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ohlawsons · 1 year

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ever bittersweet, ch. 02 | dani/herald/ortega, 2316 words welcome to ot3: asshole (affectionate) x asshole (derogatory) x daniel

“Need anything else? A drink? Painkillers?” A pause. “Full body massage?”

Dani leans back with a scowl, tilting their head up to look at Ortega as she leans over the back of the couch, grinning. “Asshole.” There’s no heat behind the words, just the familiar taunting that they know Ortega got used to years ago. “You could toss me the remote.”

“Sure thing.” Instead of grabbing the remote from where it sits on the side table, Ortega moves to sit beside them on the couch. With a guilty sort of look, Daniel follows suit and takes a seat opposite Dani; his thoughts are a flurry of different things, deliberately avoiding some topic that Dani’s too tired to try and work out.

There’s a sudden, uneasy silence over the living room, and Dani’s scowl settles into something deeper. “What is this, a fucking intervention?” The words are too sharp, too unkind; fury and terror and regret roil within their chest, and it takes longer than they’d like to try and calm themself. It’s… hard to remember, sometimes, that neither Daniel nor Ortega have to go through all the trouble to help them, given how wholly and completely they currently are at their mercy. There’s no ulterior motives, no maliciously planned long con — just two people who have seen who they really are and still want to help.

(And there’s that little voice at the back of their mind, viscous and sickly and staining so many of their thoughts these days; it reminds them that this is a weakness, moreso than their broken body and shattered legs.

Fingerprints can be erased. Minds can be altered. But hearts? Hearts are stubborn. Hearts remember.

Their own is proof enough of that.)

They’ve only just calmed their furiously racing pulse when Ortega moves to let an arm drape loosely along the back of the couch, behind Dani, and their pulse spikes again. “You want one?” she asks, voice light but with a sharper edge than normal. It’s a jab meant to tease, Dani knows this, but there’s an invitation to argue. “I never thought something as simple as an intervention would’ve worked on you.”

“Never stopped you from trying.” Theirs is a jab meant to wound. To linger. Scowling, snapping, severing whatever tenuous thread of understanding they’ve worked out with Ortega over the past week.

The fact that they can taste how their words make frustration and disappointment bubble up in Daniel’s mind is satisfying in a way that makes them sick. Like they’re feeding some part of themself they should be killing off, cutting out.

“No, it didn’t.” Good, she’s defensive. Leaning back. Keeping her arm along the back of the couch but gripping it like a lifeline, now. “You want me to apologize for it? For giving a shit? For trying so much harder this time?” She cuts off with a sharp intake of breath, running a hand through her hair; Daniel speaks her name, as soft as he is insistent — he doesn’t want to get involved, Dani can tell, but his thoughts are a whirlwind of concern and frustration and certainty that the tension between the two of them will only ever do more harm than good — but Ortega ignores him. “I’ve already lost you once, Dani. Sorry for trying to be a better friend this time around.”

“A better friend would’ve left me alone when I asked.”

“Dani—“

“That goes for both of you,” they snap, whirling on Daniel as best they can with their injury limiting their movements. They’re not crying — they don’t cry, can’t remember the last time they did — but they can feel the stinging in their eyes, undoubtedly red-rimmed as they glare at him. The anger builds and snarls and aches, a hollow pressure in their chest that rises and sticks in their throat as they turn to face Ortega again. “I’m sorry they didn’t put the fucking pieces back right after they scraped me off the goddamned pavement, but it’s not your job to try and fix that.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.” Soft. Hurt.

There’s a heavy beat of silence; Dani doesn’t know exactly what to say, not just yet, but they know it’s going to be loud. Mean. But Daniel beats them to it, voice sharp and insistent without the cruelty that Dani’s trying to muster up. “Can we please have one conversation that doesn’t immediately become an argument?” he asks, leaning forward, brow furrowed in that particular determined way that Dani’s come to learn. His mind is still a mess of concern for Dani and something he’s keeping stubbornly buried, but a few thoughts slip to the top, in clear view for Dani to read — regret because the conversation wasn’t supposed to go like this, quiet resignation that he’ll just have to be a mediator between them now, and a now-familiar confusion as he tries to navigate where he fits in… this.

