#shameless 'tenderness is stored in the hands' propaganda here

[whalesfallmoved]

hand over wound

round two. 

chargestep, rated t. 1.9k.

a brief, helpless attempt at ortega’s point of view. the shameless flirty banter and back and forth of pre-heartbreak ricardo, whose main goal is being an absolute menace to society- population, sidestep. horribly self-indulgent in every way, but she lets herself get helped in this one, so what can I say.  

ao3 link.

—

She’s got a hard grip and a bite sharp as her bark, and when you finally get her to put her hand in yours it’s not without the same sensation of coaxing a street cat out of hiding, flinching at the first sudden movement. 

Not this time, though. This time, she lets you catch her wrist, lets you turn it over, and— oh boy— this is the most skin you’ve ever seen, sleeve pushed up almost to her elbow, wrists on display, never would’ve thought they’d look this dainty, crisscrossed as they are by scar tissue and branching blue veins and solid as birdbone.

She squeezes that small, angry little fist in your hand and the tendons flex, the knuckles split raw and furious, scabs already coagulating where the damage runs reddest. Her trophies for that blitz quick punch she packs, armorless and fast (but not as fast— not as fast as you— lightning striking twice.)

Fidgeting, antsy, she kicks her feet against your chair, knock-knock-knock, squeezing her mask in her other pink, exposed fist. Jittery, and you bite back something wry and flustering, something that’ll earn you a freeze and an idiot and a blush and oh, you love that even more, how you can watch it bloom freely now, worth the wait and the coaxing to get her to finally tug Sidestep off the rest of the way, leave just Noa and her big, big eyes (deep brown as a hound’s and you weren’t expecting that, for her to be so warm underneath the hard, cold turquoise) and how she desperately needs the mask, they’d never be scared of her otherwise—and with your other hand you loosen her curled fingers free. 

Toss her a grin, tap her leg with yours, pretend you aren’t surprised by how soft her skin is when it’s not covered in skinsuit and blood, the way it’s never seen the Los Diablos sun—at least, not long enough to match the freckles on her doughy cheeks (freckles down her shoulder? her back?) Layers and layers and here she is, in your apartment, hand in hand, and fuck, you can say something about that too. Something about that kiss something about— later.

“So, I was thinking.”

“Wow. Did you hurt yourself?” Reflex, but she straightens up, watches, waits, and you like that too— the way she can’t hear, the way she has to ask.

“A little, yeah,” medkits and rags and clean water, you dab at the cuts and earn yourself a hiss.

“Out of practice, huh?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You wink and that gets you a scowl, a twist of her mouth, and you’re pretty sure if you weren’t you you’d get her teeth, too. Not even Themmy would get away with that, much as she likes them, they can’t cross the hard line of her last name yet, and you’ve earned smug, you think, you grin, you drag the antiseptic across her knuckles while she’s still glaring and pink at the ears—her hand jerks in yours and you squeeze tighter, gentle. “I was thinking about your suit.”

“Trying to give some fashion advice? Pass.”

“First of all, if anyone here’s in desperate need of it—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, not this again.”

“Don’t get me wrong, you make the unwashed seventeen year old boy look work for you, somehow—”

“Asshole.”

“Sorry, would you prefer sexily disheveled?”

“You— shut up,” there it is, her averting gaze, her grooving brow, her pretty cheeks— ow, fuck— her foot ramming into your calf. “You are such a dick.”

“You love it,” wink, sly grin, she glares harder but doesn’t argue, you’ve got her there and you both know it. “And that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

The split cuts are worse than you thought, wounds wiped clean revealing the deep and the raw all laden on top of each other, opened again and again, her smarting palms scratched and torn, not so different from yours when you try hard enough but it’s different (because it’s her?) and fuck, how long has she been doing this?  

Still can’t win her over with the blue and the white and big capital R and the promise of solid health benefits. Too bad. Can’t blame her though, even if it makes your job twice as hard to let her into the systems, to let her put her darting fingers all over the Rangers’ files, to let her anywhere near the missions you need her most. 

“Well?”

Look up, and she’s watching and waiting still, and you must’ve gone quiet for a moment, turning her knuckles over.

“Your suit’s crap.” Homemade and spliced together, practically sportswear these days, riddled with seams and stitches she’s mended. Not bad for a third-rate vigilante, but that’s not her, not Sidestep, not your—

Not your anything, and she’d eat you alive if she ever caught the tail-end of a thought like that. But she’s going to get herself hurt all the same. More hurt than usual.

“It’s just lightweight. Yours isn’t any different.”

“Mine’s definitely different,” fresh white bandages over red, swollen bruises. You wind them around once, twice, taking care. “The material’s outdated. Where’d you get it, anyway?” 

“None of your business,” she snaps, and you half expect her to rip away, pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t. “And it’s not like I can just hit Uncle Sam up for some brand new state of the art gear.”

“I mean, you could.”

“Don’t.”

“I think you’d look good in blue.”

“Ugh.”

