#otp: evencharge

[witchfall]

i'm not passive but aggressive

[Fallen Hero series. Mid-Retribution, post Herald rooftop scene.]

[Chargestep implications; River Basri, Ricardo Ortega and Daniel Sullivan. 1450 words. Discussions of Heartbreak + death. (Kinda just dashed this one out in a flurry of inspo, apologies if it's not super clean!!)]

“Ortega…”

Daniel lingers in the doorway of Ricardo’s official office, looking for all the world like a wet puppy who just peed in the house. 

Ricardo smiles. He’ll have to tell River that one later.

“What’s up?” he asks, because he’s not a complete asshole. 

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.

He’s not going to fail again because of some dumb kid.

#fhr #chargestep #fhr herald #ricardo ortega #river basri #otp: evencharge #kathryn writes #i was very inspired by some good writers in the fandom!!! #many have done this before me and better than me

[witchfall]

what you hear is not silence

[Fallen Hero series. Set post-Retribution. A hypothesis about the Ranch ending...particularly regarding two rangers and their budding Shared Interest.]

[Chargestep + Chargeflystep. A negotiation of what that means. 1718 words.]

[or read on ao3.]

“You’re doing good work, Daniel.”

Ricardo means it, in the momentary leaning on a comrade while covered in blood kind of way, and Daniel, thankfully, takes it that way. “Thank you. I hope so.”

They’re both too tired to play games right now. Both too keyed up, on the edge, despite the easy, distracted smile that graces Daniel’s face after being near River for two minutes, if that.

“Is she doing okay?” Ricardo asks. Because — he’s not so prideful he can’t admit it while at the depths of his exhaustion, at the very least — Daniel can get River to talk about the things she fastidiously hides from them both. She thinks she does a good job of it, too, hiding things from them, which would be funny if it wasn’t so…not.

Ricardo just knows better than to chase those dogs, anymore. Not if he wants to keep her close.

Daniel’s expression flickers from passive happiness to mild distress. “I would say try to drive slower but…” He slips into an anxious laugh. “You shouldn’t. We should just get her there as fast as we can.”

Ricardo nods, taking a pull from his water bottle. He hasn’t let himself sit with the revelations about The Farm. He can’t. If he does, he’s not sure how the rage will come out — just that it will be ugly.

Seven years he thought she was dead and gone, but it had somehow been worse than that.

“Ricardo…”

Right. Here it comes. Another long-needed confession in a night of them. Ricardo focuses on screwing the cap back on.

“You know we…she is…I’m…” A frustrated huff of breath, and then: “We sort of went on a pre-date the other day and we kissed and I really, really don’t want to roll up to your mother’s house without us…acknowledging…that.”

Do you have any idea how absolutely terrifying it is to be in love with you?

He knows it wasn’t a lie. The cold mortification in her eyes was real. The fury, the frustration, haloed by that golden string that keeps bringing them together. Keeps her together.

“I told her we would talk about it with you together,” Daniel continues, voice fast, hand running through his mussed hair, “but she’s so…so scared. She almost…this was…”

His eyes squeeze shut.

“I know,” Ricardo says. “And I had a feeling.”

Another bubble of nervous laughter. “Yeah, I imagine you do.”

“You aren’t exactly subtle, you know?” But the smile is warmer than even Ricardo expects. “It’s nice to see her smile like that. And you,” he tacks on, but he finds he means that, too.

Daniel smiles back — he’s good at that — but it fades quickly into something shadowed by moonlight. “She loves you. I think you should know that, if you don’t.”

A flash of something there. Uncertainty. He can see it in the way Daniel’s mouth turns downward, the way he looks elsewhere. Because while the history between River and Ricardo is sometimes as frustrating as a brick wall, it also binds them like chainlinks — and Daniel isn’t part of that. Doesn’t have something that sturdy. He just has hope. Just has throwing himself into the sky, believing it can work.

Ricardo tilts his head and stares at the asphalt. “I—”

“She needs you. I mean it.”

He turns to meet Daniel’s gaze, surprised by the intensity of the unnecessary rejoinder. He does mean it, in perhaps the most unselfish-selfish way possible. He knows River loves Ricardo. That it may define her in that thorny, bone-deep way, like it has come to define Ricardo, too. But Daniel also knows that this is what heroes do, making sure their happiness comes last, and he won’t be anything less.

Fucking hell is it like looking into a funhouse mirror, sometimes.

