Don’t think about her falling limp in the sky. Don’t. Just don’t touch it.

“She agreed to, um. Help me train?”

He’s…not sure what to do with the weird pit that opens up in his gut. Is it jealousy? No, you’re too old for that. Anger? Worry? Confusion? Why is she training Daniel? Isn’t she retired? What does she get out of that? Does she want back in the fold, just not sure how to go about it because of her…family situation? That would sound like her; she hated even the smell of imposition.

He files it all down into a smirk. Confidence. You’re fine with this. You are. “Good luck with that. Maybe she’ll teach you how to use that big brain of yours.”

Daniel glares at him, though the heat isn’t so stifling. “Maybe you should ask for lessons, too.”

“Good one.”

“Whatever.” A beat. The boy is still a professional to the core. “If you need something, you know where to find me.”

Herald leaves.

Ortega turns to his phone. The big brick.

He wants to resist the impulse. She was just here.

But he can’t. He’s weak as shit. He knows this. He’s a fool. He’ll call himself however many names he needs to in order to get over it and pick up the phone — because keeping her here, safe, protected, is more important than anything else.

"River? Sorry, I guess it's a bit of a shock to find out I've known for as long as I have."

He doesn’t understand, he’s looking at you and he doesn’t get it. 

“We can’t talk about it later.”

“Fuck shit.”  You step on the gas; you need to get out of here now.

Ortega winces as you weave through the traffic. He never liked being in the passenger seat, as much as you’ve always loathed driving in Los Diablos. 

“We’re in trouble.” 

“That’s not nEW!” The car jerks, and you do your best to keep it under control, but you’ve never been the best driver and the car starts skidding wildly, although it looks like the sniper just shot out your tire. 

By some miracle, Ortega manages to pull the hand-break just in time for the car to decelerate and miss the approaching truck. Taking advantage of the commotion, you finally put your shit together and get the hell out of there.

“What the hell was that?!” Ortega sputters, back pressed against the seat, one hand gripping your upper arm and the other grabbing at the door. 

“Good question. A sniper? I don’t think this was Hollow Ground’s doing.” Focusing on not crashing, you shrug Ortega’s hand off and wipe the sweat off your forehead. If Hollow Ground wanted you dead, he could have ordered so instead of letting you go willingly. Or maybe, he changed his mind when he saw who was getting in the car with you.

“Mierda. How many enemies have you made as Riot?” He’s staring at you bug-eyed.

“Ehhh, I don’t know. A few?” Your laugh sounds nervous and suspicious. “Who says that shot was for me and not for you? I’m not the one with a one-man crusade against him.” 

“Of course not, because you’re his little br—” You swerve the car on purpose this time, not looking forward to listening to him finish that sentence. 

“SHUT UP! Just. Shut-up. I can’t drive properly with you harassing me with your pet obsession.”

“Fine. But you’re not running away from this one. Keep driving until we’re sure we’ve lost them and go straight to my place.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you, and if that didn’t make you nervous on a daily basis, right now it’s borderline unbearable. “And don’t try anything funny. You have that look in your eyes.”

“At your command, Marshal. Oops, I mean, former Marshal.” He doesn’t laugh, only keeps staring at you with that look of business on his face and you grow anxious with each second past. 

He’s never looked at you like that. Never spoken to you with that tone. Yeah, sure, you’ve worked with him before and seen how he orders civilians around or interrogates criminals, hell, he’s even had plenty of arguments with other people on your behalf, but he’s never been really mad at you.

Not like now, anyway.  Not because you’ve hurt people. A lot of people. You’ve lied to him, betrayed him and laughed in his face. Put him in the hospital too. And he doesn’t even know about Raine yet. Fuck shit. 

After a while, when you’ve made sure you lost whoever the fuck was trying to blow up your brains, you head to his neighbourhood. As unlikely as it seems, he’s taking your shutting up request seriously, and you think that you’ve never shared a silence that lasted so long.

And because you’re used to his constant rambling and can’t stand his static anymore, you’re the first to break it. 

“What’s going to happen once we get off the car?” 

“That depends on how you want this to go.” His voice is stripped of emotion, straight to the point. That is his way of warning you not to be an asshole. “You can park around here, it’s not a good idea to have the car so close to my building.” 

“You don’t have to worry, I’ll take care of it later.” Of course, you’re lying. Once you stop the engine you’re getting the fuck out here. 

You really don’t want to have this conversation. You’re afraid; not because you fear what Ortega can do to you, you doubt he’ll beat you up too badly if it comes to blows. 

You’re scared of facing the rejection. The prospect of losing whatever is going on between you two after getting back together is more terrifying than any hit he could lay on you. 

But you’re not Sidestep anymore. You’re not the boy who spends his days trying to please Charge and looking for his approval. Your freedom is in your hands now, and you’re not giving it away, not even for Ricardo. 

So you do what you must have done since you got in the car, and when you stop the engine, you break to run. 

Unfortunately for you, you don’t get very far since Ortega has better reflexes than you, zapping you even before you can pull the door handle.

