Summary: The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.
Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
“Can anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseus’s bow?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.
11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.
With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.
“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”
“Why does she always know everything?”
Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.
“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”
There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.
“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”
“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”
“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”
There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.
Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.
“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”
They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.
Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.
Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.
Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.
Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.
He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”
“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”
“Because I know they’re your favorite,”
The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.
Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.
“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”
“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”
“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”
“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”
There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.
“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”
He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.
“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”
The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.
“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”
Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.
There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.
“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”
The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.
“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”
“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”
“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”
If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.
“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”
With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”
“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”
You shot him a skeptical look.
“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”
Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.
“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”
“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.
“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”
“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”
“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”
“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”
Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.
“...oh,”
“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”
“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”
“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”
Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.
“...does anyone not die in these old books?”
The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.
“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”
What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.
❤︎
“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”
“Evelyn!”
Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.
She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.
“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”
“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”
It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.
“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”
“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”
Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.
“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”
“It’s usually just something random-”
“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”
Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.
Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.
“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”
You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.
“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”
“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”
“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”
Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.
A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.
All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.
“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”
Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.
“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.
“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”
Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.
The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.
“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.
“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.
“How could she possibly think that?”
“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”
“Jesus, that many?”
“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”
Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.
Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.
“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”
“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”
You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.
“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”
“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”
There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.
“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”
Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.
“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”
A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.
“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”
Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.
Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.
Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.
It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.
And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.
❤︎
“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”
Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.
“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”
“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”
Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.
When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.
The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.
“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”
“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.
“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”
“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”
Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.
“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”
Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.
“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”
You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”
“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”
“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”
Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.
“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”
Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.
“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”
The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.
“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”
Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.
“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”
You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.
It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.
“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”
Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.
By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.
“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”
“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”
You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.
“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”
A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.
“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”
Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.
“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”
“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”
Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.
“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”
Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.
“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”
The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.
“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”
“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”
“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”
Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.
“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”
Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.
“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”
There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.
“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”
“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”
Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.
Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.
“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”
You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.
“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”
“Yeah, well, what’s new?”
When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.
❤︎
Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.
Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.
Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.
Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.
And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent.
Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.
“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”
Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.
“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”
He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.
“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”
Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.
“I can’t let you-”
“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”
There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.
Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.
“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”
“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.
“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”
“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”
Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.
Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.
None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.
He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.
The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.
Then the laughter resumed.
He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.
“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”
Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.
Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.
There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.
“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”
“You calling me old, Ryland?”
“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”
“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”
“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”
Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.
“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”
Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.
“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”
If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work.
Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.
“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.
You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.
The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.
He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.
Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.
Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.
“I should probably get home-”
“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”
You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.
“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”
He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.
“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”
Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.
Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.
“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.
The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.
It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.
“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”
He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.
His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.
Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.
“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”
You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.
“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”
“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”
If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.
He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.
Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.
“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”
Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.
From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.
He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.
It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.
Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-
Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.
“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”
He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.
Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.
“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”
His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.
“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”
The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.
“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”
“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”
Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.
“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”
“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”
Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.
Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.
Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-
Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.
“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”
“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”
“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”
Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.
He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.
Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.
Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.
His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.
“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”
The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you.
The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.
Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.
Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.
The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.
“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”
Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.
“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”
“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”
Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.
“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”
He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.
“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”
Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.
Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.
“For you? Totally,”
Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.
And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.
❤︎
The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.
As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.
“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”
“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”
The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.
“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”
“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”
If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.
Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.
Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-
The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.
He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.
Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.
For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.
Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.
Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.
You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.
Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.
Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.
You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.
“I need your help,”
The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.
“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.
“I…I like Olivia,”
Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.
“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”
“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”
“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”
“I do,”
You held your hand out toward him with a smile.
“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”
With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.
“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”
The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.
“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”
Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.
“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”
“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”
“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”
That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.
“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”
“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”
Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.
“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”
“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”
“You could’ve,”
“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”
You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.
“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”
Ryland laughed beside you.
“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”
You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.
Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.
“Stay here,”
There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.
“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”
As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars
“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”
Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.
It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.
Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.
In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.
"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"
"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"
"No, really, you look-"
"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"
He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.
"...like the sun,"
You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.
Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?
"Ryland-"
"I wasn't lying,"
You cocked your head.
"...about what?"
"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"
That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.
"Right, you were just distracted,"
"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"
In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.
You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.
“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”
The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.
Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.
“Come with me,”
“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”
“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”
“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.
Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.
“Worth it,”
Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.
The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.
The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.
“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.
“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”
“Then stop thinking,”
No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.
Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.
Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.
The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.
His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.
The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.
“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”
You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.
“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”
The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.
The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.
Working with Ryland wasn’t much of a problem. In fact, it was the opposite.
He was so likable it was hard to get upset at the guy if he made a mistake, even if he could get a bit bratty, none of it came from the heart and he’d spit out a small apology later.
However, only one thing comes to mind.
He had no concept of personal space.
He constantly complains about Rocky invading your shared living space in the Hail Mary, but he doesn’t even realize they are so much more similar than he thinks.
If you’re looking through the microscope, he’s hovering behind you, heat radiating off his body as he leans over your shoulder, as if he was able to see what you were seeing.
If you’re trying to show him something, he’s rolling his stool over next to yours and practically leaning against you to see what you are showing him.
More than once, he’s helped put things away or grab things off high shelves, reaching over you and practically trapping you under his arms.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, or even how he’s affecting you at all.
Over time it keeps evolving as you two get closer to one another.
A hand on the small of your back as he moves past you.
Putting his hands on your waist as he peers over your shoulder.
Wrapping his arm around your shoulder nonchalantly while you both watch some movie in the ‘don’t go crazy’ room.
Putting a hand on your thigh while you sit near him.
He just wants to be all up in your space and you’re not too mad about that anymore. He’s warm, comforting, something to ground you in these stressful moments in space.
Ryland Grace who gets BONERS from KISSING. Walk with me…
pre/post PHM, doesnt matter.
Ryland turns when he feels the weight of your gaze prickling at the skin between his shoulderblades and scalp. Your head is tilted a little bit, a smile on your face as you watch Ryland move toward you.
He barely murmurs a small “hi” before he’s got his lips on yours, feeling the rushing blood under his fingertips as he brings his hands to your waist. Slipping his hands under your shirt, Ryland feels the warmth radiating through your lower back and feels a pulsing in his own body. Feeling you, here and now, hot and loving him was just… an answer to a prayer he’d forgotten he’d asked for.
You do that thing where you press your front to his after your pointer finger sloooowwwly pulls him closer to you by his belt loop, and damn is Ryland a goner. You groan a little into Ryland’s mouth when he pulls you up and towards him: the sheer tangibility of his want only adding to the lust in your mind. You feel the little spikes of his hair as you slowly bring your hands up to the nape of his neck to feel him and then the smoothness of his skin as you bring your hands to his face in any attempt to mold you two impossibly closer.
Only when you start to feel your head physically weigh heavier and when you hear the loud whooshing of your blood behind your ears do you force yourself away. Panting, you see Ryland’s eyebrows screwed up. He whines and rests his forhead on your chest: how could you be so cruel as to pull away from him? Ugh. “I’m hard,” he whispers.
You chuckle breathlessly. “What’d you say?”
Ryland looks up: the epitome of want and desire and undercover eroticism. “I’m fucking hard.” His hand reaches for yours and he palms the back of your hand. Eyes locked on yours as he brings your hand to the crotch of his pants to make you feel just what you do to him. The way his throat vibrates with a barely withheld whimper when you palm him makes you want to drop his pants right then and there. “Y/n.”
An evil glint is in your eyes. “I love when this happens.”
Ryland groans, this time from embarrassment. “I love that you love it but I- it happens so often.”
You exhale a laugh throught your nose as you lean in to kiss him again. “We’ll take care of that, honey.”
AN: Sorry to my sneak peek followers, I got busy and missed todays peeks!
CW: Hallway smut
Summary: A late night out turns into a quiet dash through the hotel halls. Lucifer’s not ready to explain anything to Charlie yet. But sneaking around with you is quickly becoming his favorite problem.
The two of you burst through the side door with a muffled thud, half-tripping over each other as you tried to hold in your laughter. Lucifer caught your wrist, tugging you into a brisk, ridiculous speed-walk down the empty hallway like the world’s worst criminal trying not to look suspicious.
“Shh! Shh, my sweet star, please,” he whispered, eyes wide with theatrical panic. “If Charlie hears me sneaking in past curfew she’ll revoke my snack privileges. And I just earned those back.”
You snorted. He slapped a hand over your mouth immediately, horrified and delighted all at once.
“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, though the corners of his mouth were betraying him with a lopsided smile. “I am a dignified, imposing figure. I command respect.”
You tilted your head, eyebrow raised.
“…Okay, some respect,” he amended, cheeks going a little golden as he tugged you deeper into the corridor. “A tiny sprinkle of respect. A grain.”
Your muffled giggle vibrated against his palm. He looked at you like you’d just handed him a miracle, like he didn’t understand how someone could look at him with softness instead of fear, or fondness instead of judgment. He’d been like that since the first night… staring at you like you saw something in him he’d forgotten existed.
He pulled you into a shadowed alcove, breathless from both the run and the way you were looking at him.
“You really shouldn’t want an old mess like me,” he murmured, voice dropping into something honest and fragile. “I’m… deeply flawed. Ask any angel. Or demon. Or doorpost.”
You shook your head, taking his wrist and lowering his hand from your mouth so you could speak.
“I want you, Luci. Just you.”
For a second he looked like he might melt straight into the carpet. Then, because sincerity short-circuited him, he blurted, “Well now I’m going to combust. Don’t look at me like that when I’m trying to be stealthy.”
You tried not to laugh. Really, you did. But the giggle escaped, bright and irrepressible.
His eyes went wide. “St- stop!”
You only laughed harder.
He panicked, shoving you gently back against the wall and clapping his hand over your mouth again, leaning in close with the most exaggerated hush in Hell.
“Do you want us to get caught?” he whispered, nose brushing yours as he tried not to smile. “Because my daughter already suspects something, and I am not emotionally prepared for the conversation.”
You were pretty sure Charlie absolutely already knew. Charlie was also absolutely cheering for you both behind every corner, if you were right.
You giggled into his hand again, soft, breathy, uncontainable sounds and Lucifer’s breath hitched. Your bodies were close enough now that the humor between you thinned into something heavier.
His eyes dropped to your lips, hidden behind his hand. Then rose to yours. His voice lowered.
“…Alright. Now you’re doing it on purpose.”
His hand stayed over your mouth. His other slid to your waist, pinning you gently but firmly to the wall. His chest pressed to yours. His breath ghosted over your cheek.
The laughter faded into a soft silence that carried heated breaths shared between you. His hand slipped down your lips, fingers ghosting over skin until he was lifting your chin and lining your lips up to accept his kiss.
What had started soft quickly heated with the fire that burned between you. Lips moved against lips. Your arms draped around his shoulders as you pulled him into you. He went eagerly, pressing your back into the hard wall behind you.
Fingers ran down your sides and then they dug into the small of your back, urging you to melt into him, to surrender to the fire.
And then he moved on, fingers digging into the fat of your hips and thighs. His lips never left yours to make the request verbal, but the message was clearly delivered as he squeezed and pulled at the fat.
You lifted first one leg, letting him guide it up around his waist. Once his grip on that leg, holding it over his hip was firm, you let a hand drop from around his shoulders.
There was no hesitation on your part. Your hand made a quick line down his chest, leaving fire burning under his skin, as you reached for his pants.
“My sweet star,” He whispered against your lips, voice heavy with warning you knew he didn’t mean. “We can’t.”
You kissed him, pulling his lip between your teeth while you opened his pants and wrapped your hand around the throbbing shaft of his cock. “We just have to be quiet.”
Fingers flexed in your other thigh, urging you to wrap that leg around him too. It was in contrast to his words, betraying the desires you knew simmered inside him.
You were not one to deny him. The throbbing length of his cock was pinned between your core and his body as he kissed you again. He ground it into your sensitive folds, soaking the already damp fabric with slick from your weeping hole.
Rocking your hips, you were able to rub your core against his shaft, grinding your clit into him. You whimpered and whined into the kiss, voice carrying through the hall.
“Quiet,” Lucifer urged as he rocked his hips into yours, not giving you the option of stilling or stopping the sensation. His cock ran along your clothed clit, teasing you.
“Please,” you gasped.
“We can’t,” Lucifer kissed your neck as he whispered the words. His warm breath washed over your shoulder. “Someone will hear us. Charlie will hear us.”
“I’ll be quiet,” you promised. “Please, I need you inside me.”
“I can’t deny you anything.”
Lucifer didn’t argue when you brushed your panties aside. With a soft touch, you guided the velvety smooth head of his cock to your opening. With a tilt of your hips, he slipped inside.
You welcomed him into your body, eager for that fill feeling that he granted. You whined, the sound muffled by Lucifer’s lips. He rocked into you, each thrust shallow enough to keep him seated inside you.
That didn’t stop the pleasure from blooming through your body. It felt like it uncoiled from your core, spreading with each thrust.
“Quiet,” he reminded you as your head thumped back against the wall.
Lips caressed your exposed throat as he continued rolling his hips into you. As the pleasure built, as his pubic bone rubbed against your clit, he worked you gently toward the peak of your pleasure.
“Quiet.” A soft reminder spoke against your neck as he pushed you over the edge.
It took everything in you to keep your throat opened, your mouth opened, letting air pass quickly in and out of your lungs. Silent moans fell from your lips, felt but unheard by your unholy lover.
“Good,” he whispered as your ragged breaths continued. Your walls flexed and milked him, pulling him over the edge as well. He spilled into you, whimpers and soft moans softly caressing your ears.
Lucifer was the first to move, just enough to brace one hand against the wall beside your head and the other low on your back, holding you up as your legs trembled around him. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against you in warm, uneven waves.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.
Just looked at you the way he always did after you shattered whatever awful belief he held about himself, like you were rewriting him molecule by molecule.
“…You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered at last, voice hoarse but soft, almost reverent.
You laughed weakly against him, and he immediately hid his flushed, delighted smile in the crook of your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m trying to have a dramatic moment,” he mumbled into your skin, though the way he held you tighter completely ruined the effect.
You brushed your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “You’re terrible at being dramatic.”
“Rude,” he sniffed, lifting his head just enough to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, lingering. “I am a master of theatrics. Just… not when you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” you murmured.
He swallowed, the insecurity flickering through him before he could hide it. “Like I’m worth staying for,” he admitted quietly.
You tightened your arms around him in answer, and something in his expression went soft and stunned all over again.
Then he blinked, glancing down the hall, and the panic returned.
“We should, ah- we should move before Charlie walks by and I have to actually explain any of this,” he whispered urgently, adjusting his grip on you but not letting you go. “She’ll be thrilled and I will never hear the end of it.”
You smiled. “She already knows.”
Lucifer froze. “She- what? She knows knows? As in, knows?”
“She’s happy for you,” you said gently.
He stared at you, then let out a quiet, incredulous laugh, half relief, half disbelief, all love. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
“…Then I suppose,” he murmured, “that I don’t have to sneak back to my room alone.”
He shifted you higher in his arms, holding you securely, utterly unwilling to put distance between you just yet.
“Come on, starlight,” he whispered, smiling like you were the only warm thing in Hell. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable before I do something undignified… like swoon.”
Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers!
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MAJOR HAZBIN HOTEL S2 SPOILERS AHEAD, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
Genre; Hurt/comfort
Word Count; 3.1k (no idea what happened tbh)
Warnings; injuries, blood, briefest possible mentions of murder and psychopathy.
Pairings; Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) x Reader
Sooo you know how Lu didn't really know what was going on for the entire finale? And ended up badly injured but it was never addressed? Yeah. We're fixing that in this one :) This story is very goofy, thoust hast been warned. I had fun writing it, hope you enjoy!