“I could never walk away from her,” Ricardo says. This fucking day. It’s entirely the truth, too painfully bare. “But she doesn’t let many people in. You know that.” He thinks about it for a long moment. “She’s lost enough in her life. We’d be real idiots if we tried to…I don’t know…fight dramatically in the street over it.”

His eyes widen. “So you aren’t…”

And this time Ricardo laughs for real. “No, you’re stuck with me. We’re dealing with this. Somehow.”

Daniel’s smile is…

Well, it’s not innocent, he can say that for certain. There’s a knowing there that’s…

Hmm.

“I’ll pretend to be surprised when we talk,” Ricardo says, “if she doesn’t figure out you spilled the beans before then.”

Daniel laughs. He laughs in the face of that danger. He laughs in a way that makes the situation feel fizzy and bright and not cold and dangerous and yawning like a chasm. He gives a small salute, pulls his goggles back on over his face, and spirals away into the sky like that’s a normal thing that humans do.

It’s not like Ricardo doesn’t get it.

---

Once River is all wrapped up in Mama’s loving care, Ricardo excuses himself to the bathroom to stand there and…consider the situation.

He stares at himself in the mirror. At the bags under his eyes and the lines in his face and the grays along his temple.

Of course he was confused about it. The Daniel and River situation. He kept it compressed in a ball, just beneath his ribs — a painful little burr of things he had been pointedly not thinking about. He was focused on keeping her alive, on protecting her from herself; on how determined the universe seemed to be to tear her from him, to turn her into smoke and bone and blood, over and over and over…

At least he revived her this time.

But now it is unspooling and he needs to wrangle it together before he can face her again.

He can’t stop thinking of her bursting into tears the minute Mama greeted her with wide open arms. Too many things make sense now. Of course she would…of course, if you’ve never…

No. Still too raw.

Much easier to think about how Mama noticed immediately that he and Daniel both — for the same split second — became helpless, useless boys waving their arms around trying to figure out how to banish River’s tears from existence before they remembered their professional faces. Which means they’ll have to talk about it. Potentially in front of Mama.

River is going to be so pissed.

But damn, he’ll take it. He really will. If you had told him two years ago that River would be back in his life—

No, honestly, it just stops there. He wouldn’t have cared what the cost was. And if the “cost” is “you will have to make a very interesting arrangement with the new guy on the team who makes you think a little too much” then that’s nothing. That’s less than nothing. He will pay it. So fucking gladly. Just watch.

Even if the cost becomes something sharper, harsher. Even if the cost is “she prefers him over you because he isn’t the past” or “she trusts him because she can read his mind and she’ll never see yours and it will never be the same to just say what you really think.” Even if the cost is a little pin needle like “she frankly finds Daniel handsomer than you.” Really. He’ll live.

Isn’t that what love is about?

She said it first.

---

Ricardo leans into the door frame. "Daniel couldn't stay because he has to go kick up dust over the trail, in case you were wondering."

River pointedly picks at invisible dirt on her blanket. “I wasn’t.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

Instead of the usual exasperation, she regards him with empty…nothing. An absolute resistance to showing anything at all. Unfortunately for River, that tells Ricardo everything.

"So he talked to you?" she asks.

Is she more scared of this than…the rest of it? Maybe it’s easier to be scared of this. Ricardo covers the ache with a shrug. “Talked to me about what?”

Her expression turns brittle and strange, eyes darting to the quilt. And then she says: “I’m sorry.”

Stunned, his “Why?” comes out sharper than he expects.

“For, I don’t know, everything about it?” Her eyes are shining again, glaring and furious. Someone staring down the car coming right at them, like that might make a difference. “Not telling you first, not talking…about it all, about…I don’t even get it…”

He sees it, suddenly. Clarity. This is what she meant. Lashing out. She can’t twist herself into a perfect shape in prediction of what he’ll say and how he’ll react. She just has to be herself. And damn if that isn’t painful.

Damn if he doesn’t understand.

“You? Not knowing something?” He kneels down by her bedside and reaches for her hands and takes them harshly in his own before she can draw back. “Too many pain killers for you, I think, if you’re admitting that.”

She doesn’t pull away. Even though she says, “Dick.”

“Got it in one.”

Her frown wobbles. He watches textures of words rise to her lips and die before she lets them out. Trying so hard to exert control over a situation that is defined by the complete loss of it.

“Nothing has to change,” he says. “Nothing at all. I didn’t lie to you. And I don’t think you lied to me.”