You bite a scream while you dump your head against the wheel, the claxon echoing your pain with a sound of its own. 

“¡River! ¡Puta madre! Te avisé que no hicieras tonterías.” He steps out of the car hurrying to your side, just in time to catch you as you hurry out as well. 

“Let me go you idiOT—” You gasp as he zaps you again and electricity branching down every nerve. Your whole body convulses and Ortega catches you by the waist before it hits the ground.

That electric shock would have been enough to knock someone out and give them some severe burns. But all those years in the farm, while you were submitted to far more painful torture made sure you weren’t anybody. Electric shocks were often used to test how long you could remain focused, and you suppose you have built some endurance to electricity as a result of that.

Regardless, you pretend to be out cold, waiting for an opening to successfully run from Ortega. 

“¡Ay Dios mío! I really didn’t want to come to this…” He closes the car’s door, puts you on his shoulder like you weigh nothing and walks to his building carrying you like a sack of potatoes. 

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” He sounds tired, a harsh contrast to the determined demeanour he had some minutes before. Technically, you do listen to him. But that doesn’t mean you have to do what he asks. 

When he gets to the building, he feeds the doorman some bullshit story about how you were having some drinks, and you got so drunk you passed out. If not for Ortega’s charm and you being a known face around, you don’t think there’s a chance in hell he’d have bought such a preposterous story. As it stands though, and with a small telepathic push for good measure, he doesn’t suspect anything too weird.

If only they knew you only pass out out of drunkenness alone.

You finally arrive to his flat, and he takes care of the locks and the security system before gently lying you on the couch, making sure the door is locked in case you want to leave. Bastard. 

He heads to the kitchen to probably get a first aid kit, and wasting no time, you grab the nearest lamp quiet as a mouse, getting up from the couch. 

Your beating heart threatens to burst out of your chest. Stealthily, you walk to the kitchen, lamp in your sweaty hands, hurrying up before he turns back. 

The stupid fancy shoes you chose for this meeting with Hollow Ground are new, and the rubber sole makes a barely perceptible noise against Ortega's floor that you pray he won't hear. 

But your derby’s noise might not be so imperceptible to him, given he turns back and dodges the lamp that was aimed straight at his head. Wasting no time, he lands a blow in your face. 

Your body retreats and you take advantage of the new closeness to kick him in the guts, before delivering another kick to his chin and jumping over the kitchen island, making him chase you through the living room.

“River, stop! We can’t talk about this!” He sounds more desperate than angry, but his feelings are quite low on your priority list right now.

“Talk? You want to talk?!?! You’re keeping me TRAPPED you bastard! TRAPPED!” You fiddle with the locks but there’s no use, and as he sounds  his approach you pick the nearest picture hanging on the wall and throw it at him, a petty distraction to jump over the couch and put some distance between you two.

“Stop being so dramatic! We wouldn’t be in this situation if you didn’t run from all your problems, pendejo!” His gaze drips with accusation. The audacity. 

“Me?!” You wipe the blood from your face. Is it coming from your nose or your lip? “I’m not the dramatic one in this relationship!” 

“So we do have a relationship?” For a moment, he looks at you with new eyes, but common sense comes back to him a second later and he shakes his head. “Hey! Stop trying to distract me by bringing up our relationship, that’s dirty!” 

“A relationship? A relationship based on lies and secrets? Is any of this even real?” You sound manic in your ears and Ortega looks distressed.

“Of course it is! Give me some credit, I told you I knew you were Riot and I’ve known you were Hollow Ground’s little brother since you showed me your face.” You’re gritting your teeth so hard you wouldn’t be surprised if they just snapped. 

Ortega and his stupid theories. His pointless obsessions. He’s spent years working on an absurd backstory, believing himself to be so smart and astute, yet he’s oblivious to the truth before his eyes. 

You are not part of this world. You are not part of anything. You can’t belong, you’re a fish in a tank, they made sure of it. Made to fool and pretend, that’s what they taught you. 

They. The static. Ortega’s static. 

“Why won’t you just TALK to me!!” You want to scream from the top of your lungs. Rip off all of your hair. You’re breathing yet air doesn’t seem to reach your lungs, you’re sweaty and clothes stick to your skin in an intrusive way. 

“Stop yelling. Please. I’m sorry.” You’re cracking. Your voice sounds like a hollow whisper, your eyes sting. “Please, you’re scaring me.” Both of you are standing on opposite sides of the dinner table, the only thing protecting you against that dreadful static. 

“I just want to understand you.” You send a glance his way, Ricardo seems as shaken as you. Tired, looks like he has aged 10 years in the span of this conversation. 

“I don’t know how to do that.” Shaky words. Iron and salt in your mouth. You’re crying. “I don’t know how to explain. Where to start?”

“In the beginning? Anywhere? Por favor, inténtalo. Give me anything.” Pleading, he begins to path towards your side of the table, but you hold a hand to keep him in place. 