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight
Masterlist
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A panel burst open on the plaza where Vox’s weapon had stood, and out crawled Lucifer. His clothes were torn and ragged, and deep shadows framed his eyes. His whole body swayed with every laboured breath he took.
“Dad?” Asked Charlie, drawing your attention to where he was trying to find his feet.
“Don’t go down there!” Lucifer warned you all, “it’s a place of pain.”
You rushed forwards automatically with Charlie and Vaggi as he dropped to the ground, face first. What exactly you thought you could do for the King of Hell was beyond you, but the sentiment of wanting to help was there. He could barely even lift his head.
“Oh my god, dad? Are you okay?”
Charlie’s hands were hovering over his shoulders, her eyes scanning him frantically. There was a lot of blood.
Lucifer groaned into the concrete.
“No, I’m… I’m fine, sweetie,” he muttered. He surprised each of you as he suddenly made the effort to prop himself up on his elbows, staring at Charlie with an uncharacteristically serious clarity. “Are you still mad at me?”
Charlie’s eyes widened.
“No, of course I’m not-”
She was interrupted when Heaven’s broadcast finally broke through, and Sir Pentious’ face and voice were beamed out across the city. Charlie gasped, leaping to her feet at the prospect of finally getting to see her friend. Then reality broke back in, and she dropped back to her knees to comfort her father. Her gaze alternated between him and the screen on the other side of the plaza, torn between her choices.
Vaggi laid a hand on Charlie’s shoulder in support and caught your gaze, silently asking you for help.
“Hey, go,” you told them both, offering an encouraging smile as Charlie cast a hopeful one up at you. “I’ll get him back to the hotel.”
She hesitated a moment longer, asking her dad if he’d be alright and receiving a not particularly convincing sure I will! in response. You assured her you’d take care of him, and, finally convinced, she thanked you before taking off with Vaggi to speak to Sir Pentious.
“Uh, Lucifer?” You started, crouching down to meet his gaze. “I’m gonna get you back to the hotel, okay?”
His consciousness seemed to slip for a moment, and he slid down a little closer to the ground.
“S’fine, I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just need a minute-”
“Woah!”
He jolted to his feet and you only just managed to catch him before he collapsed again. You froze just a little bit as the King of Hell put his full weight on you, his eyes closed and barely holding himself upright. But you pulled yourself together and arranged one of his arms to loop around your shoulders.
“Um, okay. Right. I don’t have a car, so we’re gonna have to walk.”
You realised your shirt was clinging to your ribs more than it should have been and leaned back to see it was soaked through with Lucifer’s golden blood.
“Crap,” you muttered. “You still with me?”
Lucifer hummed, shifting his head and subsequently knocking his hat against your cheek.
“You can walk. ‘M gonna fly.”
You frowned in concern, lest he actually tried it.
But then his free hand closed around your upper arm, keeping you close. You glanced around just to make sure you had no backup in this venture before wrapping an arm around him in return.
“Okay then, Lucifer. Let’s get going.”
“Lu~” he sang, conceding at least to match your steps, “call me Lu.”
“Uh… okay. Lu.”
His eyes still closed, a goofy grin pulled at his lips. You felt like pinching yourself. This was the King of Hell, open hater of sinners and the most powerful thing in Pentagram City by a few hundred miles, yet he was pressing his face into your neck like a cat and asking you to call him by a nickname. If he were to start purring it wouldn’t have surprised you. You were surprised to find he was acting more drunk than severely injured, but maybe it was a side effect of how his power had been hijacked.
“Huh,” Lucifer announced, digging his heels in as you passed a whole block of shelled out buildings, courtesy of Vox’s descent into temporary madness. “That’s lookin’… worse than normal.”
A piece of burning debris dropped onto the sidewalk in front of you.
“Somethin’ happen?”
You blinked silently, and his gaze was genuine when he met yours. Had he seriously not known what was going on this entire time?
“Yeah, Luci- uh, Lu. That thing you were stuck in was a weapon Vox had made to blow the gates off Heaven using your power. He then kinda lost it and turned it on Pentagram City, but I guess that’s an aside…”
It was Lucifer’s turn to blink in silence.
“Huh,” he said again, then carried on walking like nothing had happened.
Your expression was probably somewhere along the lines of fair enough. He didn’t care for sinners, after all. Maybe he’d be more upset about being used as an ethereal battery once he was recovered.
The journey to the hotel was slow going. Lucifer would trip on the sidewalk every so often and had no strength to catch himself, leaving you to have to do it for him. He might have been a fairly small person, but a lot had happened today and your arms were trembling with the effort of keep hauling up his whole bodyweight. You could have cried in relief when the spires of the hotel finally came into view above the other buildings.
“So how do you know Charlie?” Lucifer asked, pulling back far enough to pin you with a challenging stare. His voice had gone into full protective parent mode.
Oh no. Even half out of his mind with pain and exhaustion, this was not someone you wanted to upset.
“I-”
“You failed bad enough at life that you ended up down here, and now you think you wanna have a go at the whole redemption thing?”
Ouch. You actually hadn’t done anything particularly evil while you were alive. You had thought about it often, and concluded you were probably down here through apathy more than anything else. A lack of the rainbows and sprinkles goodness that seemed to get you into heaven, rather than the presence of anything particularly heinous. Anyway, you’d made some good friends in Hell, odd though that sentiment was. You weren’t all that concerned about getting out.
“Well, no, actually. I spend a lot of time in Cannibal Town and happen to know Alastor-”
“Ugh, that stupid deer.”
Your eyebrows raised up to your hairline of their own accord. It wasn’t like you didn’t know the two of them were always arguing, but Lucifer sounded so… petulant.
“Bambi, Bambi, Bambi,” Lucifer continued unabated, waving a hand around for good measure. “Why does everything always have to come back to him? He’s got the most grandiose tickets on himself of any bellhop I’ve ever even heard of, let alone seen. And what has he done for Charlie anyway?”
He looked back at you, clearly expecting you to answer.
“Well, I don’t-”
“Exactly, you don’t know. Because he hasn’t done anything of any importance. And when Adam was trying to kill her, what did he do? Ran away to tend to his wounds. I showed up and saved the day, not him. He couldn’t even do that.”
Apparently satisfied with his little rant, Lucifer turned a far more pacified expression on you.
“What were you saying?”
You made a mental note not to bring up Alastor again.
“I heard about the hotel and figured I’d help out if they needed it,” you explained, opting for the Alastor-free version of events. “Charlie keeps trying to get me to stay as a guest, but I’m happier just supporting their work.”
Lucifer frowned up at you theatrically, paying zero attention to where he was going and thus only just avoiding ending up in an overturned dumpster thanks to your quick manoeuvring skills. He looped his other arm around your neck, only just this side of resting his chin on your collarbone. He was hardly even walking anymore and you huffed as you locked your arms around his waist, conceding that you would just have to more or less carry him up the biggest hill in the whole city. At least that was the last barrier before the hotel.
“What do you do in your spare time? When you’re not helping out around the hotel?”
This conversation would have been a hell of a lot easier if he wasn’t all but wrapped around you and there wasn’t a stupidly steep hill to climb. Your brain was spinning like a hamster wheel, trying to come up with an answer.
“I don’t know… I do some work at a tea room in Cannibal Town. Then there’s this pet shop – or more like a pound, really – that I spend a lot of time at. The animals really need to see a friendly face and a lot of them have been abandoned there or left out on the streets. I walk some of them, play games with them. I always try to bring them little toys and treats so they know someone cares about them…”
Your mouth snapped shut at the look Lucifer was giving you. Flabbergasted was not a word you had ever been able to assign to someone’s expression before, but this sure fit the bill.
“You’re kidding. You weren’t – I don’t know, a serial killer up top? Or a psychopath? What did you do for work?”
“Animal keeper at a rescue and rehabilitation centre,” you mumbled, trying to duck your head to avoid Lucifer’s piercing gaze.
He forced you to look at him anyway with a hand on your jaw, somehow now even more flabbergasted than he had been previously.
“Then what the hell are you doing down here?”
You shrugged somewhat helplessly. If the Devil couldn’t answer that, how could you?
Thankfully, you were saved from the interrogation by your arrival at the entrance to the hotel.
“Okay, we’re here,” you told Lucifer, just about managing to get you and him through the door without dropping him.
The lobby was dark, quiet. A huge contrast to how it was normally and a little childishly, you were glad you weren’t on your own.
“How do we get to your rooms?” You asked, because you’d never been to his section of the hotel before and you were fairly certain he didn’t use the main elevator.
He scoffed like the answer was obvious and dropped his head back into your neck, apparently all out of energy for being serious.
“Fly, duh.”
Lucifer’s dead weight was really starting to get a lot for you to handle. He’d given up entirely now, and at this point, if you were to let go of him he’d just drop to the ground.
“Not helpful, Lu.”
Even if you had wings, you doubt you could have flown both you and him anywhere. Main elevator it was then.
“What floor?” You asked as you stepped inside.
He told you, at least, and you managed to get the both of you to his door without too much trouble. You were internally debating whether you should go in with him or leave him there and hope for the best – lest he didn’t want you in his personal area, which you could absolutely understand – only to feel his arms tighten around your neck.
That answered that, then.
The lights were already on when you pushed open the door, and you stopped almost immediately at the sight before you. There were ducks everywhere. Not a single piece of anything wasn’t duck themed, not to mention the piles of them lining every wall. He had a work bench off to one side with a few ducks in progress, leading you to believe he had probably made most of what you were seeing.
You didn’t realise you were grinning until –
“You have a really pretty smile,” Lucifer muttered, head resting on your shoulder so he could look up at you.
The comment startled a laugh out of you. Doing your best to ignore Lucifer’s insistent staring, you cast around for a towel to lay out on his bed to avoid getting blood on the duvet. You ended up choosing one of a great many duck themed blankets, hoping he either wasn’t too attached to it or it could be machine washed.
He let out a pained groan as you laid him down as gently as you could. There really was a lot of blood, you thought again, now you were on your own with him and responsible for looking after him. You needed a first aid kit. You picked up his hat and moved it to one side, propping his head up on a pillow to make him as comfortable as you could.
“I just need to go get some supplies, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
You were pleased to find you sounded more confident than you felt as you turned away from him.
“You do that, animal rescuer ‘n’… rehabilitatorer.”
You couldn’t keep your snort of laughter down, but he didn’t seem to notice. He seemed to be falling asleep and you wondered at the wisdom of letting him, but there wasn’t anything you could do. You just needed to get the medical supplies as fast as you could.
By the time you returned, he’d managed to get his coat halfway off and undone his shirt, letting you get your first clear look at the many wounds littering his chest.
“Oh my god,” you muttered as you rushed over to him, upturning the kits you brought to start tending to him immediately.
“Oh hey, you’re back! Yeah, a lot of these aren’t as bad as they look so no need to panic- ow!”
Antiseptic wipes on open wounds were not a fun experience, you knew all too well. That said, he could have ended up with someone old enough that their idea of help was to dump whiskey on them, which would have been significantly worse.
“Look, I appreciate the help and all but I assure you I’ll be fi – argh! – fine, I got pretty good healing properties. Comes with being an a – ah! – angel. You’re overreacting just a tiny bit-”
Lucifer hissed, exactly like a snake, and his hand flew to your wrist. The grip didn’t hurt, but you could feel the strength behind it so clearly that you froze. He took a moment to steady his breathing.
“Thank you, for helping me. Really. But I promise, you won’t even be able to see these in a couple of days.”
You glanced back down to his chest, a few of the deeper cuts still bleeding. Whatever he saw in your expression when you looked up at him again made his gaze soften.
“At least let me wrap them for you?” You asked.
Sure, he would heal, and he was already better than he had been just a few short minutes ago, but that wasn’t really the point. You were the only one there for him in that moment and you wanted him to know you cared.
He sighed quietly, before releasing your wrist and nodding his agreement.
“Okay.”
Lucifer slipped out of his coat and shirt and sat up to give you room to wind the bandages around his torso, occasionally holding pads in place for you to cover the worst of the wounds. When you finally sat back, satisfied with your work, Lucifer’s expression was softer than you really knew what to do with.
“Thank you, really,” he murmured, pleased by your smile. “Promise I’m not gonna die on ya, alright?”
“I’m holding you to that,” you joked back, certain you heard him mutter please do. “Well, I’ll let you get some rest.”
You stood and raised a hand in goodbye, making for the door and the silent, empty hotel which lay beyond it. Lucifer’s gaze bore into your back. You didn’t really want to leave just yet, but who were you to ask to spend time with royalty just so you didn’t feel lonely? Anyway, he’d probably think the notion was pathetic even if you did have the guts to say anything.
“You uh, you like ducks?” You heard from behind you, just as you touched the door handle.
You turned back with a questioning hum, catching the tail-end of Lucifer’s cringe. He started laughing nervously, running an awkward hand over the back of his neck and then very clearly suddenly remembering he still wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, scrambling for the fluffiest pink bathrobe you had ever laid eyes on. He fumbled to tie it around himself, cheeks heating with embarrassment he then desperately tried to cover up.
“Ah, I was just asking if you, uh, if you like ducks. ‘Cause I saw you were lookin’ at them before and – I mean, I know I have a lot of ducks – but they’re really great, and, well, I was wondering if you’d want to watch the movie version of The Great Quacksby? With me? I mean, of course you don’t have to. You probably have loads of better things to do, but-”
“I’d love to.”
Lucifer stopped rambling long enough to see the genuine smile on your face, your genuine interest in something he loved.
“Oh. Well, that’s great! It’s already in the DVD player, I was watching it earlier.”
He looked out the TV remote and sat down on a sofa decorated with duck shaped cushions, beckoning you over to join him. You went to sit, only to remember that your shirt was also covered in his blood. Lucifer frowned at your hesitation, then snapped his fingers to conjure up an oversized pink sweater when he realised what the problem was. It was the softest garment you’d ever held. You considered that taking a shower and coming back to watch the movie later was probably a more logical decision, but simply pulling the sweater over your head took so much less energy. However good The Great Quacksby was, your exhaustion had finally sank in and you had the feeling you were going to end up falling asleep halfway through anyway.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” Lucifer told you more quietly, as the TV booted up. “For what you – well. You know.”
King of Pride indeed. But you did know what he meant. No one else had really been there for him today, and you were glad you couldn’t say the same.
summary: you had worked in the dso for almost a year now doing logistics and communications. you preferred the quiet and being behind a screen. however, sherry believed that working as an assistant for leon would benefit not only you, but him too.
so you were now assigned as leon s. kennedy's assistant.
both of you had your own problems, and it was only a matter of time until either one of you was going to crash.
"you'll be fine, trust me. he's not scary at all." sherry said, filing through papers, her eyes scanning each one.
you paced back and forth, pushing your hair out of your face and then rubbing your necklace between your fingers.
"you've known him for so long- i've only heard of him like he's a myth!" you exclaimed, stopping in your circles and staring at sherry with a desperacy.
"you're perfect for the job." her gaze was taken from the files and onto you, her eyes full of certainty.
you wiped your clammy palms on your pencil skirt. this unbearable dread had been planted in your chest, you should've called in sick this morning to escape this fate. you felt yourself grow smaller, if that was even possible, because in your mind - it was.
"sherry, i'm not- i'm not sure i can even do this-" you took a deep breath in. you did not write out those positive affirmation post-it-notes and stick them to your mirror for nothing. you nodded, "it's fine. i can do this."