A shadow passes through her face — the same one that comes around whenever she mentions how complicated her life has become in the wake of her not-death. He still hasn’t puzzled it out.

And then, a commendable recovery: “If you hold it over my head I will kick you in the balls.”

“With what legs?”

Her hands flap angrily in his grip, like that might banish him from existence.

“You looooove me,” he croons at her, darting just out of reach right as her hands shake free. All to watch the orange creep into her face, to watch her eyes glow with some semblance of life and fury and, he would like to think, happiness — though he hasn’t yet seen the proof. That’s fine. He’ll find it.

“Idiot.”

“And I love you.”

“Get out of here before I yell for your mom.”

#fhr #fhr ortega #fhr herald #chargestep #chargeflystep #ricardo ortega #river basri #daniel sullivan #writing practice that got out of hand as usual but that means it may not be super polished sorry #otp: evencharge #ot3: evening sky

[witchfall]

take note, it's not impressive

[Fallen Hero series. Mid-Retribution. Sequel to this.]

[Chargestep, mostly, but barren hints to something more? River Basri and Ricardo Ortega. 1439 words.]

[not sure if the vibes are exactly right but I can't poke it anymore so here ya go!]

You are laying in the dark, migraine digging its sick fingers into your eye sockets, when your phone pings three times in a row. You aren't sure how far apart the messages are; your lucidity is questionable. But by the third ping — unusual that anyone texts you, and even Ortega has his limits — you decide to check just so it will stop.

Of course, it's Ortega. Who else?

[hey red, can you let me know you got home okay?]

[yes I know I just saw you, you can call me an idiot all you want]

[I talked to Herald. I just want to make sure you’re okay.]

Through the nauseous, heartsick haze (too open, too many people, too many masks), you pinch out a reply. More honest than you expect.

[Just a migraine. can we talk about it later? feeling really out of it]

A reply comes back faster than you expect, like he'd been waiting for you. [I have some doodads that need fixed. tomorrow morning? my office?]

[Fine] you reply, squeezing your eyes against the light.

You don't see his answer until later, after you startle awake from a sluggish nightmare, one where you are walking through tar.

You startle so hard into wakefulness that the phone nearly flies off the bed. But you catch it — just in time to wish you hadn't.

[okay. :) thinking of you.]

Your heart churns itself into street slush. Black ice. You are nothing but the final, killing frost for an unjust world.

They make it so hard to remember.

—

River does visit in the morning, like she said. Remembering him. That’s a good sign, especially when Ricardo can’t help but be a sap at the very thought of her. Thinking of you. Now he feels justified. 

She is settled in an armchair in his official office, legs curled beneath her, leveraging a small screwdriver to break open a dead communicator. "What did you do, put these through the wash?"

"Probably."

The back snaps off. She throws her hair over her shoulder in that way that makes his heart twist in two directions. The copper catches the sun. "Stop looking at me like that."

Innocence. "Like what?"

“Like you don’t know what to say.” She hasn't even looked at him for the better part of three minutes. She’s absorbed, as she so often is, in the comforting puzzle of a broken thing. “Spit it out.”

He taps a pen on his desk. “So you’re training Herald.”

Now she casts her eyes to him. Suspicious, as always. “Is there a problem?”

He throws his hands up and slaps that charming smile on, but from the way her brows furrow, she isn’t buying it. Fair enough. “You know we’re not going to say no to the help.”

“Then stop being weird about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” She points her screwdriver at him. “You texted me three times in a row yesterday.”

He smirks. “What’s so weird about that?” 

There. A smile through the mist. A cord between them. “Just say what you want to say already.”

“Are you okay?”

“Why?”

He resists the urge to sigh. “Because you fainted mid-air?”

Her gaze slides away like ice cubes across a tray. She bites her lip, then firmly returns to torturing the broken com with her screwdriver. “Yeah.”

“It’s…okay, you know? You have no reason to be ashamed of that.”

“We’re not talking about my trauma response right now, Sparkles, if ever.”

“Okay.” Make it amiable. Really. He’s fine losing that battle. It isn’t even that important. It’s not like he doesn’t get it. He does. Way, way too well. He kicks his feet up onto the desk. She’s here now and that’s all that matters.

“Are you jealous?” she asks snippily, though she focuses on thumbing some tiny screw out of place. “Want me to kick your ass into the cement, too?”

