Watching the replay of your fight on the television.
Unreal. As if it were happening to somebody else. Not your fists.
Not Ortega's blood.
It's been a month, and he's out of the hospital, though not back on active duty. Not for another month, at least. He's getting old. Mods can be repaired, but flesh heals at its own pace.
And bones? Bones take time.
Fighting Ortega was a kick. No, it was the best fight you've ever had. Fighting side by side was always fun, but those days are over. This is the new you taking charge. Literally. You always knew you had it in you to beat him.
The fight was just as good as you thought it would be, and you'll keep replaying it in your head for a long time.
Not that your feelings matter; winning is the only thing that does. You did what you had to do, and that's all there is to it. It has been a long time since you were allies.
You Keep Telling Yourself That
And then you end up like this. As if you were still the old ally Ortega could call on when in need.
"…you okay?" Ortega's voice. How long has he been talking? Probably as long as you have stood here, lost in memories.
He texted you earlier after you were stupid enough not to throw away your phone and get a new number. Still, you can't deny he's respected the boundaries you've established. Given you space.
More than he used to.
You rub your face, dragging yourself back into the moment. Your face. How can he still look at you the same way when it feels so different from when you first met? New scars. More wrinkles.
You can feel your soft beard under your fingers. He hasn't commented on it. You wonder why. You certainly did.
Is he afraid you'd react badly?
You're overthinking things again. You know it. Ortega probably knows it too, standing there, talking into the wind while your thoughts drift elsewhere. The beach holds too many memories for easy conversation.
The wind smells like salt and blood.
"I'm fine," you lie, looking out over the ocean. The coastline looks nothing like before the Big One. You've only seen pictures, it's hard to imagine it's the same place. It's slowly becoming something friendlier than the ruined skeleton it used to be, the sand slowly returning, scars growing softer. Nature heals quicker than people.
"Liar," he says, not accusingly, just matter-of-fact. It's an old dance between you, and you're starting to relearn the steps. "Come on…"