"there we go." sherry chuckled a little, the corners of her rosy lips curving upwards. she placed her hand firmly on your shoulder. "this is major for you. don't let this opportunity pass you by."
"yes, sher- ma'am."
sherry let out another laugh, rubbing her thumb slightly on your shoulder before letting go and placing a pile of folders in your hands.
"you'll need these. now, take a deep breath and go in that office. you've got this," sherry assured, a bright encouragement shined from her smile.
the files anchored you down and you paused mid-walk over. you turn your head over your shoulder, like a child seeking her mother's approval.
sherry mouthed "go" at you with a proud grin stretched on her face.
this was easy for her. it was far away from easy for you.
at the end of the corridor was a dark grey door, with the name 'leon s. kennedy' engraved into a golden platter. you weren't used to feeling important. sure, you worked at the dso, but you were used to blending into the shadows - drawing attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted to do.
and working for leon s. kennedy was going to attract the attention you hated.
you pushed the heavy door open with your back, your heart pounding out of your chest. it was just a person. just a guy. just some man. don't be afraid of a man, don't let him intimidate you. you were going to be his assistant, you had to get to know him. just be sociable for the next... however many hours.
the grey, february light filtered through the windows, and the cold air conditioning made the office into what could be mistaken as a freezer. there was a dying plant on one shelf, a long rifle held on another. a coat hanger held a navy blue scarf and various leather jackets. a framed photo reflected the light, and two figures could be made out - it seemed to be him and sherry, fairly recent.
the broad figure looked up from his paperwork to raise an eyebrow at the woman who just clumsily stepped into his office with a pile of files in her hand.
"who are you?" his deep, oddly soothing voice drew you from your observations. his eyes fell to the folders you were holding, "need help?"
now, you were observing him.
his hay-like hair fell around his face, a few greys woven within his chestnut brown. his eyes were sharp and pale, as if they were clear and contrasted against the dark frame of his eyelashes. his face was tight with frustration and exhaustion, evident in the deep crease in his eyebrow.
your stomach dropped into your ass.
"y/n. i mean miss l/n. the new- your new assistant." you stuttered through your sentences as if they were obstacles. god nothing looked better than dying in a hole. first impressions were everything, according to your mother, and you had already humiliated yourself.
"ah, yes. sherry said," he replied, standing up from his seat, his expression softening, but you were too terrified to even look him in the eye - actually your eyes found the floor to be incredibly interesting.
"i have your folders, sir- sherry sent me here with them. i can sort them out if you'd like," you began, rushing over to his desk and sorting through them already, your fingers frantically flicking through them all. maybe if you moved fast enough, he wouldn't notice your inability to deal with words.
"it's okay. it seems like they're sorted already." he said, his voice thinning as he watched your fingers maneuver rapidly through paper.
"yes sir, color-coded." you managed a small smile towards him. nothing was safer than color coding.
"just call me leon. i'm not assessing your usefulness in the first five minutes of our meeting, you know." he joked, placing his steady fingers on top of your fiddling ones, "you can breathe."
"sorry." you mumbled, stepping back to behind his desk.
"nervous?"
"no." you said, too quickly. you bit your lip, "is it that obvious?"
"you'll be fine." a smile tugged on his lips, "how about coffee to relax nerves?" he asked, his head tilting to the side.
you paused to try to understand how coffee could relax nerves but you agreed anyway. following him outside his office, you saw sherry give a small thumbs up among the labyrinth of desks and sea of workers. you exchanged with her an unsure crooked smile and she winked at you. traitor.
"sir- leon. the break room is down there-" your hand awkwardly pointed behind you.
"let's try the new coffee shop down the road. seems nicer in my opinion. if sherry told me you were starting today i would've..." he started to mumble to himself about welcoming you properly and that no one tells him anything around here.
you followed him quietly out of security and out of the dso building. the harsh cold nipped at your nose, making your ears sting. you tried to keep up with leon as you buttoned your coat up, the two of you walking along the pavement. all the trees were beginning to bloom again, green leaves attempting to free themselves from their cocoons. you liked this time of the year, the evenings becoming lighter - you could drive home in the sunset, the golden light blindingly bright, the warm caress of the sun rays brought you an abundance of happiness. but that is of course, only when you finished on time.
"you worked as an assistant before or..?" he started, noting how quiet your footsteps were, despite you wearing heels.
"yea, just for a little while when, uhm, sarah was off." you replied, fiddling with the button on your blazer.
"how did that go?"
"i did well. good enough." you answered, observing the way he placed himself on the outside of the pavement.
"heard that you did better than sarah herself." he huffed, catching your eyes as he looked down at you.
"i did not, she- i just reorganised a few things." you stuttered, a heat crawling up your neck.
"not what i heard." he shook his head, amused by your stubborness.
"well." you weren't sure what to say. "thank you?"
he laughed a little, "you're welcome."
he outstretched his arm to open the door to the coffee shop for you. the warmth of the shop made you sigh, your stiff fingers absorbing the heat.
"how can i help you today?" the cashier questioned, an eager smile on her face. you turned to leon who was already looking at you.
"order what you want, it's on me." he said, his hand on your shoulder, nudging you out of the way of passing customers.
giving him the faintest hint of a smile, you placed your order.
"name?" the cashier asked, seemingly patient.
"uh, y/n." you replied.
"could you repeat that again?"
you repeated yourself, a blush creeping onto your cheeks. she stared back at you blankly.
leon said your name louder, the cashier nodded and typed into the till. internally, you had smashed your head against the counter.
leon ordered his drink, his adam's apple protruding and his grey stubble coated his jaw, making you wonder how old he was. you noticed how his hair looked blonder under the warm light of the morning, and how the scowl on his face had softened into a smile. he felt your stare, and his eyes flicked back to you as he spoke to the cashier about some tab. caught, you snapped your head back the floor, because you forgot about how interesting floors can get.
you two waited by the window, sat on the stools.
"so, sherry taught you everything then?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
you nodded enthusiastically, "she's a great teacher."
"i'm sure you were a great student."
your face was on fire and you hoped that your entire face was not red.
your name is called, thank god, and leon goes to pick up the two cups, placing the smaller one in your hand.
"you live nearby?"
"yeah, just one of the villages nearby. only forty minutes." you mumbled, "it's nice. and quiet. i like it there."
"quiet's good. you don't get that around here." he nodded slightly.
the two of you continued talking, a few awkward silences, but as the two of you navigated through the conversations, you two got used to how the other works. you found out that leon drank his coffee black, no sugar; said the corniest jokes that somehow made you laugh anyway; collected leather jackets.
"if you're working with me, we need rules." he announced, tapping the table with his fingers.
you gulped.
"first rule. don't call me sir. it makes me feel old." he spoke with a gentleness. you noticed the way he addressed other co-workers as you walked out the building, it seemed like he reserved a softness towards you.
you nodded and trialled his name, "leon."
"there we go." he exhaled from his nose, watching you take a sip of your coffee. your face contorts briefly into a disgusted expression and he tried to hide the smirk that was playing on his lips.
"second rule. we don't ever come back here again, this coffee was shit." he finalised.
you nodded, "agreed."
"perfect." he placed his coffee cup down and the two of you left the place hastily.
you made it back to his office, settling behind your new desk. leon ran you through the things he needed you to cover over the next few weeks. as you were sat at your desk, leon hunched over you, clicking on your mouse to show you the right reports he needed you to work on. his chest awfully close to your face, was he always this close and personal? maybe it was something to ask sherry. or not. probably not. his concentrated face, eyebrows furrowed and lips pinched, completely disappeared when he noticed you were looking at him.
it was weird sharing an office with only one other person, you could hear every move that leon made, his typing, him clicking his pen on and off, his sighing, the way his seat creaked as he sat back and him unscrewing his hidden whiskey flask. you pretended you didn't notice.
when the office was empty, your phone flashed, the words 'mom' shone brightly across the screen.
your heart rate accelerated.
leon finished up in the break room, making an americano to power him through his last few hours of work. he preferred working late, he hated going home and having too much time to think. as he made his way back to the office, he heard your voice. he paused for a second, not wanting to barge in. but there was no one else in the room, just you, your face illuminated by your phone screen.
"yes mom, i think so. i've actually been promoted to being an assistant of a well-known agent." you said, a chuffed smile on your face, nodding, "mhm, yeah i think it's going well. yes he is nice to me, he got me coffee too."
you continued as you spun around in your chair, "yes i know this is a big opportunity. i'm taking it seriously."
he could suddenly hear the other end of the call.
"you know your brother never needed this much time to prove himself, he was leading operations at your age." your mom said through the phone, her voice containing a thousand icicles.
leon watched the way your smile was gradually erased from your face.
"yes mom- i know, i'm trying my best." you assured her, digging your teeth into your bottom lip. your posture had completely crumpled.
"are you working late tonight?" your mom asked sternly.
"mhm."
"good. dedication is what will separate you from the rest. this is important." she replied, every word she spoke placed another weight on your back.
"i know. i- i better get back to work." you just wanted this call to end. it was foolish to think she was going to acknowledge your hard work. it was never well done, it was always do better.
"okay. call us this weekend, your father would like to know how things are going, this is important to him too you know."
"yes mom. bye mom." you ended the call with a sigh, chucking your phone back into your bag.
you didn't realise how badly your hand was shaking until you gripped your wrist with your other hand. fuck.
get your shit together.
leon walked into the office, like he didn't hear the tense call. you exchanged smiles with him and the both of you returned to your computers.
ignoring the waiting whiskey flask and ignoring the pressuring voices of your parents.
edit: here is part 2
note: lemme know what you guys think, i don't know if i made their dynamic too boring... i think i made the reader more awkward than shy. again, i'm open to suggestions. part 2 is going to be pure cheesy office romance <3 but ofc with underlying issues, ya girl loves some angst. um sorry if some bits don't make sense im a bit drunk rn.. if u need something to look forward to... there will be VERY MUCH lots of praises within the smut of this series... teehee.
Leon is slowly falling into retirement; he can feel it. The missions are sparser and fewer in between; he’s at home more and more often, and life just generally feels… slow.
He’s old stuff now; the DSO is of the youngster roaming its neon-lit halls, and he’s fine with it, as all he can do is make room and wonder how did he get to see his fifty.
What he’s not fine with is the blasting music coming from two doors down his own. Apparently, being home more often does not always equate to serenity. And shaking his fist at his barely-out-of college neighbour might just be the point at which Leon has to stop and ask himself the scary question: Has he, indeed, turned into a grumpy old man?
Just snippets of your and Leon’s lives as neighbours.
Starting with a bang and ending with something softer, surely warmer and definitely more chaotic.
So sorry, you have like 8k words of plot and only THEN some smut (3k of it). Super sorry idk how to do pwp 😭
Maybe I'll come back later and add more to this.
To wake up to the loud bass of God knows what kind of grungy music someone’s kid is playing at full volume a couple of doors down from his apartment is not exactly how Leon wants to be woken up on a random Sunday morning after another gruelling mission.
It really is not.
But it’s exactly what is going on right now. With an insufferable beat stomping in his ears and making his walls tremble with edgy tones and a nausea-inducing, messy rhythm.
It’s stupid that he instinctively reaches for his gun; it’s even more stupid that he points it at the closed door of his apartment.
And by the time he actually understands what the hell is going on, anger pools behind his eyes.
Fucking kids.
He’s still in his sleeping clothes when he bangs on your door. And, judging by the messy hair and three sizes bigger t-shirt you greet him with, so are you.
«Oh! Hi, can I help you?»
«Lower that damn music down, do you have any idea what time it is?»
For a second, you blink dumbly at him, with the edge of your door in hands and the sweet smile frozen on your face, and Leon is almost proud of how impolite he has come across.
Then something in you snaps, and your face turns into a scowl; a pissy, youthfully-judgemental scowl. «Like… 2 pm, dude?»
What?
Now that you have mentioned it… the hallway does look suspiciously lit. He must be looking completely lost, and a good portion of dumb, if even you — the most terrifying of monsters, a young adult — after a piercing eye-roll, find pity for him in the depths of your cold, cold heart. «Alright, I’ll tone it down a notch, but you have to go to sleep earlier next time. 2:15 is genuinely fair game.» And with a hip propped against the doorframe, you arch an eyebrow and deliver the last painful jab at his dignity: «grandpa.»
For a second, Leon is so out of depth that he genuinely gapes. Well, there goes his resolve. «I’m sorry—»
Not that you step down easily with the derogatory sass, on the contrary, his sudden nervous behaviour seems to spur you on. «Don’t have a heart attack over it,» you cut him short, before swinging your weight from leg to leg and fixing him with a sour expression. «I’ll cut the music out, so you can have your afternoon nap in peace. Old man.» And with that, and a last dismissive huff, you close the door in his face, and he’s left standing on your “go away” doormat that does nothing but rub salt into his wounds.
Well, that was brutal.
It’s only when he’s back inside the safety of his apartment, too awake by shame to go back to sleep, too physically taxed to do anything else, that he finally realises he never stopped to buy coffee yesterday, coming back from his latest mission; and the nagging feeling of having forgotten something gets dethroned by pure despair.
He has to do some serious mental gymnastics to convince himself to throw on his leather jacket and walk in his pyjamas to the store, but he cannot function without coffee.
It still takes him 20 minutes to hype himself up enough to even slip on his shoes. No socks because he hates life.
And today, life hates him back apparently, because as his door slams shut, his eyes connect with yours under the rim of his baseball cap and you’re simply there, at the end of the hallway like a sphinx guarding his freedom, between him and the stairs for the outside world, one yellow package in one hand and the handle of your door in the other.
Your eyes scurry to his, attracted by the loud sound of the closing door, and something wicked splits your lips in a grin. «Well, well, well… aren’t you up bright and early?»
You mock, crossing your arms and dangling the forgotten package from the hiding place tucked against your hips.
«I finished coffee.» Is the only thing he can murmur, surprisingly truthful and plain.
For a minute or two in the brightly lit hallway, nothing but silence lingers in the air; then, suddenly, as loud as gunshots, your laugh ricochets through the walls. «Man, today is not your day at all. Get in, 12B, I’ll make you a cuppa.»
And on a normal basis, Leon would have never accepted, but today, nothing feels normal. So he follows.
The apartment is furnished the way Leon would expect a 20-something girl’s apartment to be furnished, perhaps leaning a bit on the side of 90s grunge; the one he lived on his skin firsthand during his own youth, and now echoed in his neighbour's cramped living room/kitchen/music room.
It’s a weird transitory space that feels lived-in, as if its purpose had shifted and changed during the years, settling into an impractical mixture of old functions and newer ones.
«Do you play?» The row of guitars and what he assumes are bass lines the wall over a mismatched old piano that screams “old lady” rather than college student. All different colours and shapes, a particular one even having two necks and some glittery finishing over the body.
Those too feel lived-in, with scuffs and scratches across their varnish. «No, I like to spend my paychecks caring for these bitches out of the kindness of my heart.» sassy, «I’ve been playing since I was seven or so.»
It should feel like hostility, but Leon knows what true hostility feels like, and that is not it.
You’re more like a hissing cat swaying your tail dismissively, deeply offended.
«You’re a mean one, aren’t you?»
The coffee machine sputters to life, a low buzz indicating a long life of usage. You turn and tilt your head, unimpressedly looking at him through your lashes, «Me? Are you having a senile moment? I was sunshine and rainbows when I opened that door; — your hand does something incoherent with itself in the general direction of the exit, then, coming back to him, a finger points square at his chest — you were the mean one.
It’s truly not on me this time… As you sow, so shall you reap.» You pronounce at the end, like a mantra, spinning on your heels, chin up in pride, messing around with pots and coffee pods.