“You’re so sure you’d be the teacher in that regard,” he says, smiling and sly. Hands behind his head. “I just like seeing you reach out. It’s good for you. And that makes me happy.”

He didn’t expect so much sincerity out of his own mouth at once. Today must be one of those days.

She blinks a little hard. “Maybe I’ll just teach you to mind your own business.”

He laughs. “You’ve been trying for so many years, and yet…”

Her mouth softens. Her hands stop fiddling.

“I’m not mad at him or anything. Anymore. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s a surprise.” 

He tries to joke. It doesn’t feel like one. She’s run away for less.

“He’s thoughtless but he’s a nice kid.” She tilts her head to the side, sending her hair cascading across her body like living silk. “Kind of the opposite of you.”

He bares his teeth. He hopes it looks like a grin while he slides his feet back to the floor. “Ouch.”

But then those silver eyes shine at him, accusatory little searchlights. “I didn’t mean it like that, dickhead. I meant…” She huffs air out her nose, face flushing orange with embarrassment, and he is just about punched in the face by endearment. “With you, it's nice and quiet. I can hear myself think because you have nothing going on up there.” He grins. “Herald’s thoughts are really…loud.”

“Oh?”

“But that means I always know what he’s thinking all the time, and…” Her shoulders suddenly shrug and she can’t meet his eyes. A poor facsimile of nonchalance. “There’s no artifice there. I don’t know.”

He leans into his palm, propped up on the desk. “But you don’t like it.”

“It’s weird.”

He doesn’t have to read her mind to feel the words like static on the air: No one should be that nice for real. 

Even sunshine burns.

His smile feels sodden. Of course she would find a way to reject something that is probably good for her. “He’s got a lot to learn, but his heart is in the right place.”

Once again, her shoulders go to her ears. Like she’s shrugging off glass. “I’d say maybe he’s faking it but…I don’t know if...”

She trails off. She’s far too logical to fight against hard evidence, but too stubborn to accept it on its face. 

Isn’t that the old problem?

He’s thought about it for far too long. Too many sleepless nights, wondering if maybe it would be easier if she could peek in his head and see exactly how he sees her. Would she stop doubting him, then? Or does he deserve that doubt, after all this time?

She’d been caught by her enemies and he hadn’t been there.

He can’t ever shake the feeling, anyway, that if she could read his mind that it would all be for naught. She may know him better than most people in the world, but there's a reason he's grateful she can't see the entire dark muddle of him. The pile of fucking failures he hides under a sheet. He’s good at being a mystery. He’s good at making a mask out of the mess. It’s better this way. For everyone.

Someone needs to protect the Daniels of this damn world.

All of a sudden, she unfolds herself from the chair, her colorblock windbreaker rustling loudly in an explosion of movement, and he’s startled out of his reverie. He leans back and tries to look like was starting something rather than baldly watching her like a creep, but when she reaches his desk, she gently flicks his forehead.

He looks up at her, across the desk. Still not much taller than him, even when he's sitting. She raises an eyebrow.

“These are outdated models, old man.” She puts the communicator on the desk with a thunk, perhaps to distract from her growing blush. “Why do you want these fixed so bad?”

“Oh, you know.” He smiles at her, the real megawatt one. “My dastardly plans.”

She tilts her head, squinting. He gazes back in wonderment.

“You know what?” she says. “I take it back. You and Herald are both annoying in the exact same way.”

He chokes out a laugh, because he can’t help it. She pokes him again, one finger pad to his forehead, and it takes everything in him not to grab her hand and kiss her palm. He’s feeling too fragile about it. If she pulled away, he would feel the whole rest of the day go with her.

“You both think you know what’s best for me,” she says.

Her smile, as always, is like a perfect pair of knives.

“And you’re both idiots.”

And then she gently kisses his brow.

#fhr #chargestep #ricardo ortega #fhr ortega #river basri #otp: evencharge #kathryn writes #idk where all this productivity is coming from lol but i might as well lean in

[witchfall]

i feel the earth move

[Fallen Hero. Ficlet inspired by a prompt and a song that went on River's playlist day 1.]

[chargestep. early days. 540~ words.]

2010

“I know how to dance,” you snap. It sizzles on your tongue. Seltzer that won’t go down your throat. 

“Then come here,” Ricardo says.

Your hands are submerged in soapy water. You feel the weightless, bubbly fuzz all over your body and the significance of your excuse. Keep your back turned. Don’t answer. Lightning and water don’t mix. Your name should be a warning.