Ortega looks away — pulls away — and, as usual, Dani can’t make out her expression. They let out a long, slow breath, taking their anger and shoving it aside, letting that darker, bitter part of them chew on it while they calm themself. “You’re hovering,” they say, voice quiet enough that they’re not sure Daniel will even hear; the little flustered spike of embarrassment from him makes Dani’s lips twitch. Not quite a smile. Not yet. “And I’m… sorry. I’m trying.”

“I know.” It’s Daniel who answers first, with a smile that doesn’t even look forced. “We both do.”

“Are you, though?” When Ortega speaks up again, the words are tired. Soft. Carefully not picking a fight, not this time; she still gets a heated warning glance from Daniel. “Trying?”

“I am.” The truth, hard and bitter but not cruel. “If you want to be the one to wheel me to therapy each week, I won’t argue. I know it’s not fair to be so angry all the time, but I don’t… I don’t know where it comes from or what to do with it.” It takes a moment for them to realize that they’re scratching at their skin, fingers grasping and clawing at their bicep where they know the tattoos are hidden beneath the layers; they need a cigarette, but not badly enough to get into another argument about the habit.

They can sense Daniel moving a fraction of a second before he does, drifting to stand upright to comfort them, but Ortega beats him to it. She reaches — slow, careful, cautious — to place a hand over Dani’s, untangling their fingers from the fabric of their jacket. “Hey.”

“I’m okay.” They don’t pull away, and let Ortega continue to hold their hand, as gentle as she’s ever been with them; their eyes flick over to Daniel, now seated again, brow furrowed in concern even if his thoughts are tinted with confusion — what to do, how to act, if he should still go to them — but not a hint of jealousy. “I’m okay,” they say again, more for his sake now. They aren’t sure he believes them. He isn’t sure he believes them.

But they don’t want to talk about this anymore. About themself. About how fucked up they’ve become.

Besides, if they linger here on the topic any longer, they’ll end up snapping again. Proving their own point. Because they’re supposed to be alone — safe and protected and without weaknesses or liabilities — but somehow they’ve ended up with two people who’ve seen the worst of them and decided to stay.

Perhaps they haven’t seen the worst. But they’ve seen enough.

“Look.” Dani forces out a slow breath, rubbing at their eyes with their free hand. Their vision swims with little black spots when they look up. “You wanted to talk about something.”

“We did. But maybe…” Daniel glances towards Ortega, and his thoughts are all but screaming maybe later, maybe not now. Maybe not the right time.

“You don’t have to tiptoe around things with me,” they say, blunt and plain but not harsh. “I promise that nothing either of you have to say will break me. Trust me. I would know.” Maybe it’s a little cruel to say. A little too sharp of a reminder of the things they’ve gone through. Maybe they’re not trying all that hard, after all, not with the way satisfaction settles deep within the cracks in their chest when Ortega and Daniel both flinch at their words.

The pair shares another glance. Ortega gives a light squeeze to Dani’s hand that she’s still holding, and the smile she offers is a little too warm and sincere. “It’s nothing bad. We just had a talk about what you suggested when we brought you here. About us.”

Oh. Not exactly what they would’ve guessed, but they suppose it makes sense in hindsight given what they’d picked up from Daniel. Fuck — the pain and exhaustion really is getting to them if they couldn’t see that coming.

“And?”

She shrugs, and the smile grows into that cocky, charming grin that Dani’s more used to. “I think the general consensus is we’re game if you are.”

Dani can’t help the sudden, sharp laugh that escapes their lips, the sound more choked than amused — relief and happiness and something warmer and brighter, all released at once. Years of dancing around Ortega. dancing around themself, dancing around the kissing and the avoiding and the whispered not-quite-confessions. A few rushed months of whatever this thing is that they’ve fallen into with Daniel.