«I had a rough night. My bad, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.» It’s really easy to slip onto the stool at your small kitchen island, as easy as asking for your forgiveness. It feels almost… normal, a well-oiled machine that has finally sputtered back to life after years of neglect.
It sounds stupid.
«Don’t stress about it.» The comforting aroma of coffee fills the air, the sound of poured coffee curls around the edge of your words, mixing and fusing. «There is space for my piano and then some inside those eye bags.» Your figure turns, your smile settles back into the soft one you had opened your door wearing, and something soft tugs at Leon’s heart.
His cup clinks onto the kitchen island, you sip your own, the day outside slowly moves on. «Sugar?»
It gets really easy to talk to you, like sipping the sweet coffee cooling in his mug, like huffing at your playful jabs and hiding his smile under the rim of his hat as you question and probe to get a rise out of him.
It’s well past four when his stomach grumbles loudly, and you once again laugh at his expense.
His joints creak as he rises from the stool, hands hoisting him up «Well, that’s my cue to leave. Pardon me, my lady.»
Your laugh is a kneecap shot; Leon has dealt out his fair share of those, he knows how effective they are.
You take no prisoners, stretching lazily over the counter dividing you two, your hands shooting from across the island to cup his own. «No, no wait! I’m having fun.»
His legs give up, and he crumbles back into his seat.
«Tell you what, pretty eyes.» Your hands don’t leave his. «If you don’t have coffee in there, it’s hard to believe you have actual food. I’ll make you a deal: I cook you up something de-fucking-licious, and you tell me why I thought you were dead in your apartment, and your cat was eating your face to survive.» Your voice is light and cheerful, your back straightens, and your eyes glimmer in the afternoon orange light pooling from your windows.
He’s suddenly two sizes bigger than his own skin, so out of place in your serenity, «I’m not usually around.» he chews in between his teeth, unable to avert his gaze but willing to try. Yours, once again and unsurprisingly, feels steady. Unhurried. «No shit, Sherlock, but if you want food, you’ll have to be a bit more loose-lipped.»
«Why?» It’s an honest-to-god question, perhaps a bit too honest for his training. It feels like a layer of his soul is being peeled.
You shrug your shoulders and let go of his hand, almost sure he won’t attempt another flight, and turn on your heels to start the late lunch.
«'Cause I’m nosy as fuck.» you offer simply, putting a small pot on the stove and bobbing your head as if to punctuate each word now that he can no longer see your expressions.
«Well I— I’m truly not… around… that much.» if you wish to humiliate him for the dumb repetition, you don’t let it show, simply huffing a somewhat derisive sound and arching an eyebrow from behind your shoulder. «How so? I thought people your age had achy knees, not travelling desires.»
Yeah… why so? But most importantly, why is he around now?
And why does he have the feeling he’ll have to make peace with the idea he’ll be around quite a bit more?
To put it simply, Leon is slowly falling into retirement; he can feel it. The missions are sparser and fewer in between; he’s at home more and more often, and life just generally feels… slow.
He’s not getting any younger, tons of new agents are getting recruited every month, and his experience is starting to get outweighed by the constant ache in his knees.
He’s old stuff now; the DSO is of the youngster roaming its neon-lit halls, as all he can do is make room and wonder how did he get to see his fifty.
His silence must have been interpreted as offence as you quickly cast a glance behind you and rectify: «Alright, I’ll quit it with the old man jokes. You did piss me off tho. Did the coffee taste of peace offerings and spite? Because that’s what I was aiming for.»
You’re cute. All words and sassy remarks. A chatterbox with a cute scowl and an even cuter irritated frown.
«Mmmister?»
He gotta put his ass in gear, «It’s Leon. It’s stupid I haven’t told you yet.»
God, he’s out of practice.
But that doesn’t seem to faze you, little does apparently. «You’re fine, Leon.» You concede, pulling open the cabinet over your head. «You feel like the mysterious type.
Plus, I liked “grandpa”»
Grandpa.
His eyes trail your back; you’re difficult to pinpoint. There is something unmistakably weird about you, the way you talk, the way you act, but Leon doesn’t really get what’s tipping him off; you’re just weird.
It’s plain in the way you laugh, and it’s there when you say some absurd thing, bending backwards on a logic that is all your own, but it doesn’t stem from those.
It just permeates them.
His eyes catch yours, once again over the edge of your shoulders, and he finally notices you’re quiet.
«Sorry, I wasn’t— I was paying you attention… I just got lost in thoughts.» and those same eyes shine, not with malice but not with innocence either. «An open-eyed nap? Alright, that was the last one. Tomato sauce or pesto?»
A couple of days later, he finds you at his door.
Mail in hands and a new, silly, pyjamas hanging loosely on your body.
«Dude, Kennedy? Really? Like the president?»
Never mind “Confidential” is plastered all over the mail. The postal service managed to fuck it up regardless.
«Gotta something to say about that?»
Your shoulders shrug, your hand stretches, «Not really, it just sounds silly.»
It’s out of his mouth before he can catch it, «My middle name is Scott if that fans you amusement.»
It does, it really does, if the nasal and ugly laugh that escapes you is any indication.
Weird.
«Well, your mail got delivered to me mister president.» Yeah, he can see that; he got some neck to twist back at DSO.
He knows it’s not early, he won’t make the same mistake again and embarrass himself twice on the same matter, but he’s so fucking tired.
«Dude—» This time you’re dressed, a black shirt of some band he had seen in concert, but that probably broke up before you were even born. Already on a war footing.
«I know, I know, it is fair game, but— please, I just really need to sleep.»
It must have been rude to cut you off like that; it definitely was, but he had been verbally digested once; he doesn’t want to have that experience again.
You look pissed, eyebrows drawn, and hand gripping the door frame at your side, and for a second, Leon double-guesses his social skills, nonexistent, and his ability to not make you mad with his mere existence. But the sharp tones in your drawn eyebrows smooth, softly, almost out of habit, more than real softness. You look… gentle? «Aight. Fine. I’ll cut the music.»
Leon can feel a sight escaping his lungs. «Thanks, really. I’m sorry.»
Your head shakes, your shoulders do the same, and the myriad of bracelets on your wrist ring like bells. «Don’t be. I get it.»
That is the moment he should retreat, go back into his apartment and back to bed, the couch if he can’t manage the off meters separating the two. But something seems to prevent him from doing so.
You are still there, scrutinising him like a mortician.
He should take your doormat’s advice.
«Did you manage to buy coffee?»
He didn’t.
«Shit— no, I’ll go out tonight.» Last week had been a nightmare; spotty missions of a day or two, polluting his everyday life. Not hard at all, but gruelling.
Your tongue clicks on your teeth, «Don’t bother, grandpa.» Fucking nickname, he won’t be able to shake it off, won’t he? «I gotta pull an all-nighter anyway. Just knock, and I’ll get you set up.»
That’s odd, you’re odd. Oddly gentle, oddly kind.
«You’re awfully nice for being this rude.»
Even your laugh is odd. «Rude my ass, dude. Go catch your beauty sleep, princess; you look like shit.»
He does, catching up with his sleep — not look like shit, thank you very much — in a blissfully silent apartment, and then, not even bothering to put something decent on, he knocks at your door.
«Damn, old man. Thought you would have been out for at least a couple of hours more.»
Weird, but weird in a funny way. Like weird ha ha.
«Thanks God you’re funny, girl.»
Coffee at your place becomes a habit.
You bitch and whine about “taking care of your elders”, but Leon eventually understands it’s an act.
He does odd jobs at yours from time to time. The sink doesn’t work? You don’t even have to ask, he’s already two-thirds of the way to getting it repaired. The shutters don’t close all the way, and you hate sleeping with the light of the outside world? He’s already oiling them.
It’s a nice balance. It makes him feel needed.
It’s not really clear, in the strict timeline he keeps tabs on in his head, how or when, did warm coffee became trash TV from the worn dip of your couch.
It just happens.
There is so much caffeine you both can ingest without seriously damaging your stomach before the ridiculous excuse to keep the moment going starts to feel old. The shared silences and the lively conversations weigh more than a possible ulcer on his part and a probable insomniac night on yours.
It’s not unexpected from his point of view; you’re full of life, a constant buzz fluttering around him, softening the blow of his mind’s reeling thoughts, spiralling in silences stretched too long in his deserted apartment. But it’s — once again — kinda weird for yours.
For some reason unknown to him, you actually like him around, no, you want him around. He has passed his whole life noticing details, the true distinction makers between life and death in his missions. So it’s not really “spy work” to spot them as they surface. The room you have made for him in your life, nudging your clothes and rags away enough on the couch to make room for him, tugging them in the crevices of the seat. Not gone but folded enough to just let him exist in a spot that is all his.
The shift is in the cup you always give him, blue and white, glazed wrongly, probably a failed art project of yours or a close friend. In the pack of cookies you have started to pull out of the cupboard every time he says, “I should go” without really feeling like going. Only to bribe a few minutes, he was already willing to give up, out of him.
Hell, most of the time you open the door of your apartment before he can even knock on it.
It’s odd, and it’s even odder that you have stopped murmuring the ritualistic “what a coincidence” after the first couple of times, but somehow that puts him at ease.
It’s clear that you want him to be there, in your apartment. And it’s a feeling so long forgotten he had thought he would have struggled more to recognise it.
And it’s not even such extraordinary company the one you offer, it’s mostly a quietly buzzing presence, sometimes a tad too much, but mostly enough.
It’s enough when you sit at his side.
You have one of those old TVs that, when you shake your hand in front of it, makes it look like you have twenty fingers or more. Per hand.
And he’s sure that will probably be the thing that fucks his vision up once and for all — Leon is sure about that — but it’s enough.
Even with the eye-murdering TV, he cannot stop knocking at your door, sliding down the couch beside you as you pluck chips from the bag and hand him “the greasy ones” because you’re picky like that, and somehow you can feel the difference.
He doesn’t complain. When you are too deep into your film, you even feed him, aiming for his mouth without taking your eyes off the TV.
It’s awkward, clumsy, and so irresistibly you.
Somebody is trying to remove the door from its hinges. The gun is in his hands in seconds, low, ready.
He gotta get out of the apartment quickly, he doesn’t know how many are there, he’s in civilian clothes, his ammo is in his bedroom—
«Leon, open up, I don’t care if you’re asleep, come on!»
Your voice sifts through the door, through the cracks in the crappy old wood as your fists bang on its expanses.
The gun, from his sole lifeline, shifts into an imminent threat; he disarms it and tosses it away as fast as humanly possible, as if burning.
God damnit.
The door swings open; his frame must be towering over you if he can see his own shadow obscuring your entire body. «Kid.»
If you’re intimidated, you don’t let it show, with a shove and a pull, you literally stumble into his apartment. «Dude, there is a fucking Porsche down the street!»
Your gait falls jittery and excitedly, running at the window and throwing a glance out of it, down the street. «wha—»
But you don’t let him finish, actually, you don’t even dignify him with a glance, waving a hand with chipped nail polish, at him still trying to merge yourself with the window screen, «Put some clothes on, I wanna go see.»
Your logic is a fucked-up mess he’s not sure he wants to tackle this early, and this hungover.
And yet he asks. «Why do I gotta be with you?»
«I don’t wanna go ogle all by myself, I’d look like a creep.» Ah, yes, sure, now he understands.
«Because with me you’ll look different?»
At that, you finally turn, sharp gaze fixing him with impatience, and a tinge of… embarrassment? «No, but… you know, we’ll just be two creeps… like a flock, you know, anonymity in numbers and all that shit.
Better than the lone creep anyway.»
He doesn’t really know, mostly because if you don’t want to look like a creep to the owner, you don’t really gotta worry. It’s his. And he already thinks you’re a creep, or at least some other variant of plain “weird"
«Alright, gimme a sec.»
And yet he yields.
«Hurry, I don’t wanna lose it.»
You won’t.
«Duuuude, that’s so fucking sweet!» You look like an overexcited… you. It’s actually pretty difficult to compare you to something tangible, something he knows and can catalogue.
Your wonder is fresh and childlike, but your excitement comes off of you in waves of low curses and keen eyes raking over his car.
He shouldn’t have come home drunk last night, he shouldn’t have left the Porsche out of the garage, but for some strange reason, he doesn’t think the mishap bore horrible fruits.
It’s actually pretty nice to see you like that.
«You like cars?»
«Not as much as I like guitars, but I can appreciate. I’ve never seen one of those before.»
Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.
«You only like French cars or like…»
Your laugh rises airy and light, not in derision, not even mischievous, once again, only yours.
«Dude, Porsches are German.»
The key in his hand clicks, the car beeps to life, and you almost jump out of your skin.
When you turn around, panic visible on your features, looking for the owner, the keys are already dangling from his outstretched hand, and for a second, he can gloat in the magnificent picture of your owlish eyes blinking, slow; as the cogs in your brain shift and clunk connecting the dots.
When he speaks, it’s a low rumble, «Alright, teach, do you wanna go grab some coffee?»
You look like a fish out of water, gaping at him, and if your eyes could pop out, they would.
«Are you?» You don’t even finish the thought, your eyes dart back to the car, to him, «Is it yours?!»
«Yup.»
Joy jolts through your veins, zapping behind your eyes, raw and unfiltered. «Oh my god, can we— coffee? Can you—» but then something snaps, all that enthusiasm bubbles over, but it’s as if the means to feel it were suddenly taken away from you. And you shift, a bit awkward.
Silence falls.
«Have you… have you drunk…» your voice comes out low, very low, almost inaudible. Torn between jumping in and putting your feet down on something you won’t negotiate on.
He did, he could actually say he got hammered, stumbling up the stairs well into the night and collapsing into his couch moments after, not even properly securing his door, passing out where you had found him this morning.
A heap of crumbled clothes and the shadow of a legend. Slowly fading away.
Yesterday had been… weird, but not your type of weird, sad-weird. His life had flushed down the drain, drowned in cheap alcohol because that gave the worst hangover headache, and at this point, “hurt” is the only thing that keeps him connected to that part of his life that is actually way more than a part and that without he doesn’t know how to function.
So yeah, he’s had a drink, several actually.
But your weird — right now — feels so real he can’t find it in himself to deny you; contagious and fuzzy, like a bad case of the flu. And he feels all warm and sluggish as he stares down the path of voluntarily wrapping around your finger. To be commanded left and right, for the simple pleasure of keeping you content.
Buzzing.
Not the same buzz he finds looking for solace in the bottle.
You fidget in your spot, growing roots, not moving a single step to get inside the car.
He’s weirdly proud of you for that. «I did, that’s why you’re driving.»
And for being a sad excuse of an old man, he must have done something right because you suddenly shine.
The coffee shop you drove to that evening was a random one, the only one open this late into the hour, but somehow that became a usual spot.
“Usual” is also the habit of letting you drive.
For a couple of minutes, Leon simply kicks off and lets you drive, letting you guide him wherever you want.
The both of you end up going there quite a lot.
On weekends, on Mondays, on Tuesdays… every time Leon is not at work.
So a lot.
You don’t seem to mind the fact he’s mostly silent, he hopes not rude, but definitely silent. He can’t change in the snap of a finger.
«So… you like own this crazy car but live in that shitty apartment building. Are you like one of those dudes who spend all their money on flashy cars?»
The asphalt runs smoothly under new tyres, your voice drifts through the car. «The apartment is good.»
The eyebrow-rise is comical, Leon thinks he did laugh; «Leon, I live two doors down from yours. I know mould is growing in your bathroom as well.»
It does, in fluffy cotton balls of slightly concerning black substance.