But the song warbles on, old piano and warm bass and a voice crackling with knowing, singing about the earth moving and the sky tumbling down. His static creeps closer until a heavy palm settles on your bony shoulder, and the only reason you don’t jump is because of the music, easing your body into a viscous sway.

That’s exactly how it feels when he touches you. Maybe those hot marble thoughts, rolling, burning as they go, aren’t so different from the thoughts real humans share.

You open your mouth. He brandishes a ratty towel in front of you, expecting your retort.

That’s annoying.

But you snatch it from him all the same, wiping your hands clear of water, leaving them the painful kind of dry. You don’t get a chance to move away before he encases your hands in his, palm to palm, large and strong and warm, turning you until you are toe to toe. You have to crane your head up to meet his gaze.

Like dark, freshly made coffee, and just as treacherously inviting.

He starts by jiggling your arms back and forth to the beat. It’s so stupid that you snort out a laugh before you can trap it behind your sinuses. 

“I’ve got a name for this one,” he says. All fluorescent grin, creasing his eyes. 

You sense a trap. Your arms are still being piloted by him. “Why?”

“I’m calling it the Sidestep Shuffle.”

“It’s just our arms noodling around.”

“Move your body then, Red.”

You squint at him, but your cheeks hurt from holding back too many smiles. “Someone’s supposed to lead.”

You gasp in surprise as he pulls you up and closer, almost onto your tiptoes. One of his arms snakes around your waist, a vice against the world, and your instincts go to war. Flares and bombs and gunshots ring shrilly inside your heart, the air rumbling until the earth shatters around you. There is no mission here. He wants to hold you like this. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says.

Bastard idiot son of a—

One of your arms is extended, his hand woven in yours, your other settling naturally against his chest, palm to his shoulder. This shouldn’t be allowed. You’re breaking a thousand rules. Someone will catch you, catch on, catch up. Some things you can’t come back from. Like dye taking to fabric. It will never wash out.

Hey, I feel the Earth move under my feet I feel the sky tumbling down I feel my heart start to trembling Whenever you're around...

You spin together across the tile floor, socked feet slipping, sliding. You move together like you were born to it, even when your joints lock up, uncertain of where he wants to go.

It’s okay. You let him take you there.

#fhr #chargestep #fallen hero #ricardo ortega #river basri #otp: evencharge

[witchfall]

stare directly at the storm

[Fallen Hero series. Set post-Retribution. Supposed moment when all pieces are on the table and truths are known at last...]

[EXPLICIT. NSFW. Some unapologetic filth in here lmao.]

[Chargestep; River Basri and Ricardo Ortega. 3123 words. ]

[or read on ao3.]

Inviting Ricardo up to her apartment is a trick, but she’s not sure whose, at this point. 

She is tempting the détente. She knows that he knows what she knows. Things are on the table. These are quantities that can be compiled into a sensible plan of attack.

This is not a sensible plan of anything. Much less attack.

Her weakness upon opening the door cascades down her body like static — because of course it would. Her heart leaps, watching his body curve into her doorway, and she is struck dumb. Struck utterly stupid. Her eyes linger on the stupid deep V of his shirt.

Asshole.

“Are you here to arrest me,” she says, voice so quiet and flat she is shocked he answers in a harsh laugh.

“And you still let me come up here?”

Maybe being arrested by you doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe I’d like to be at your mercy. She manages, with a hard swallow of air, to smother her thoughts back into a far corner and she turns on her heel, leaving the door open as invitation.

He steps in quietly, shutting the door with a soft click (checking her locks a couple times, she hears), and she does not turn to look at him. Her fists pull at the hem of her dark blue jacket. She keeps her eyes on the white wall, bare just like all the walls in here; she doesn’t believe she will get to keep this place for long, after all. And even if she did, she still doesn’t know how to fill in space.

She moves to the blinds. Fiddles with the string. They’re already closed. “Sorry if it’s a mess.”

He makes some weird little broken laugh. “There’s barely anything in here.”

“I don’t lose things,” she says diplomatically. “I know where everything is.”

“I bet you put everything in the closet.”

That’s bait. Don’t look at him. “I’m not you.”

“Ah. That's true. Not nearly so good as hiding everything."

Her face burns. So that’s what this is about. She whirls to face him fast enough her hair nearly flies into her mouth. “What—”

He’s not smiling. Not the real smile. Not the one that means she’s home.