“Just think about it. You. Me. Matching uniforms. We could get you a little lightning bolt, right here,” hand over your heart and she’s definitely going to hit you for that one. “I don’t mind sharing the brand with you.”

“Go die in a hole.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please go die in a hole.”

“Will you join me?”

“Fuck no. I’m putting you there myself. Can’t stand your ass.”

“Good thing you’re sitting down then. Also, thinking about my ass, hmm? Good to know.” 

“Ugh.” 

“Bad time to ask about what other sounds your mouth can make?”

“Try it and I’ll feed you your own eyeballs.”

“Ohh, promises, promises.”

She wants to laugh, catching it quick between her teeth, a soft indent in her softer cheeks, and if you try a little harder you might be able to shake that grin from her, earn yourself a glimmer in her dark, dark eyes—and she’s running out of bark, out of bite, so the first round goes to you as you set her fist down, wrapped, clean and new in bandages that won’t last the next fight.

You reach for the other and she goes willingly, fingertips settling butterfly-light on you, her thumb to the heel of your hand, scars and nicks aligned. There’s something about it, about the skin, about the colder palm that rests quietly in yours, the mods sticking to your bones, and— yes, you like this the most; the way she lets you touch her, even if it’s just this, one kiss in the aftermath of violence and her wrists on display. 

She breaks the silence not with a laugh or a sigh but a shake of her head, a suspicious cant of her eyes to yours, then away; blushed, accepting defeat. You smile, wash her wounds again with the slow repetition of old, small ritual and she knocks her ankle against yours, knee to knee. 

“You’re a deeply troubled and troubling man, Ricardo Ortega.” She finally says, low and almost sweet, and there it is; a dimple beside her mouth, unwillingly surrendered, and the sight unfurls something achy and bruise-deep in your chest. 

And the truth is, you can’t help yourself. “I love the way you say my name.” 

“I swear—” a gasp, an exhale, her bandaged hand meeting her forehead, fissuring that barbed facade of sneers and razor-edged tongues. “You’re so fucking weird. Can’t you just take an insult like a normal person?”

“Oh, those were insults? But they sounded so sweet coming from you.” You reach for the bandages again. Repeat. Gauzy, featherlight loops around her flinching knuckles. 

“God…”

“No need for that. Ricardo works just fine.” 

“How about idiot?” And oh, you’ve got her soft, how’d you manage that? She’s red from her ears down her neck, flush disappearing beneath the black nanomesh, and you wait for her to smack your knee or bring a little teeth but all she does is squeeze your hand, nose scrunched jaw dimpled, melting, and your heart’s tattooing itself to the ribs—maybe you can get her to let you kiss her again, just to see what her lips feel like when they’re not red-slick with iron and sweat and fear. They were softer than you thought. Desperate, too. Almost as desperate as you, and fear’s a thrill a rush a jump but when you thought she’d ended up mashed on the pavement it—

“Only for you.” A tease or a confession and the most honest lie to cross your lips, you tuck the gauze but keep her hand, and she lets you, thumbs over the boundary line of your wrist. Strange. Almost intimate.

She pulls back just enough to trade places, snaring your hand between her own wounded ones, running circles around the emitter, fearless, unflinching, trusting, waiting. Always waiting and never staying long enough for an answer, like you could give her a straight one either way, like you even know what it is beyond aches and bruises and the pained gasp pressed to your lips when you pried her loose and held her tight, Psychopather gone on the ground, victory in the shape of her mouth.

Still, a skip runs down your spine as she massages down, down into the calloused meat of your hand, not even jumping at the kick of electricity, spiteful as blanket static. 

“What, nothing stupid about kissing it better?” She mutters—disappointed?—and of course, how could you miss that chance—but she’s always been better about the plans, a thousand little ways to sidestep dancing around in that lovely skull of hers when all you want to do is charge right in, and as she pulls away you pull back, catch her gauzy, angry fists in your open palm.

She waits. Waits to see what you’ll do. 

You watch, hold your breath, the biting grin gone now, mask shucked loose for a moment when she looks like that, soft and vulnerable in the white-gold light of your kitchen, and she could pull away if she wants, or careen forward, turn it into a punch, into a throttle. 

But she doesn’t.

Her eyes really are pretty, warm brown like the slow burn of whiskey down your throat, and you keep them as you draw her hands up, bring those softened knuckles to your lips, feel the first twitches of a smile that you press lightly against her and— kissing— 

And she raps the back of her fingers against your cheek, barely more than a tap, a reprimand and hey—! She jerks away, stands up, darts from your grasp, gone again. Moved too fast. You sigh, catch yourself, remember to smile. 

“Idiot.” She scoffs, grabs her mask off the table, ducks her head like she’s expecting that soft hair to make a curtain, a shield, but it’s twisted back at the nape and you chuckle, lean back, because it looks like round two is yours again, and you want— you want—

She’s on the other side of the kitchen, working that mask back, turned away, and you don’t ask her to stay, you already know the answer, but fuck if you don’t love to watch her leave, if you can’t wait for round three.