But if he closes his eyes, head lolling on the window of his car, he can recall the memory of pristine surfaces, modern lines and oddly shaped high-end lamps looming over perfectly 90° corners, walls of egg-white paint, expensive furniture. Untouched. Waiting for him after endless missions.
A solitary life in the guts of a place that screams “aseptic” from every cashmere quilt.
«Not really. I have another— place. I just…»
You don’t press, you don’t ask, you just let him find it on his own. «I just don’t like it.»
Your hum is barely audible over the sound of the car, but it’s sweet, and it’s soft. «And you like that piece of crap? I heard there are loud neighbours on that floor.»
At that one, Leon actually laughs, unguarded and raw. He has been like that for a while now, slipping into the habit of simply existing out of questioning in your orbit.
A gravitational pull that lures him in.
«I’ll take your shitty music over never-ending silence any day.»
The corner of your eyes crinkles, that unfiltered laugh seeps into the car, and his heart skips a beat, but oddly feels like it’s falling into the rhythm of yours.
He’s heading down a very dangerous path, but you are driving, and he has no power over the destination.
Leon huffs, annoyance must be visible on his face, perhaps pulling at the worry lines littering his forehead. Wrinkles, there is no need to call them by any other names, they’re wrinkles.
«I used to be able to bullseye a wind chimer a mile away.» The newspaper slaps against the table. He can feel the waves of tension rolling off of him, and so must you. One eyebrow arched, eyes unimpressed. «And now you can’t read the newspaper without glasses.» The deadpan lands harder than you probably intended, smoothing the rest of the phrase out of your lips with a softer edge to it. «Come on, grandpa, use this. My father forgot them here like a lifetime ago, I assure you, he won’t mind.»
But it doesn't land where you must have hoped it would land. And you must have seen that on Leon's face, this time around, there is more than tension; there’s hurt.
Your voice comes soft and unhurried but firm nonetheless; you don’t reach, you don’t corner, and for that, he’s grateful. You just exist, and you let him do the same «Leon… what’s wrong?»
«It’s fucked up.» There is not much more to it. It just is.
He has grown old. Useless.
The look you pull is weird. Why must you always be weird? So complex to read? Because for a second, you look hurt. Plainly, openly. For what he said. As if he had said it about you.
«Leon…»
Easily mistaken for pity. Not that he truly believes it. He knows deep down that’s an excuse.
The clock over your stove ticks by, time falling slowly out of his reach. «How so?» Your voice rises steady and calm; in a sip of coffee still too hot for him to drink but apparently perfect for you.
«What?»
Your shoulders shake gently, eyes darting up over the rim of your cup, directed at him. «Why did you know how to “bullseye a wind chimer a mile away”?»
«I’m military.» Safe, easier than explaining Raccoon City.
Your face pulls, half displeased, he’s well aware how opinionated you can get on government stuff; he gets where you come from, he had wanted to become a cop — a lifetime ago now — for the exact reasons you had listed. Tone heated and annoyed, one dying day he had passed lounging on your couch. He had wanted to change the world back then, to make a difference, but life had yanked him away from that path, hard. And the cop inside of him had died that faithful day. More than thirty years ago.
You eye him suspiciously, as if he had turned into the enemy all at once. «Hold the gun, I’m DSO.»
«Meaning?»
«Division of Security Operations»
Your face scrunches up, a very cute frown that tips into displeasure ever so softly, hiding your emotions had never been your forte. «Wow, that gives me like… nothing.» His scoff flees his lips almost unwantedly. «Anti-bioterrorism.»
You hum, the sound rippling the surface of your coffee. «Cool.» You relent at some point, as if admitting it cost you something.
The bitterness resurfaces suddenly, ugly and unwanted. It was cool. «Not that it matters now. It has been a while since I’ve been active on the ground.»
If there is something that you are, it’s not subtle. Your eyes bore holes where they rest on his figure, intense and searching.
«That doesn’t change the fact you had been… DSO or whatever.»
«No.»
He hadn’t been someone— hell, something in a while now. Aimlessly drinking his sadness away, syphoning your joy, your calmness from your company.
You don’t speak, nor correct him. «No, you don’t get it.»
For the first time since he met you, Leon sees it all from an outsider perspective. Outside the bubble of comfort you envelop him in.
He’s old, so very old, and you’re younger and brighter, with a future waiting just around the corner.
What is he doing weighting you down?
It flutters out of his mouth in an exhale. «Of course you don’t. You’re young.» Then the right word to describe it boils down: «It’s humilia—»
«Normal.» Your voice cuts him off sharply.
Two steps, the clink of your cup to the kitchen island separating you.
Your hand falls to his shoulder, and you look at him like you need him to believe you. Unmovable. «It’s normal, Leon.»
Something, in the deepest depths of his soul, is cracking open; he can’t actually pinpoint it, but he can feel it.
It doesn’t scare him this time.
Falling for you is soft and graceful, then all of a sudden, it's messy and horrible. Jittery and unsure around you. Like he had lost the balance of your shared existence.
So Leon does the next best thing than confessing: he withdraws.
Because you don’t feel what he had found himself feeling for you, and it’s a fool’s hope to think of you as anything more than a weird acquaintance.
Days of isolation turn into weeks.
You don’t knock on his door, and you don’t go looking for him.
Your absence rings louder than he thought it would.
It’s in every nook and cranny of his life where you have jammed your presence, and it hurts around the edges, like a sharp object pressing onto his ribs.
«Leon?» clammy hands wrung around each other, pulled hair. Sweat glistening on a thin sheet on his skin.
He’s too old for this.
«I… I’m sorry, I can’t— I can’t be alone right now.»
What a pathetic thing to say to your twenty-something neighbour at three am after you have tried to avoid her for nearly a month.
You ought to kick him out, curse his name, and spit on him. Because he’s a coward, a pervert and a pathetic man looking for comfort in retracing a bridge he himself has burned to the ground.
«Oh… Yeah, sure, come on in.»
But you are just so fucking odd.
The apartment buzzes with the soft sound of the fridge in the far corner of the kitchen, the TV glows with a very annoying static and a low crackling sound.
You lazily stroll barefoot to the couch, crunched covers squished down, rummaging through the cushion for the remote and shutting the TV down.
The room falls into an uncannily still silence, Leon’s heart stutters but stops the galloping it had done for the past interminable minutes of lone panic.
The remote slides back over the couch, a thud in the otherwise silent room. You turn and lean into the backrest from behind it, leg outstretched, as if you had never sat in a damn couch. «I’m sorry…» Comes out of his lips small and unsure. «You can go back to sleep, I just— I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—»
«It’s alright, do you wanna sleep? Or talk, or like, watch trashy TV?» The proposal is so stupidly sweet he can feel it in his teeth. A dull ache.
«No, no, it’s—» What is it? «I just wanted to know you were— okay. Just… safe.»
Your head lolls up and down in a sluggish rhythm, crossed arms, a foot coming up to scratch the back of your calf.
«Do you wanna sleep over?»
He must have heard you wrong.
«What?»
«Like a pyjama party, shame I just ran out of facemasks. Sleep here.»
Knowing you’re there, it’s— it’s enough, you can go back to sleep.»
It is. It really is because all of this has always been about how much your presence has come to ground him.
Your voice lifts something heavy in his chest, soft and calm. «Will you be able to sleep at yours?»
Fuck no.
«No.»
«Then stay. Why torture yourself?»
Because I deserve it. And I don’t deserve you.
Too bold. Instead, he settles on: «It’s a loaded question.»
Your shoulders draw in, a silent chill running down your spine in jarring shivers. «It wasn’t supposed to be. Stay.»
A huff of a laugh filters through his teeth. «I—» «Leon. Please…»
«Yeah… okay… I’ll— sorry. I’ll settle on the couch.»
Your face pulls; there is something you wish to say underneath the sleepiness, but you refrain.
«Will you be able to fall asleep there?»
«Yeah, I will… eventually.»
You look less than unconvinced, but once again, your self-control puts his to shame.
«Okay.»
It’s an afterthought, soft around the edges, as you pull away from the backing of the couch, sleep clinging to your judgment.
You pull him in when you’re close enough, arm circling the small of his back and a palm guiding his nape to the crook of your neck. A soft embrace.
Comfort seeping through his clothes, where your skin meets and burns through each other’s warmth. Your voice hitches, «Door’s wide open if you want to curl up and spill your guts.» Then, as if you wanted to drill the thought deeper into his understanding, you clutch harder. «I’m right here.»
And with that, you retreat.
And he’s left struggling against what that had meant.
He can’t recall for sure if he clung back.
He does eventually. Fall asleep. Around five or so.
And wakes up at eleven, to the soft clatter of kitchen utensils.
«Good morning, pretty eyes.» Your voice fills a very deep void he never noticed.
I love you.
«Good morning.»
Your eyes burn on his skin.
Always so unsettling focus.
«What?»
«Something’s different.»
The slurping sound of the straw in your glass announces you’re done with your overly sweet milkshake.
He’s halfway through his steaming hot coffee.
«The milkshake?»
He doesn’t even know how you could be able to tell, all that sugar must have fried your taste buds.
«No, dummy, you. Something is different with you.»
An eyebrow arches, he sips slower, just because he knows it irks you.
«I don’t know what you’re talking about.»
It has been a week since the night he spent on your couch. And that has gone blissfully unacknowledged.
On his part, you had simply behaved as if what had just happened was the most normal thing that could have happened.
«Yeah, you look… better?» your voice cuts through, smacking the tackiness of the sugar away from your lips.
«Is it a question or a statement?»
He doesn’t get to listen to your reply. A waiter, all sweet smile and bubbly attitude, approaches your booth.
«Can I bring you anything else?» She asks, tapping a pen over an already filled notepad, looking directly at you; Leon has been the “scary guy” all his life, he’s not surprised the woman must feel better speaking to you instead of him.
«Oh no, I’m all done.»
So he folds himself into a smaller version of what he is, pressing closer to the window, head tilted down. Less scary, less imposing.
«What about your father?» The words freeze something in the air, like a spell gone wrong. And all he can inhale is ice-cold dread.
Until he has to mutter: «I’m fine.» before the moment drags out worse than it had started.
«He’s not my father.»
Your face is hard to read, soft-eyed, a simple smile on your lips, a genuine tilt of your head. You look at ease.
You don’t look ashamed.
«I’m so sorry—»
«Don’t worry.»
Man, you’re weird.
«You drive like a madman, are you sure you’re not drunk?»
You’re not even worthy of a proper answer, so you get a grunt. The road bends and twists in intricate backroads, “to avoid the insomniac rush hour.” you always say when you take it.
«Leon—» but tonight you’re in the passenger seat.
«I’m dry. Been a week.»
Silence falls back, your head falls softly onto the headrest. «A week, mhm?»
Fuck, you’re way too damn observant for your own good. «Yeah, been thinking of quitting for a while.»
He steps on the gas, sidestepping a lone car going too slow for his liking.
«What got your panties in a twist?»
«Nothing.»
And you let it be nothing for a couple of seconds, even a minute if Leon believes your magnanimity, «Was it the waiter’s comment?»
But you’re not that nice, all things considered.
«No.»
And you’re not easily deterred either.
«Then why are you trying to snap your wheel in half?»
«You don’t know me.» The whiplash is painful. His own venom drips down his lips, poisoning his own thoughts.
«Fuck— I—»
«You think so?» Fuck, fuck, fuck… he fucked up so badly. Like horribly badly.
«I—»
«Stop the car.»
That’s it. That is how the only good thing left in his life ends.
Because he’s a sad man who doesn’t know how to stay in his lane.
«Please, I’m sorry—»
«I want to know you.
I do. And you can start letting me get to know you by telling me why you're mad right now.»
The car sits idly on the side of a deserted road. No other passerby in sight, you might as well be the last humans alive in the world.
It feels like it.
«I hate that she just assumed…»
Your voice clicks, a low hum, almost like a buzz.
«Why?» unkind. But not harsh.
You just sound demanding.
No point in running.
«Because I like you. And you deserve better.»
«Better…»
Yes, better than someone edging on the void of the half-century mark with no other accomplishment to his name than destruction and blood.
Yeah. Better.
«Yeah.»
«Better than you, but you still get to decide what I deserve and what I don’t.»
«No, you—»
You don’t even blink as you deliver your next line. «I’m the worst person alive.»
And he falls for it like a dumbass. «You’re not—»
«Then you aren’t either. If I like you, and you’re such worse, then I in fact do not deserve better.
I deserve you exactly.»
The air in the car grows heavy. Your words linger between your bodies.
«You don’t like me the way I like you. Believe me.»
«Boy, you’re dumb.»
Your belt clicks, the car gives off a faint alarm, still on, still humming under you two. And for a second, panic sets in.
He’s sure that next will come the bell of the door being opened with the car keys still inserted, yet another alarm blaring in his head. But it doesn’t.
You lurch over the shift, hand fisting his shirt in your grasp, and then you yank him to your level and kiss him.
And then the rest falls into place with a satisfactory click.
The odd-weird you’re dancing on the edge of infects him like a virus, and suddenly, he’s all jittery buzz and tingling fingertips as well.
It must be all that sugar he’s tasting off of your tongue.
«Abso-fucking-lutely not.» his palms fall to your figure, harder than intended.
Your huff is playful; you rarely aren't. «Hard ass.»
His hands grip harder. Your waist, your hips, your thighs straddling his lap.
He guides you lower, harder, over the clothes you still cling to. «I am.»
He still clings to.
It’s hard to explain. He now knows for sure you won’t judge him; you have done plenty to deserve his trust, but the objective truth is that his body no longer looks like what it used to look 20 years ago.
The scars have gone from “enough to feel mysterious” to ugly viper’s nests of leather-like damaged skin, varying in colour and texture; his muscles, no longer cutting, look defined, sure, but the definition of too strenuous work that had left marks deeper than stretch marks over bulging biceps.
He looks used. Exhausted.
And that scares him.
Your hand dips slightly lower than he thought you would, grazing the hem of his shirt, and his body goes rigid.
«Wait—» Your hand retreats immediately, clasping behind your back as if demonstrating to him you’re harmless now; holding onto your forearms. Your lips land on his cheek, soft and steady, until you withdraw, but don’t leave him behind.
«Sorry, love, got carried away.»
The ease is so jarring he doesn’t even have the time to chastise himself.
«It’s okay.» he mutters then, because he truly feels like he has won the lottery with you.
Then a huff follows, as you litter his face with kitten kisses.
«You sound like my mother when you call me “love”»
Your feigned gasp comes with the definitive withdrawal, eyes wide open and false shock painted on your face. He had told you at least a dozen times.
«You should know better than that.» you tut suddenly, popping your neck softly. You’re not wrong, his couch is kinda uncomfy.
The smirk surfaces like a message in a bottle. Only reading “trouble” all over. «Aren’t you the one who got all grumpy ‘cause the waiter insinuated you were my daddy?»
The tip of his ears warms up, and he’s sure that if he were in front of a mirror right now, he’d notice a soft dusting of red colouring them.
«She did not say “daddy”» Your grin only gets wider. «She didn’t… I could tho.»
Jeeze, he’s gonna combust.
«Okay, you’re in time-out.» But he knows you have filed his reaction under the “for later shenanigans” folder inside your brain.
You dismount him like a saddle, swift and confident, not at all bothered by the interruption.
He is tho.
«Hey. Princess, hold on a second.»
His fingers wrap around your wrist. hot versus cold. You always seem to run a bit colder than the rest of the world.
Your eyes don’t. Pools of endless warmth zeroing on him. «What’s up?»
So he blurs it out. «Does— I know it’s bothersome.» and he can no longer take it back.