Control. The key you can insert anywhere to understand River Basri. The reason she admitted to her life as Eventide, right before everything else went to shit. He knows everything about you.

Here he is.

This is a mistake.

“Anything we had on you in the system, I deleted,” he says.

“You–”

That’s not what she…that’s.

What?

She stares, eyes wide enough to sting — and only now does she see the depths of his determination. The darkening of his gaze as he methodically crosses the room toward her. A warning step. Another. His shirt is stark white against his skin and tailored well enough that she can see the way his body moves beneath it.

She doesn’t move. She squares her feet.

“Ricardo.” 

He doesn’t stop moving. Slow. Inevitable.

“Don’t,” she snaps.

He doesn’t stop.

“I’m tearing down everything you’ve ever worked for,” she says. Her fingers twitch. Static mind. She stares pointedly over his shoulder, unable to witness this. Like staring into the sun. “Everything you’ve defended for years.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t get to decide what I’m—”

He’s here. In front of her. Her sentence dies in her throat in a pathetic half-sigh, and then, only then — because the order is important, some part of her says, the order matters to you — his palms cradle her face, tilting her chin up slightly. Calluses. The cool of his fingertips. She can’t breathe.

He could snap her neck. But that’s not what she sees in his eyes, staring down at her. New moons. Not enough light in the room for softness.

“You were gone for seven years, Red.” His voice is like hardlight, smothering away brokenness so he can pretend it isn’t there inside him. “You don’t know what I’ve been doing since.”

“Ranger things,” she says, deliberate.

His thumb brushes her cheekbone. “I’ve been trying to save people,” he says. “One by one. One vendetta at a time.”

“And what?” He’s trying to tell her something but she still fences him, afraid of the pain. “You don’t like it anymore?”

“I haven’t liked much of anything I’ve done for a long damn time.”

Her brows furrow. He’s the cursed combination of hopeful realist and yet he’s painfully hamstrung by that in ways that mystify her. She bites her lip. Stops when he moves his thumb there, short-circuiting her brain.

“I can’t fix that.” Somehow she croaks the words out against the pad of his finger. “I won’t help you ruin your life.”

He leans back, just slightly. His thumb slides down to just below her ear. “I don’t get to ruin my life, but you get to die trying to ruin yours?”

Okay. She deserved that, probably. She casts her gaze to the floor as an act of defiance, but the farthest down she can see is her nose.

“Do you think,” he says, voice impossibly low, “I am just going to let you burn out? Let you destroy yourself?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. 

“You don’t think I’m mad at the world?” he says. “You don’t think I get it?”

Blustering anger rears its ugly head. Unfair. “That’s not—”

“No. I’m telling you this because mine is worse. Pettier than yours.” His hands slowly slide down her neck, resting on her collarbones. Grounded. Close enough he could wrap his fingers around her windpipe and squeeze. “I refuse to be part of something that ruined my fucking life.”

She blinks. She almost opens her mouth to ask — is it the debt? But it’s not about the money. It never is with him. It’s not even, really, about freedom, is it? Not this time. It’s about…

It’s about…

“They made me think I killed you.”

The trees for the forest.

No one made him fall down drunk or quit the rangers or return in no time flat. No one made him chase Hollow Ground until he drove away his friends. No one made him make those choices except himself — but then, real freedom is an illusion in this world, isn’t it. Isn’t that the point? That everything is too closely tied together, that pain can smother pain until no one knows who is on top or if it matters anymore? Why not lash out? Why not cut all the strings? Start over. Make it right.

Painful clarity slaps her across the face. 

He’s saying: Start over. Make it right. I’m here.

This time, it’s her palms that rest on his face, her thumbs that smooth the mist gathering just under his eyes. She wills him to run, if he gets a second thought — but Charge never runs. Never backs down. He’s here and so is she and all the cards are on the table. The game is over.

He smirks at her; always a better player than she’d ever say aloud. He always knows. Step to step to—

She pulls him down into a kiss hard enough their teeth collide.

She winces, shocked at herself, but he pulls her in, hard arms turned into a vice. And her body gives in. 

This apartment isn’t home because it isn’t this feeling. Her loss of control, him pulling her in until she is on her toes, unable to stand without him, grounded against a man who could electrocute her to death. Beautiful. The world makes no fucking sense, in the end.

Her fingers slip into his wild mane of hair and he sighs into her mouth. A jolt of heat hooks her in the middle.

Somehow she makes the words come out, breathy and barely there. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“What?”