(That darker part of their mind speaks up, somewhere between the relief and the warmth they suspect might be love, and reminds them that this is dangerous. Stupid. Twice the risk. Twice the heartbreak — ha. Twice the inevitability that they’ll end up back at the Farm. But maybe they deserve this — happiness and hope and love didn’t get them very far last time, did it, but when this eventually all goes wrong they’ll have twice the anger and regret and self-loathing.

They know how to use that.)

“Well,” they take a long, slow breath, summoning up something more caustic than genuine; more like Ortega, more like themself — barbs meant to prod and poke and tease, not to wound, “as long as we’re all aware that the two of you will have to do all the heavy lifting in this relationship.” Lips pressed into a tight grin, they gesture to their legs, propped up and immobile and covered by a pair of light blankets.

“Of course.” Daniel’s floating, again, but Dani doesn’t even notice until he does and forces himself to land, standing just a few steps away from the couch. Still trying to figure out how this all works, still not sure what to make of the naked adoration on Dani’s face when they look at Ortega — are they that obvious or is Daniel that good at reading them? — and still quietly unraveling an old, long-buried crush on Julia. He’s happy with the way things are working out, his mind bright and radiant in a way that’s… unavoidable. Contagious.

Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing.

...

It’s late. The only light comes from the credits rolling on the tv screen and the faint, hazy orange glow of the Los Diablos night that seeps in through the tinted windows.

The movie’s been over for a good few minutes, now, but no one seems ready to move; Dani’s still seated on one end of the couch, an empty beer bottle in one hand and Daniel’s hands in the other. He sits beside them, close enough to brush against them but always so careful not to press into them or jostle them; he’s been tracing fingers along the lines of the tattoos on Dani’s hand — their tattoos, the ones they’d chosen for themself, thick lines of black ink etched into geometric patterns across the back of their hand. Ortega’s on the other side of him, sprawled against the corner of the couch — one arm draped over the back, one leg tucked up under her, looking like she’s taking up as much space as Daniel and Dani combined.

It’s quiet. Comfortable.

Ortega’s the one to break the fragile silence, letting out a soft curse as she stands and sends one of the empty bottles, discarded at the foot of the couch, rolling across the room. She collects the handful of empty bottles, and when Dani holds theirs out, she takes that one, too.

“Shit.” A poorly stifled yawn. “Didn’t realize it had gotten so late.” She disappears into the kitchen, and after a moment she calls back out, “I should probably get going.”

How often had that been Dani? How many times had they been the one to leave Ortega’s apartment despite the late hour, even knowing that it would be the early hours of the morning by the time they made the trek to their own apartment and slid into bed?

Their thoughts are cut off in a flurry of happy warmth — whether theirs or Daniel’s, they don’t know anymore — as Ortega reappears behind the couch, placing a soft kiss first to the top of Daniel’s head, then Dani’s.

Teasing. Grinning. Idiot.

“Stay?” The word is quiet and slips out before Dani can stop it. They wonder, briefly, if they’re imposing; it is still Daniel’s apartment, after all, but once the offer sinks into his tired mind, he’s beaming, his thoughts bright and pleased and the tiniest bit flustered.

He mirrors Dani, craning his neck to look back at Ortega. “You’re welcome to, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, c’mon, Jules.”

She lets out a little huff of a laugh at the old nickname. “Yeah. Alright. I’m taking the couch though, if that’s not too weird.” She offers a grin that’s wide and cocky and charming, and pairs it with a wink. “I’m not that easy to get into bed.”

Maybe, Dani thinks, this isn’t so bad.

#fhr #julia ortega #fhr herald #chargestep #flystep #sidestep #dani gutierrez tag #fic: dani #brooke writes things #dani is the equivalent of a feral kitten who hisses and spits as theyre being pet

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