«What?» And if he can’t take it back, and you’re both already there… he might as well go with it.
«The interruptions. It’s— frustrating, I know. I’m sorry.»
Your blinking is slow and deliberate, or maybe it’s just confused. «It’s not. I mean, not really; I do wanna jump your bones, you’re stupidly hot, I feel like I’m salivating every time I see you. But your comfort is the number one priority. So it’s actually not that hard a choice.»
Oh…
Well, now he’s the one wanting to absolutely wreck you.
It’s not fair.
«Can I sleep at yours tonight?»
«I’d be offended if you didn’t.»
This is silly.
You are silly, your ideas are silly.
It’s silly that you’re lying facing each other on your comically small bed.
«Your mattress is minuscule.»
«But he’s very hard. He’s compensating.» A hand lifts from the cramped space between your bodies, and a snap of his fingers hits the side of your forehead.
«Dirty mind. If I knew it was this small, I would have stayed on the couch.»
A smile at the edge of your lips pulls slightly. «I think he’s average size.» Typical. «Plus, I got rid of the bigger one to get you all close and cuddly the day you’d finally accept to nap with me.» Leon huffs. This close, he can see the strands around your face moving by the action.
You look stunning, groggy with sleep and illuminated by the low light of the outside world.
«A mastermind, I see.»
Your giggle settles into a comfortable background noise, mixing with the sounds of the street below you; mischievous glint shining behind your eyes. «I got you in my bed, didn’t I?»
You did, hell yeah, you did.
«What’s next, Emperor Palpatine?»
That grants him a full laugh, a soft sound falling precisely between embarrassing and sweet. «I’m swaying between making you cut that beard of yours and letting me shoot a real gun.»
Silence falls softly over you, like a blanket pulled under your chin.
Leon’s the first one to break it. «Can I kiss you?»
Your eyes soften. «How many times must I tell you, Leon: you don’t have to ask.» One too few. He will never stop doubting himself.
«Only once more, I promise.»
It’s not once more.
He asks every single time, when you wake up in the morning, when he circles your waist at the stove, when you part ways to go to work, when he comes back and finds you curled up on the sofa, reading or plucking at the strings of the guitar of the day.
It’s a routine that settles into a type of comfort that eggs him softer and softer into an edge he’s not sure he’s bordering until it’s too late.
The desire slams into him all at once, like a brute force pressing from every direction into his very soul.
He has just returned home, to your apartment that had somehow morphed into your shared quarters, and you are just standing there in the kitchen, spoon in hand, and your work clothes draped over the back of the counter stool, messy as always, one of his T-shirts so old it probably predates you, hugging your figure, logo dry and faded.
You’re doing some shenanigans with the stove, fire too high, he can already tell from the doorway, and you look so… cosy.
The desire hits hard.
The need to act on it hits even harder.
He barely shrugs his coat off, throwing his briefcase to the side and marching toward you. The sound slightly startles you, your shoulder jumping slightly, but you turn lazily, eyes focusing on him.
«Shoot, I didn’t even notice yo—» He doesn’t let you finish, he just really wants to put his hands on you and grip tight enough to convince himself you’re real.
This time, he doesn’t ask for permission; he still thinks he should have, but the want is too much.
The kiss is hard and full, one hand flying to the back of your head and the other finding something to grip on your waist, skin, clothes, whatever he can put his hands on. He holds you there, gripping you tight and kissing you deeply.
The room fills with smacks, you open up like a flower to sunlight, initially shocked, then melting to his touch.
The hand on your waist flies to the knob turned to the highest setting and shuts it off. Something simmers in the background, finally cooling down.
Your lips part with a wet sound, a strand of saliva still connecting you. You look at him sheepishly, still panting, still wide-eyed, lips red and glistening; something mischievous bubbles deeper.
«You’re gonna burn down the whole building.» his own voice sounds strained. Desire is on a rampage inside him.
Your eyes narrow, focused and predatory. «What can I say, fire must be in the air tonight.»
Cocky.
He still snorts.
«Dinner’s busted by the way. In case you haven’t noticed. Beyond salvageable.» He noticed. It’s alright. He’s not hungry. Well, he isn’t for food.
«We’ll survive.»
The moment stays charged, or at least he thinks it does; it has been a while since he had been comfortable enough with somebody to let the passion bubble.
He had been an awkward teen, a lifetime ago now, a somewhat clumsy rookie, and then he had been a traumatised recruit.
Not the best state of mind to let loose.
Sure, he had overcompensated at some point in his youth; when he had been younger and prettier, when the girls in bars had found his scars attractive and not concerning.
But even that had gone stale quite early, and the shame of lying had outweighed the brief relief of a one-night stand.
And Leon had gotten older, and the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened, his eyes had darkened, and the worry on his forehead had settled into deep lines.
He had started to frequent the bars solely for the booze, and the pretty girls had started to steer clear of him.
Leon’s not a saint, but it has also been a long time since he deemed himself worthy of such comfort.
Panic seizes him once more, and the urge to ask for permission flutters agitatedly in his chest. «You okay with this?» You’re not even doing anything.
Your hand falls to his, slid from the back of your neck to your cheek, and it just rests. «Are you?»
He knows you well enough to know this is not a throwaway line; you actually expect a response.
«I am.»
«Good, then I’ve been okay with this for months.»
This time it’s your turn to jump him. Quite literally, filling the inches separating you two with thrown arms around his shoulders and on tiptoes that barely makes you tall enough.
The fire lights back up.
And it’s with such ease that you kiss him that his brain doesn’t even go into performance mode.
It just lingers in a blissful state of want and warmth.
He’s pretty sure he’s the one who hoisted you up, but you might as well have been the one who decided to climb him like a fucking tree. He’s not sure anymore; he just knows his hands are suddenly full of you, and he’s pressing your body on the kitchen counter, mouth on yours and your soft noises buzzing in his head.
God, you sound divine, wrapped around him and kissing him like that.
There is a certain abandonment in you that urges him on, the way you cling to his shoulders, hands raking through his hair, kissing his worries away, one soft lick at a time.
«Can we— bed… Now… please—» You don’t even let him finish, nodding against his lips, awkward and hurried, bumping your nose on his.
He lifts you higher, tossing you up without really thinking of it, simply wanting a better grip on your body. Your leg clenches, your arm tenses up, and an almost- squeal flees your lips.
«Jesus Christ, Leon, how strong are you?» What? For having caught you mid-air?
«We can test it.»
It’s so fucking stupid the way you mouth “Oh my God” as if he wasn’t there to judge you, sliding your hands from clasped behind his neck to his biceps, softly squeezing over the oversized sweater. You’re so odd, so silly and stupidly you.
The walk to the bedroom is quick; he’d throw you on the bed if he didn’t adore you the way he does. But for how much he wants to absolutely wreck you, he wants to appreciate you the way you deserve.
So you get softly laid on your bed, tantalising exposed skin and mussed hair.
And when he retreats, stalling just a second, he finally allows himself to fidget. The hem of his shirt being the closest thing he can put his hands on.
«All good, Leon?»
«Yeah. Just— a bit spooked, I guess.» It’s actually surprisingly easy being honest with you. It comes without a pricetag, just something he has filed under “normal” and has kept acting upon.
«Okay. Nobody’s testing us; we can do what feels better. That includes stopping, Leon. For whatever reason.» He knows, he can feel the softness in the air.
Still, your attentiveness pulls at his heartstrings. «You’re stealing my lines… You know it works both ways.» Your smile mirrors his, small, persistent, shared.
«I know.»
You do. He can see it in your eyes, the complete trust you put in him. And to look at you from so high up feels weird, so he puts his palms beside your thighs on the mattress and bends until he can kiss your lips once more.
When he’s back up, the shirt comes off almost instinctively.
He’s ruined, he’s marred by scars, but he’s utterly yours, and the sudden feeling of belonging makes him think you can’t hate him all that much if you’re willing to keep him regardless.
You hiss, your eyes dart across his chest like magnets.
«I know. It’s—»
«Hot. Oh my God, Leon, you’re so fucking gorgeous.» Had he been younger, he’d be blushing.
«You’re just humouring an old man.» Your eyes zero in on his, and it’s impossible not notice how dilated your pupil is. You look ready to devour him.
«Am I? Do you wanna prove it?»
It doesn’t land immediately. He’s still taken aback by such a blunt display of desire that his brain has to reload, then you part your legs slightly, and lift his old shirt enough to let the low light of the room catch a glint.
You’re soaking through your panties.
The knowledge lands like a slap, hard, physically painful, so devastating he falls on his knees.
That’s for him. You’re like that because of him.
His hands are on you the second he can get his brain into motion, maybe even before, attracted by your flame like moths to fire.
They look for your thighs, for the strap at your waist, tugging, begging. «Please— Can I—»
«Yes.» It’s barely more than a hiss, sharp, breathy. His effect on you. His.
«Please, you can do whatever you wan— please, Leon… Just touch me.»
And he does.
Gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, tearing your underwear, ripping them clean off.
You have time for a single, soft yelp before his lips land square on your core, dead centre. He’s too damn old for teases.
The air in your lungs hitches, his tongue darts out; a long, flat strip of spit gets dragged up.
«Fuck—»
The word stutter, his mouth gets to your clit, and he sucks.
Your hand flies to his hair, and the other one lands on your mouth. Hiccups smouldered by your knuckles, as if you were biting down on them.
He doesn’t know; he’s in too deep to check on your volume management.
It’s funny, actually. To your moans, he would have liked to be woken up.
The fact it has been a while since he had indulged in intimacy doesn’t mean he’s green.
But the sensation is certainly new.
It’s not a means to an end, eating you out. Be it taking the edge off or keeping you satisfied. It’s… really fucking hot. There are no other words for it.
It’s just really turning him on.
His thumb hovers over your clit, not yet touching, not retreating either, a threat, a promise. His tongue dips lower. You’re so wet he can feel the slick running down his chin, soaking his short beard.
Fuck that’s hot, and that’s for him.
Because of him.
Your moans turn higher, squeals bordering on high-pitched yelps.
The perfect moment to add his fingers to the mix. And see what other pretty sounds he can drag out of you.
His tongue flattens and swipes between your folds. Then his thumb settles over your clit and circles it with precision.
The sound you make should be recorded— no, engraved in his head forever; they should play it in his ears instead of the rush of his blood every time he stands too fast.
Just to make his ageing softer. Better.
He’ll have to settle for branding it to memory, trying to capture every dip and high in your cries.
Your fingers clench; he didn’t even know it was possible. The soft sting of pulled hair a constant reminder of your grip. «Fuck, Leon, I’m close.»
Your warning means nothing; the absolute abandon with which your orgasm hit you renders it useless. Your legs lock, keeping him there, the hand in his hair tightens, and loosens in spasms that scream of barely held together concern, and your whole body shakes.
The moment your body snaps over the edge is loud. Your back arches in a delicious curve, creaking ominously, as if threatening to break.
A gush of slick wetness suddenly rushes down his chin as he desperately tries to swallow as much of it as he can. Greedy.
It lasts minutes, and when you finally slump back, he’s tempted to follow you for a second round. He almost does, succeeding only in one good kitten lick over your pussy, but the tug in his hair stills him.
«God, please, up— I want you inside.»
The need to just ignore you and just keep feeding his own wants is strong; it shows its ugly head in a low growl, and very poorly disguised self-control.
He’s so hard in his pants.
It hadn’t even occurred to him.
«Talk to me.» Your voice is a lifeline, a life jacket thrown into the abyss of his desire.
«I- I just really fucking want you.» He does, he really does. With all his heart and all his body.
«You have me. Up now. I wanna see you naked.»
The hand in his hair, that had just been resting at this point, slithers out of its previous grasp. You regain a surprising amount of grace for someone who had just had an orgasm as you shimmy upward into the still-too-small bed and settle against the headboard, throwing his old shirt over your head and sideways. Remaining starkly naked.
Ah, the joys of youth.
Your eyes glisten playfully, a tug on your lips betrays renewed vitality. «Come on, chop chop.»
The belt clinks; it all comes so naturally.
«You’re gorgeous.»
You murmur when he’s as naked as you are, and he believes you, it’s very hard not to, with your pupils blown and your breath shallow.
«You are.» he still replies, because you are and because you deserve to know.
The edge of desperation has faded, or better, it’s still there, pulsing in his temples, but it’s background noise.
You’re the centre of it.
He’s present enough to remember to prepare you. An orgasm is great, but it does not work wonders; gently, slowly, until you’re begging for it and shoving the condom wrap in his hands.
Then, when he’s sinking into you. Kissing you deeply and letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He thinks this might be the only time he has fully felt himself in the last decade.
You flinch at every inch he feeds you, muttering about beard burns on your inner thighs, and hitching your breath at every less-than-perfectly-controlled thrust.
It’s agonising and slow. But it’s so tenderly vulnerable that he’d rather soon cut his own hand off than speed it all up.
It makes for a perfect moment to hold you. To bury his face in the crook of your neck and inhale your perfume.
You smell safe.
Like the coffee you keep sharing with him and the metal of your guitar’s string.
But that has to be his imagination. The lingering feeling of knowing you deeply and fully.
When you finally start to urge him further, nudging him closer and deeper. He has half a mind to deny you. Just to hear your soft whimpers once more.
But he doesn’t. Because he adores you and you deserve better than a prick that likes your whining.
So he speeds up, thrusts deeper, harder, throws you around a bit to make sure to hit all your sweet spots.
«Leon— close.»
Fuck, he’s too, your vicious grip really leaving him no respite.
«I know—» your walls flutter tighter around him. «Fuck, me too… me too, love.»
His arm hooks your leg back up, calf resting into the crook of his elbow; he hopes he’s not crushing your leg in his grasp, but the line between squishing, gripping and smashing has gone blurry a few minutes ago.
He hoists you higher, thrusting deeper still, your punched-out moans filling the room.
«Fu—» You come first, hard, throwing your head back, crying out the tension building in your lower belly. The sight of you is what tips him over the edge.
Plain as that.
His heart squeezes painfully, his leg cramps slightly and then he comes.
The light coming through your curtains hits softer than the one coming through his. Leon wonders why it is so.
«Good morning, sunshine.»
Your voice lulls him out of sleep. It’s the first time in ages he woke up before 1 pm.
«Morning, princess.»
Your room smells like coffee and the faint traces of last night’s sex. Your hips sway playfully as you close the gap between where you stand and where he lies.
This is a life worth living.
Your lips fall to his temple, softly, cradling his face in the cups of your hands.
«To think better.» You murmur on his skin, lower, gentler still, on his right eye. A barely-there kiss. «To see better» then his left «to aim better.»
The letter sits on the counter, DSO, confidential.
Black skin marrying his body. You love him. You have told him so countless times, even like this, even this broken, infected version of him.
But he can't stand the infection, not the idea of it, not the sight.
Another nest of scars, another mark. Something that takes and takes and gives nothing back. A life he has chosen.
His lips must taste of regret and shame; it looks like you’ll have none of it, not if you can kiss that away.
He doesn’t deserve you. «What is that for?»
Your shoulder shakes, a shrug, normality, domesticity. Nothing is changing.
He holds onto your confidence like a lifeline.
«That one is for me. To keep you close.»
He’ll get back to you. To the three-room apartment, and he’ll tell you of his idea to knock down the wall separating your units and merge your lives once and for all. He’ll tell you he wants to adopt a cat and settle into your life; like he belongs. Because he’s starting to think he does. Here, with you.
He will when he comes back from this “yet another” mission.
His last one. He promise.
«I’ll come back.»
«I know.»
«I love you.»
Your gaze falls softly on his.
He knows you know.
«I love you too.»