“ —want me anymore.”

Something catalyzes in his eyes then, a thousand memories funneled into a sharp point. Seven years of waiting and wanting. “Why in the goddamn world would you think that?”

She tries to step on his toes but he sweeps her legs out from under her, arm cradling her knees.

She glares with what dignity she can retain as he beams down at her, proud and horrible and beautiful. Their foreheads touch. She blinks away heat. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Ricardo.”

“Red.”

“You aren’t here to save me from myself, are you?”

The air cools slightly between them, though his arms tighten enough to hurt, squishing her shoulders into his chest. Good. She’s not sure distance would do her any good, the way the world is spinning apart. “I don’t think that’s what you need, no.”

She squints. “Which is...”

“Someone to catch you.”

Her lip wobbles. She resists the urge to snap No, you, like a child, even though it resonates somewhere deep inside her — because is this not the wavelength they’ve always functioned upon? Picking apart each other’s flaws in the mirror, showing it off, oh look, it matches mine?

“I caught you first,” she mutters, petty. "A bunch of times."

“In so many ways, mi amorcito precioso.”

She pulls him down for another kiss, just so he’ll stop being so embarrassing.

—

Reality reasserts itself when he deposits her upon the bed and looms over her, enclosing her in shadow and heat and cotton. The room (her room, she remembers, hers) is cast in blue-gray twilight, sneaking in between the blinds.

Their fingers weave together over her head. She arches into him, seeking the stability of him as her world re-aligns. Here is a world that calls you the villain. Here is a world where he loves you, still, muttering it sweetly against your skin, fingertips sliding from your arms to your torso, where—

“Oh.” She remembers.

“Hmm?” A rumble against her neck.

Her voice is small. “It was dark last time.”

An unfair chuckle, lips at her jaw now. Fingers at the bare curve of her waist. “It still can be. If you want.”

I don’t care, going unspoken, as long as I can touch you. 

Her breath comes in small and broken. “No.” She runs her hands down his back. “It’s only fair.”

She loses herself in the focus of undressing him, until his bare palms slot into the flare of her hips. Her breath is stolen from her in a sharp gasp.

“Okay?” he whispers, too gentle in her ear.

In answer, she pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss. He melts into her, all warmth, moaning into her mouth.

Her skin tingles and burns where his fingers run up and down her sides, slow and deliberate and testing. She keeps her eyes shut, waiting for vertigo to pass — this old feeling that she’s run past a boundary and might become unglued from the earth.

And then vertigo really hits. She is turned about, her back to his chest, one of his arms around her waist. Her head lolls into his neck. It's not fair that he can do this. Turn her body into hot jelly. He's smug enough as it is.

Mouth on her ear. "Hello, beautiful," he whispers. Another jolt of lightning shoots down her spine. His hands slide down her stomach, unafraid of the acid orange warning marks all over her skin, fingertips tracing patterns and scars. Her head feels full of helium, letting him do it. Letting him cherish her, somehow.

She breathes in, hard, and says:

"I want…"

He freezes.

"...you can…lead me."

Oh, she regrets it immediately, hearing the evil smile in his voice. "Oh?”

“Oh my god—”

“I can take charge?”

She would have leapt away in mortification had he not sensed exactly what she was about to do — and suddenly she finds herself on her back, encircled by his arms, both of them laughing, low and rumbling, until he silences her with his mouth on hers and then—

His fingers find the center of her. They slip in seamlessly, pulling a gasp from her so sharp it could draw blood, her head arching back into the pillow. He’s bigger than her in every way that counts, and yet, for some reason, it’s his hands that make her mind run down to deep, dark places, pulling up heat from the center of the Earth.

But when she manages herself into a single, solid syllable — “Oh…” — he’s the one that groans aloud, arm slipping under the small of her back, mouth falling on her neck. 

“My god,” he says. She recognizes, at some point, that he’s slipped into Spanish but she doesn’t compute enough to tell the difference. “How did I live without you for so long…”

Whatever brainspace she had left to snark at him is sadly decimated when his fingers curl upward. Words die on her tongue, replaced by a keen so loud she throws a hand over her mouth in shock.

Not like it helps.

Her heels dig into the mattress, and she finds herself helpless beneath the weight of him. He presses in and pulls her closer, locking her down. His teeth brush her jugular. She’s not getting away from him this time.