“I’ll show you.” Stop being chicken. Stop being a crybaby. “I’ll show you, and you can hate me for it later. But don’t move. And don’t talk until I say so.” 

He doesn't move in time. In the same breath that warmth leaves her eyes, she becomes an arrow of confusing intention, bizarre enough that he nearly falls over, forgetting himself, before he tumbles, weightless, back into another opening stance.

But then she stuns him again — by giggling. 

Once, light as air, trilling like a bird call. Easy to miss, but he doesn't because someone should notice these things, shouldn't they? She covers her mouth with her hand, fingers long and thin. Beautiful. This is how art works. Everyone finds their own meaning in the sunrise.

He grins—

Her fist snaps right for his shoulder but pulls back before she hits collarbone. Taps twice. A warning.

That's...new. Since they started getting coffee, she’s started giving him tip-offs. Warm-ups. Space before she sends him to the ground.

"Did you forget you can fly?" she asks. The tiny upcurved corners of her lips for once reach her eyes. "You could have built momentum and got me on the ground."

Blood rushes to his face. "Bad instinct, I guess."

"You were in your head again, weren't you?"

She asks, like she doesn't already know. She tries so hard to pretend, like she’s practiced with a script. He knows that a little too keenly. 

"Yeah," he says. Sheepish.

The light leaves her eyes. "I'm your enemy right now. Remember that."

His body goes taut. Why does it have to be like that, exactly, so serious and exacting? Who taught her that the only way to live is by fighting every second for it? Where do you rest, in a world like that?

"Good," she says, and his blood turns to ice. "Get mad, if you have to. Whatever works."

And yet, she has no idea. 

He launches into a flurry of blows, momentum from the core not the arm, prompting her to twist away in surprise. He never goes first, and he knows she'll appreciate the tactical maneuver. But something itches where he can't reach it. She's a mind-reader with an incredible blind spot. 

She can see every contour of his emotions except the ones that apply to her.

They enter the old routine; he swings, she dodges with perfect grace, born to the dance. But she is right, that anger can be useful, so he lets a little of it through. 

How can I make it so you will laugh without covering your mouth?

Who hurt you? 

How do I stop it? 

How do I stop it, before you hurt yourself bad enough you don't come back?

Is that what you're afraid of? Did he think that, before—

His skull suddenly rocks back, whiplash from a fist to the chin. He falls from some edge inside himself, furious and keen, before he remembers gravity doesn't have pull on him anymore. Just other people. His hands clench hard and snap outward. 

Just other—

River goes flying. Across the rooftop, skittering like a stone on water, too fast.

"No!" 

The word is torn from him worse than a reflex. He doesn’t remember the push-off into flight; in the next instant, his back is to the sky, arms tight around River’s middle so she doesn’t fall, momentum pushing them further into the sky. 

He swore it to himself when she fainted that he would never make her afraid again, but here he fucking is, mind screaming one harsh note, a single word, then four: Mistake. Mistake. You are a mistake.

“Daniel. Daniel.” Hands grip his forearms. Her back is curled into his chest still, stunned. “It’s okay. We weren’t that close.”

Lies. Why does she choose now to lie, instead of throwing the truth at his feet like she always does so he’ll lay down like a dog? They are in the fucking air. There’s barely an edge of rooftop below them. “I’m so. I’m so sorry. I’m so…we should…”

“You’re squeezing too hard.” Cold imperiousness seeps back into her voice. He deserves it. It also brings him back to earth, in every single sense. She is taking control of the situation. That’s what she does. “Put me down.”

They both return to the rooftop. His senses return to him akin to exiting a tunnel. His stomach churns. His fingers feel numb.

“I’m done today, I think,” he manages. 

She is a single arm’s length away from him, her head tilted slightly to the side. Her mouth curves downward, matching the trajectory of her gaze, which is affixed to his feet, still cemented to the ground. It’s moments like these he remembers what it feels like to be pulled so fiercely down, so harshly down that it might as well be law. Humans aren’t supposed to fly.

Everyone should orbit something. Even him.

Hubris kills. He saw it happen.

“You’re really mean to yourself,” she mutters.

“You’re one to talk,” he says, before he can stop it.

But then, fuck—

She laughs again.

She sparkles a little, when she laughs. Her freckles catch the sun and her eyes wrinkle slightly, though she hasn’t laughed enough for it to leave lines. Her face is so barren when she thinks no one is looking; but there’s a raw beauty to this, like moon quartz, that means it has to be real.

Fuck. He hopes she didn’t hear that one.

“You’re right,” she says, smile lingering.

He laughs. A balm. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Ortega you said that.”

Her smile turns conspiratorial. “I’ll give it to you this once.”

“He won’t believe me.”

“Exactly.”

He floats again, a little bit. He catches himself in the act, drifting toward her.

And she lets it happen. She lets it happen.

“I’ll get you down,” he says, before his mind runs somewhere else.

They are halfway down the building when she says: “It’s okay.”

A step outside the script. It comes out clumsy and poor.