He does come home.
Worse for wear, too old to recover in a couple of weeks, but he does come back. He promised you.
You make a mess of your apartments, and the cat gets named Chad.
It never fails to make you laugh, so he just relents to the name.
It’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s odd, but most importantly, it’s you.
And in your existence, there is that damned space you have made for him.
summary: When a young married couple disappears, who could be better at investigating the case than a pair of special agents used to working together and known for their high efficiency? Well, probably nobody, but someone clearly ignored the fact that one of them should retire a long time ago, and they are both too good at their job to rot in rural America. Not to forget the questionable nature of their professional relationship and mutual tension.
❝She’s a bit young for you, ain't she? (...) It’s a pleasure to have you here… Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy.❞
tags: +18, fem!reader, age gap (Leon is 49, reader is in her 30s), work romance, fake marriage, undercover mission, one bed trope, making out, mature themes, implied SMUT, mentions of pregnancy (fake/not reader), jealous leon, canon-typical content, reader despites the persona she has to portray, leon is tired to the point where he's hallucinating having a family, the author's first language is not English.
word count: 8.6k+
a/n: mrs. Kennedy she signed her name in pen in a fancy fancy cursive...
the title comes from Tempest by Ethel Cain
[part 2]
Leon knew you well enough to almost hear the curses that must have gone through your mind when you saw the building in all its glory.
Or, technically, the lack of it. The whitewashed wooden walls made an overwhelming impression, like they could swallow everyone who stepped inside. ‘Thank god we are getting paid for this,’ he tried to joke when you first saw the pictures, but the reality turned out to be even worse.
“Not happy with your wife’s choice, sir?”
Leon raised his brow and looked at the man who stood by his side and stared at his Porsche while licking his lips.
“My wife’s choice?”
“The property,” said the previous owner of the place that the two of you, allegedly, purchased. “From the look on your face I gather you’re not very pleased with it.”
He didn’t appreciate the comment, especially with the smug smile on Ellis’ face. The man was much younger than him, probably mid-thirties, and if Leon would have to find a term to describe him it would be junkie. In the few minutes he knew him, while you got out of the car and checked your baggage, Ellis circled around you like a feral animal. He offered his help like he was physically unable to stand in one place.
Leon could see the looks he gave you. Well, it was hard not to look, when you were sitting there on the stairs in your pretty bright dress, looking like you could really enjoy an arrangement like that. This kind of life. The fact didn’t make Leon any more merciful towards the man’s glares.
He forced himself to hum lightly, instead of grunting his teeth.
“Doesn’t matter what I think as long as she is happy.”
The truth of it was visible even outside your current roles, outside the job, and it was slightly pathetic, really. He was a grown man, older and more experienced than you, and he couldn’t force himself to not cling to your opinions and wishes. He always told himself it was the lack of people who he let close to him. It happened to be you, his partner, who broke the ice over the shared work, and he kept you nearby even if it was not needed.
Ellis laughed.
“Aye, happy wife, happy life, as my Ma says.”
A hand was playfully placed on Leon’s shoulder, and he must have looked at it too harshly, because it quickly disappeared. Ellis raised both his hands to say he didn’t mean to disrespect him, yet leaned closer to lower his voice.
“She clearly is a woman you want to keep happy, your little wife, Mr. Kennedy,” he muttered, much too pleased with himself for Leon’s liking.
He always kept himself in check when it came to being overbearing, but now he truly wished he could beat the smirk out of his face. Probably add a few kicks for obnoxiously checking you out.
“She’s a bit young for you, ain't she?”
Normally, Leon would shrug and move on. That boy couldn’t say a single thing that would offend him, but now it wasn't about the cover. He didn’t hear words about the fake marriage, the weirdly misplaced bonds that you performed for the sake of the case. At that moment for Leon it was the brutal truth about what a woman like you could see in a man like him.
A thing that should never, not in any version of reality, make him wonder.
“Don’t worry, I’m not one to judge a man for lucid choices.”
Leon firmly took the bag out of his hands.
“Not your concern,” he said as calmly as he could.
“Sure thing, sir. It’s a pleasure to have you here… Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy.”
He left Ellis behind and strolled after your jumpy form. It only made everything worse that you were literally pulling a role worthy of an Oscar.
“Are you coming, Leon?” You called in that soft voice. He would have never guessed that it could actually suit you.
“Right behind you.”
It crossed his mind again, against his wish, that he could get used to… an arrangement like that. To a young wife, even if she would be a bit too flighty for what he was used to. To thinking about houses, renovations. To the idea of a child on the way.
He would need to change, put a lot of effort to make it work at least a bit, but was that not worth it? After the hell he’s been through, what wouldn’t he give to have some peace in life?
He watched you stop in your tracks and look over your shoulder. Your girlish sweet grin turned into something more mature, calmer but confused. Your eyes bore a silent question and some worry for your co-worker.
He managed to nod his head to let you know he was alright.
You were not his wife, nor had a single reckless or childish bone about yourself. If the idea he shamelessly indulged in a moment ago made him wonder, feel alive again, now it only escalated. The tension knocked the breath out of his lungs.
He told himself it was the nerves. A relevant sense of cautiousness on a mission, very much needed to stay sharp and alive.
He was now very sure, though – those moldy white walls of a rural southern cottage will swallow him whole and change the one of the very few good things in his life.
“This place is fucked,” you whispered to him, when the other man was too far to hear you.
“I'm glad we agree on that.”
“We always do, Leon,” you noticed with a small smile and nudged his side. “We're a match made in hell.”
You winked at him to cheer him up, just like he did many times before. He could say he called it upon himself… It was him who taught you effective group job and now regretted that it was not something more.
The drive to the coordinates sent by your supervisors was long enough to make you go through all radio channels, share some terrible dad jokes and comment on the last football match that none of you really cared about. Both of you never found each other’s company boring, but today the conversation kept on only for the sake of avoiding the serious topic.
You had to go through that sooner rather than later but no one could force you to stop pretending that you were just a pair of normal co-workers on their way to an absolutely safe, simple job.
When the GPS showed that you were less than an hour from your destination, it was finally the time to finish the conversation started in the office. Leon interrupted the explanations of your opinion with displeased sighs, even if he didn’t mean to.
“You're taking the danger upon yourself,” he pointed out. “Again.”
You turned down the volume of a metal song shrieking from the radio – not your exact choice of music, but there was nothing better.
Trying to think of a better option, you tapped your fingers over the steering wheel and shrugged.
“Well, we can tell them that it's you who's pregnant, but I'm not sure if they will believe us,” you finally muttered.
Leon scoffed with forced humor.
“I think it’s unnecessary.”
“And I think there’s no point in risking that we fail,” you argued, already sure that your word was final.
It was admirable, actually, how quickly you accepted your role. Especially after you criticized and cursed it out firmly when the case was first explained to you.
Leon almost laughed in your face when he saw the grimace caused by the instructions from your DSO boss.
“How about you send some rookie instead? I’m not fond of playing dress-up,” you argued, but your voice was dutiful enough to not anger the man.
He smiled, probably winning a bet with his own co-worker over the matter if you and Kennedy will whine about it or not.
“The bodies were never found…” he added, like he tried to cheer you up.
“Oh, yes, that is indeed very convincing.” You crossed your arms over your chest and looked at your partner. “Leon?”
He only nodded. Seeing the seriousness of the situation made him much less fond of joking than you and your boss were.
“So I have to play an idiot?” Your brows furrowed, as you leaned over the table to go through the prepared report.
“A woman in love, Y/n. Humans are most usually capable of emotions like that–”
“Don’t mock me, sir…” you muttered warningly, but they could tell you found it amusing. “Then a pregnant childish girl ‘in love’ who drags her husband who, might I add, is twice her age, to the middle of nowhere. That's a synonym of an idiot. No offense, Leon, it has nothing to do with you.”
“Sure,” he said, like he was either the most miserable man on the planet, or not really here.
“God, you’ve got a real cruel woman assigned to you, Leon. How are you holding up?”
If the good mood of your boss meant the job could be easy, it should lighten the spirit. Still, Leon could see your face hardening with every sentence of the report that you’ve read.
“I manage,” he said, simply to not appear too impolite, then looked over your shoulder. “So… Constance and Ellis Harmon,” he read out loud.
“Yes. Mother and son, never reported before, but we knew about them. Wanna take a guess who the daddy worked for?” He was clearly disappointed by your disinterest in the game of guessing. “Umbrella. Died many years ago in an accident.”
You sighed.
“And now Constance and Ellis try to sell a property to some young people who go missing and there are reports of disturbing signs nearby.”
“Bingo, Agent Y/n.”
“They still live in the same place?” Leon asked, before the boss would again disappear in the bottomless end of his office and would turn absolutely unreachable for any advice.
“Yes. In fact, they arranged it with the families of the previous owners… Well, the missing couple. The Harmons paid them back and kept the house. The two of you are next buyers, it’s already settled. All they asked for is that they can stay in the house for a few weeks before finding another place.”
“Isn’t that just perfect for us, huh?” You chipped.
“Yeah, we might have used some friendly connections to make that happen,” the man admitted, before slamming a ‘supportive’ hand on Leon’s shoulder and nodding to you. “Good luck.”
And there you were, with your backs hurting from sitting for too long and nerves already settling in your minds.
“If we are to stay there longer we should think about some… fake renovations,” you thought out loud. “It would be suspicious if we just come with two bags and pretend that’s all of our belongings.”
Leon saw that despite all your complainings you were taking that whole undercover thing seriously. Probably too seriously for him to remain sane.
“We can just say we are too poor for that now.”
You let out a sudden laugh.
"We're about to pull up in a new Porsche,” you pointed out.
“Then we say it was a gift.”
“Leon. I'm wearing a Hermès belt, and your jacket could pay my rent for at least a few months.”
He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t disagree that it was reasonable.
“Think they would recognize stuff like that?”
“We don't know that,” you said while raising one finger like a true diplomat. “What we do know is that they are dangerous.”
He agreed and focused on the view outside. A big damn tract of nothing for miles. Some sort of void was creeping in the air with every minute that led you closer to the place.
You could swear you were never so happy about seeing an announcement of a shop nearby before. Even Leon cracked a smile at the thought of stretching his limbs.
“We should change seats before we get there,” he noticed, making you look at him with confusion over your face.
“Why? Oh… right. I wouldn't let my man sit there like that, yeah? Or–” you clicked your tongue, clearly proud of your ideas, “It is my man who wants me to be a passenger princess.”
“Yeah, no. I'm just scared of how fast you drive,” he muttered sarcastically.
You appreciated that he tried to make you forget how inconvenient all of this was to you. Over the years you fought for your independence more than others, especially in this line of work, just to be thrown back in the boots of a helpless girl. It was just your job, sure, but it was hard not to taste something bitter on your tongue. Something awfully familiar.
“That is a successful attempt to cheer me up, sir.”
“I'm just being honest.”
You scoffed and shook your head.
“Also, I miss my car,” Leon added suddenly, trying to force its air conditioning to cooperate.
“You are in your car.”
“It’s not the same as sitting behind the wheel.”
“Now you sound like a man,” you said like it could actually disappoint you.
“I am a man.”
“Nahh, you’re too good.”
You turned to him as a corner of your lip flew up in an irresistible grin.
“God, I really don't get you young people…” Leon massaged his temple, only making you smile more.
“C’mon, Leon, don’t make me feel like I’m on a sightseeing trip with my old man,” you teased. You kept tapping the leather on the wheel, before adding: “I don’t, just for the record…”
“You don’t what?”
You had to blink a few times, not really focused on your own words before. Leon hummed insistently, making you end the thought before you could sneak out of it.
“I don’t feel like that. Like I’m with my… You know.”
God, you could feel the tension building up. It was just an attempt at a joke, and here you were grimacing, while Leon cleared his throat. Perhaps it was really the age difference that made you so misunderstanding of one another today? At the same time it was never an issue before.
How could it be? You were known for your professional connection and perfect complementing each other in your work.
“Oh, yeah, right. Yeah, that’s good.”
You took a sharp breath. Thanks, Leon, you talkative king. That certainly made everything less awkward.
When you were first paired up you didn't expect him to be a guy fond of light conversations mid-work. You did talk a bit, sometimes he even answered or offered a hum, but it wasn't much. After the first mistake that led you to almost losing your hands, he literally begged you to talk as much as you need if it helps you stay focused. It turned out that it calmed him a lot too.
Thankfully, he laughed when you left the car. What suddenly made him so cheerful was your desperate grasp on the four-pack of canned beer.
“Though you don’t really drink.”
Of course, he knew you didn't drink. How could he not? You have spent too much time together. At this point you were long past favorite colors, taste in music or causes of teenage heartbreaks. He had your damn collection of button ups memorized and could recognize when you did laundry. Without ever mentioning it you both settled on him taking care of your home devices and you accompanying him to every possible official appointment, even if just to sit in the waiting room.
“Well, if the place turns out to be too bad to sleep… We have to do something at night, right?”
He stared at the cautiously picked wedding ring on your finger when you swung the cans in front of his face. The piece was not too outworn, but not exactly new. Someone did a good job providing it, taking care of details.
“We can always get pissed after everything’s done and closed. A little celebration.”
If he had anything to celebrate, he would take you to a five-star restaurant and watch you get drunk with expensive wine like you deserved. The circumstances were not on his side, though, so he guessed cheap beer in some rural area was fine as well.
“Let's not get ahead of it,” he said before leaving the shop.
It felt unnerving to not be able to speak and joke around like you always did. You were both no strangers to undercover work – well, you probably knew it better than Leon – but there was something strange about portraying such a domestic relationship without actually letting on any of your shared past.
Mrs. Harmon turned out to be eerie enough to deserve the title of her even more eerie son. She tried to welcome you with forced happiness and care that actually felt choking. She rushed you to sit at the table like a good host would, and left to rush Ellis with moving your baggage.
You and Leon shared a look over the stew that didn’t look too bad, but better be prepared than sorry.
“I hope we didn’t just find out lost newlyweds…” you said grimly with a grimace on your face.
“Jesus,” Leon sighed. “What the hell, Y/n?”
You raised your hands protectively.
“Would that even surprise you at this point?”
“Hell no.”
Constance was back at once, and you felt the need to risk it a bit.
“M’am? Any meat in it?”
She looked at you like you just slapped her, but not in the way you expected. Or, actually, prayed to not see.
“Oh, no, sweet thing, sorry. My son gets sick from all the meat…”
“Good, so do I!” You claimed happily. “Just wanted to make sure. It’s the… the first trimester, you know.”
Something changed on the woman’s face. It could be a spark of excitement, of course, but Leon’s instinct after the years of work didn’t fool him. It was something much different. In fact, if he could, he would drop his hand to his gun at once.
“You’re expecting!” She squealed and Leon could hear the grunting of your teeth even from his place on the other side of the table. “Well, isn’t that lovely! Congratulations…”
You waited for her to put on a saddened look and mention the previous couple – the young people who, as you suspected, got brutally murdered in this house – but she didn’t. It was smart of her. Why would she try to convince you of her innocence, if she wasn’t even sure that you knew about the whole thing? It was quite loud about the disappearance in the media, but who knows?
You managed to excuse yourself from the table to go take a look at the room that was supposed to be your shared bedroom.
“Jesus,” you gasped, stepping into the room.
Leon quickly understood what you meant. It was hard not to grimace. He stared at the single bed and carefully threw the sheets away like it could be contagious with something bad.
“Oh, fuck, no,” you squealed, a little bit too dramatic.
He could scold you, but that would make him a damn hypocrite. It made him want to gag as well. “I’m not sleeping on that, hell no.”