The thought makes something in her snap. She can’t stop the sounds that fall out of her mouth, no matter how much control she thinks she has over her body, not when they’ve barely started and she’s already breaking around his fingers.

“That’s it,” he says. So smug, always, but — not really this time. The act is laid bare, covering up some deeper need. “There you are…”

“More,” she demands, into his mouth.

He grins, bright even in twilight. “Didn’t you say I—ah—” 

Yes, she is still in the game. Her hand has snaked down to grab his length, squeezing just so. She tilts her head, studying his face, but he doesn’t let her for long. With that stupid not-so-old man speed he has, he pulls away, only to yank her hips upward and gently nudge her legs over his shoulders. What in the hell does he think—

Oh.

Her hands scrabble for purchase in the sheets as he licks a hot stripe through her already sensitive folds. 

His name tumbles out of her mouth, so close to begging, too close, and that just makes him press in harder.

She’s lost again to sensation. His rumbling moans of desire shoot straight through to her core. He wants this? Like this? Her hands fly to his hair by instinct, and this time something in him snaps — she can feel it like plasma from the sun — and he nearly collapses over top of her in his eagerness.

A heated giggle bubbles out of her. His gaze rakes down her body until their eyes meet, tongue still inside—

She pulls at his arms, she thinks (whatever she can reach, she doesn’t really have room to consider it outside him and warm), and he falls atop her into another kiss. She can taste herself on his mouth. She licks his lips, wanton.

One of his hands reaches up through her hair to hold her at the nape of her neck. Home. Home.

“River—my love, my heart, my—”

She reaches down, confidence out of nowhere, aligning him with her entrance, as answer to his sweet nothings.

He bundles her up into his lap, chest to chest, her arms around his neck, knees bracketing his hips, as he pushes inside her. She bares her teeth against his shoulder. So much. All of him. That strange, panicking moment where she wonders if it can even work and then…it’s like letting go, into the void between minds. Together.

His palms slide up and down her spine, gentle despite the heat she can feel between her legs and the tension rising in his body like ozone. He rocks her back and forth, a grounding sway, whispering his adoration into her skin.

“I’m okay,” she whispers.

“Oh,” he says, kissing her, again and again, “you’re more than that.”

Then he pulls her feet out from under her, wrapping her legs around his waist. And then he starts to move.

His large hands guide her forward by her haunches and she is left wholly to his devices, as she had asked, until there’s nothing in the room except the waves from his static mind and the feel of him inside her. Like she was made to do this. She knows she wasn’t. But fuck that. She made herself.

And this is where she wants to be. Arms tight around the neck of a man who is so beside himself to be with you that his groans are turning more into something like growly shouts, just like her own, everytime they come together, until…

He nearly throws her upon the bed again — though it was closer to some kind of tactical roll, still keeping their bodies connected, his arms under her shoulders, keeping her close as he hits home again and again and again and—

She digs her fingers in his hair and she whispers, “You’re mine.”

One shot. She doesn’t miss.

His body rolls and snaps with tension. She wraps her legs tight around him to keep him there as warmth fills her, turning her body boneless and spent.

They both lay still for a moment. Perhaps in shock. Breathing hard. Coming to terms with gravity again. She brings her hand down to his jaw and rubs her thumb down his temple. He still lays atop her, though she can tell he’s doing his best not to squash her completely underneath his weight.

“Still alive, Sparkles?” she whispers.

In answer, he laughs and pulls her with him as he rolls onto his side, tucking her under his chin. “What a way to go, huh.”

She feels good here. Hands against his chest. Safe from the world. “Defeated by Eventide in one fell swoop.”

He pinches her hip. “Seduced to the dark side, more like it.”

She giggles and tries to wriggle away from his ridiculous pinching fingers, but he doesn’t let her go, and she likes it. She likes it so, so much.

“I have news,” she says, filled with fake portent.

“Oh god, what this time.” The flatness, an act.

She flicks his chest but she doesn’t have good leverage so it’s weak. “I’d like you to stay the night.”

He laughs into her ear, humming with delight. “Yeah, you weren’t going to be able to get me out of this bed, anyway.”

“You better not take up all my space.”

He plants a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek. “Better keep close, then.”

She doesn’t remember the last time she felt like she belonged anywhere. Not like this. A lost puzzle piece, finally slotted into place.

A reason to fight. A memory to hold close, better than any dream.

#chargestep #fh: r #fallen hero: retribution #ricardo ortega #fhr #river basri #kathryn writes #otp: evencharge