“Shush, she might hear it,” he warned, making sure the door was properly closed.
“Think she’s eavesdropping now? Good, she might come change this… whatever that is.”
“Doubt it.”
“Let me keep some hope, alright?” You sighed, sinking to your knees to examine the nasty material like it could interest you.
Staying somewhere for longer wasn’t typical for your work, but checking the place for hidden wiretapping or other suspicious things was an instinct. Leon already got to it, so you climbed the windowsill and sat as comfortably as you could and sank your hand in the pocket of your jacket.
The bright cotton material of your dress felt weirdly irritating on your skin. That moment made you swear in your head that you will never again complain about wearing combat boots and heavy equipment.
A cigarette that you lazily placed between your lips as you searched your pockets for a lighter was suddenly snatched away.
“Hey–”
A moment ago you watched Leon look under the dirty old rug that covered the floor. Now he stood over you with an unreadable look. For a second he wore an expression that you could take for blame, like any of that was your fault.
It quickly disappeared and Leon nudged his head back, handing you the smoke back so you could keep it for later.
“Are you alright, Leon?”
He nodded dismissively.
“Come on, let’s go look around.”
“Sure. You look inside and I go out?” You offered, following habits. To make everything smoother, you usually parted your ways; upstairs, downstairs, attics, basements… as long as it didn’t seem too dangerous to go alone, you respected your time. “I can talk to the woman, ask if the land is fertile in case I want to have plants… Maybe I’ll see something suspiciously similar to a mound.”
“We should stay together–”
Leon’s words were interrupted by a soft knock. He moved to open the door ajar, and you jumped from the windowsill.
“I just wanted to let you know,” Constance peaked inside with a smile, “me and my son will be leaving for work tomorrow. We are gardeners at a nearby mansion. You are mostly welcome to look around freely then.”
Leon thanked her and you forced a too optimistic grin. When she was gone, he shook his shoulders at the opportunity and showed you to move.
“Well, lucky us. Let’s go outside now and tomorrow we can make sure that they’re gone before we go through the insides,” he said while leaning in when you passed him in the door.
The warm weather made you puff your hair out of your face. You dreamed about taking off the jacket that carefully protected the carefully hidden holster but bore the discomfort bravely.
“It’s like holidays at grandma’s… plus two dead kids and a family of psychos,” you whispered when you strolled through the yard.
Leon didn’t allow the joking anymore. He looked like he was annoyed by your light tone suddenly. It made you wonder what you said or did… but it was Leon. Over the last few weeks, you noticed he was like that. He could go quiet without any particular reason, or simply disappear when you needed him.
Acceptable, but difficult to get used to. You used to rely on him whenever you needed – and him on you – and now it was… what it was.
He offered you his arm, and you could feel how much the gesture cost him. He was probably praying for the Harmons to be gone, so you could act normal again…
“We can agree that there is no hope, then?” He looked behind you to make sure no one was listening nearby. “We are looking for dead people, not missing?”
“I think so. Miracles happen, sure, but… I don’t know, what do you think?”
“No miracles here,” he judged somberly.
“Right. So corpses.”
The idea of spending a night at this place was unnerving. Especially with the awareness that the unfortunate newlyweds could still be rotting somewhere inside, and you couldn’t go look for them.
“Inspecting abandoned places is easier… mentally,” you admitted with a sight. “This lurid domesticity makes me sick.”
“I know. I don’t like it either.”
Lie. The people were awful, the place even more, but he couldn’t force himself to hate it.
You made the mistake of thinking about the bed again and grimaced.
“Jesus, I don’t think I will wash this house off of me, like ever.”
It turned out to not be that bad, though. Leon laid his jacket and shirt on the bed to give you at least a bit of comfort. Eventually you ended up in his hoodie as well with the hood covering half of your face. He gave up when you declared you will shave your hair if even one lock touches the dirty sheets.
He was quite bashfully proud for a defeated man, truth be told.
You both laid in the bed almost perfectly still, like any movement could call something terrible upon you. You stared at the dark ceiling, listening to your own breathing that mixed with Leon’s.
Circumstances like that were not unfamiliar, as weird as it was to admit. You slept in each other’s arms for warmth, napped in bushes and abandoned buildings when it was necessary.
You even once crashed on the couch in his apartment after a difficult job. You were both so exhausted that you almost started imagining things, and you had no trust for yourself about writing a report. It had to be done as soon as possible, and Leon offered you could do it together, but after at least seven hours of undisturbed sleep. Before any of you could notice, your nervous giggle turned into sobbing at the memory of the awful things you saw and Leon pulled you to his chest.
Today was different nonetheless. The thrill caused by the closeness of a man you trusted with your one life mingled with the grief you felt for every victim you couldn’t save.
You would give a lot to move closer to Leon, draw your arms around his form and not feel him stiffen up at the same time. Despite the ache in your bones you forced yourself to not move.
“Leon?” You cleared your throat after it felt too dry.
“Hm?”
Of course, he didn’t pretend to be asleep… He was fully aware the moment your breath barely sped up, and waited until you spoke first.
“One personal question, can I?”
“In this situation I think we are forced into asking mostly personal questions.” Not like it was something new.
For a second you regretted your idea. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he would consider you nosy.
“Please,” he added, thinking you took his words for disapproval.
“Did you ever think about having a family?”
He hummed like he wanted to say ‘ah, that one’.
“When I was young. Before Raccoon City,” he admitted without a longer thought. It was not something he hesitated to admit. “You?”
For you, it was different. You brushed your hands over the soft material of his hoodie on your body and crossed your arms over your chest, while laying on your back.
“Yeah, but I only thought about how awful that idea makes me feel.”
“Bad example in life?” He was pretty sure he understood what kind of examples you had over the years. Damn, like he knew any better.
“Absolutely terrible,” you agreed.
“I know this whole thing is difficult for you.” You failed to notice that he moved, until he supported his weight on his hand and moved to the side. “For us both, really…”
You laughed without humor.
“Yeah, it’s awful, right? It makes me question my choices in life a bit.” It was supposed to be a joke, but Leon didn’t brush off the melancholic undertone.
“Come on, don’t do that.” You would swear he shifted closer, as if to see your face more clearly. “You said it yourself, you’re not a family person… and you do what you’re best at. Even if it’s not the most satisfying job ever.”
“It is satisfying, actually,” you argued softly, “just… exhausting.”
Now it was his turn to laugh.
“Tell me about it, darling.”
Yeah, the mental tiredness made you both slip into an easier mood, and for some reason you couldn’t stop grinning.
“I’m rambling,” you noticed, realizing you really had no reasons to question your life. “I mean… The only maternal feelings I have are for animals online. Oh, and my cat, obviously. He’s the only addition I need.”
“Oh, right, your cat.” Leon nodded, like he could never forget the devilish spawn. He used to joke about the scars he had from the creature’s claws.
“My son, Leon,” you corrected him jokingly.
The sleep came surprisingly easy after that.
The lookout around the house turned out to be as resultless as it could. Well, that’s at least what Leon said. You were rather content with finding some dusty, forgotten equipment in the basement that made you think about Constance Harmon’s dead husband and his allegations to Umbrella.
“Come one, it is something,” you insisted, seeing Leon’s irritated face.
Usually your older colleague was the one famous for patience more than you. Now, if you didn’t know him, you would suspect he had really nice reasons to rush home. And by nice reasons you meant a date or a waiting pretty girl. Cruel as it could be, you hoped it wasn’t the case. It couldn’t be, right? Other than co-workers, you were also friends… He would definitely tell you.
“We learned something that we already knew,” he snarled.
You didn’t want to piss him off any more, so you tried to hide your grin when he jumped back from a pile of cardboard boxes that fell over before a fat rat jumped out of it.
“Soo…” You stayed still while sitting on a dirty, old couch in the living room, like it could bite you if you moved too much. The cup of tea that Leon put in front of you on the table didn’t make an impression much better. “What now, Mr. Kennedy, sir?”
He didn’t even react to your mocking tone and kept tapping his boot on the ground nervously. You didn’t see Leon that distracted in a long time.
You cleared your throat and closed your eyes before taking a sip of the tea. It tasted fine as long as you didn’t have to see that cup.
“I took a look at the map of the area,” you mentioned, making him look up from his own hands. “There’s this weird quarry up north, but I would focus on the cemetery nearby.”
“Okay…”
“So,” you tried again, feeling at least confused about his behavior, “my call?”
“Yes. Make the choice, Agent.”
A smirk. There he was.
It’s not like you depended on his approval, but it was a silent agreement that you never minded. It was made out of… sympathy? Respect? Some sort of admiration?
It was certainly smart to rely on the opinion of your much more experienced friend… Usually, when he didn’t act so weird.
You reached behind you to make sure your gun was loaded and in its place. You nodded, and something proud bloomed on Leon’s face.
“Cemetery it is then,” you decided as he threw on his jacket. “It’s just a nice walk in the sundown if someone asks. We’re not suspicious.”
“Please, us? Not at all,” he agreed. “Cemetery at sundown… You made it sound romantic on purpose, didn’t you?”
Oh, yeah – now he was being himself. He changed over the years you knew him. More tired, more in terms with the world which made him slightly inert, but at moments like that he still had that boyish thing in himself.
The evening wind made you feel like your true self again. The holster’s weight made you keep your head high, the professional in you waking up.
“Did you call our DSO contact to let them know?”
“I tried. Forget it. No phone coverage,” you answered quickly.
It wasn’t the first time you were on your own. It was actually a mutual trait of your informants from The Division – they were never there when needed…
And unfortunately you needed a piece of advice really badly when Leon kicked the door of a small wooden chapel in the middle of the graveyard.
“Ladies first–”
The joke fell unanswered, interrupted only by a rattling sound.
You stepped inside bravely, but not even your drawn gun could save you from the impact of the reeking body that hit you. You fell to the floor, trying to keep the walking – well, crawling – corpse at arm’s distance from you. Your fingers intertwined with hers as you held to the hand that wildly attempted to scratch your face.
“Don’t shoot!” You managed to rasp, hearing Leon rush closer.
“What?!”
But he listened.
He grasped the shoulders of a young woman whose body clung to you in desperate hunger, and pulled her back, smacking her to the ground. It gave you a few seconds to look before there was no choice but to shoot.
You were no longer sure if that was the right option. Maybe you didn’t want to look at all.
Your gaze was glued to the wedding band that stayed in your hand when Leon pushed her back. With an unbearable weight you forced your eyes up on her.
The girl was visibly pregnant when she died. You almost choked on your breath and your attempt to stand up looked more like crawling back in despair.
The howl of Leon’s gun made you look back to your hands.
“Fuck…”
“Are you alright?” He looked over your figure when you were finally back on your feet.
“I’m fine.” You caught the wall to steady yourself, fighting against nausea and dizziness. “She was… God, Leon…”
He was right at your side. “I know. Hey, look at me–”
Your hand shot up, like you wanted to defend yourself from any accusations. “I’m okay. I’m holding up. Let’s… let’s just keep going.”
“Don’t lie to me like that,” he warned, his voice as warm as he could force it to be.
He was shaken up too, just much better at hiding it inside of him. Things like that plagued him at nights, in nightmares and specters that creeped around him in the shadows. Sometimes he even envied you for your fast, strong reactions.
You could let out a single sob or a yelp of anger, then hold his arm for a few seconds like you could crush his bones, and then never mention the matter again. If you shed tears, it was the last time you allowed any emotions about this.
Yet, he could feel this was different.
“I’ll do that,” he tried to stop you when you stepped closer to the body to identify it.
You had the girl’s photo memorized. You really didn’t need to look at her undead, pained face, but you were a professional.
“Don’t be indulgent for me, Leon. Let’s find her husband.”
You did find him. This time you didn’t hesitate, your hands didn’t shake, nor did you regret. You freed the man from his suffering with a few clean shots. He was rummaging through nearby forest around the cemetery. His barely human face resembled some longing – it was like he, even in his infected mind, still sought his wife and hoped to see her again.
Well, you could only hope that he did. All you could do was make sure, that when the services come, they both will be found and placed in a shared grave– or whatever their families wished for.
Leon considered your job done.
You didn’t.
Still, you had no strength in yourself to reason with him today. The dirty bed didn’t even seem so bad as the previous night. You were forced to stay here either way, because of all your attempts to reach The Division’s people remained unanswered.
“Oh Lord, did something happen, Mr. Kennedy?” Constance Harmon stood on the doorstep when you came back and looked over your grimaced face.
You managed to make it less furious, but you couldn’t hide the hurt. You bite your lip at the realization that she had the gut to look at him, ask him, like you weren’t here.
“Everything is alright. My wife isn’t feeling very well, that’s all.”
“Can I…”
“You cannot,” you snapped, and could feel Leon’s hand tightening around your waist. “Thank you, Constance. We will be fine. Sorry, it’s the… the mood swings.”
She smiled warmly, trying to say she knew it well.
Your shoulders fell when you finally reached your room. Surprisingly, Leon’s hands didn’t leave. He moved them up to your arms and held you close, while looking over your face.
“Y/n…”
“Oh please, we have been through worse,” you said under your breath like it was him who asked for consolation.
“Have we?” He raised his brow. “Come on, let it out,” he urged you.
“What, you want me to cry my eyes out just like that?”
He shrugged, and you sighed heavily, no longer sure if it was mostly fury, fear or sadness.
“Jesus, fine,” you snapped and moved closer.
Your body hit his with a force that made him stumble back a bit, before he fixed his hold on you and cradled your head.
“You’re babysitting me again,” you whispered into his chest.
“I’m not. I’m just trying to spare you the guilt and loneliness that I had to go through.”
Was that it? A trusted confidant trying to ensure his younger friend’s comfort?
Because at this point you highly doubted that. He didn’t hold you like a mentor, not like a colleague.
It was hard to put a name to what you two had. You never thought about it much. It was always just Leon, the one and only.
You promised you will be perfectly okay after you wash the memory of today off your body, but the old pipes refused to work. Leon insisted on going to see what was wrong, but you forbid him from going. Being separated and calling some tragedy upon yourself was the last thing you needed now.
The nighttime seemed to come quicker, like it wanted to match your grim mood. Shadows enveloped you when you laid in bed still. Even more still than last night. Well, at least you tried.
You could feel the sweat on your back, temples, shoulders… you were shaking against your wish. Despite the feeling that you were dirty, you didn’t complain that Leon held you close without a word of protest.
At this point he was really your person, the one you could go to with everything. He was never much of a mentor – more like a backbone that you could cling to whenever you were unsure.
Over the last few years he saw all of you. Happiness after a promotion, grief, breakup… He turned out to be one of the few steady things in this life. He was older, misunderstood by most, hell, sometimes even by you, told bad jokes, and despite the anger that he carried, he still believed he could make the world a bit of a better place. None of you had any use of building a new bond, something else.
It was inconvenient. A risk. Danger.
“Hey.” Of course, he couldn’t stay silent when a particularly violet shiver shook your body. “Do you want me to find you something warm to wear?”
It wasn’t about the cold, and he knew that. In fact, the air in the room felt choking, like it could fry your brains and leave you dry.
“No need, Leon. I’m just… I’m thinking about her.”
Of course you were. He wasn't free of that either.
He shifted closer, making you turn your head. You blinked the tears away before he could make that awful concerned face that broke your heart a bit every time.
“You shouldn’t be wearing that,” he whispered firmly.
Leon caught your hand to gently swing the additional ring off of your finger. The one that belongs to the dead woman. “We’re lucky they didn’t notice.”
“They wouldn’t.”
He stopped and watched the single band that was left on your hand, the one matching to his own.
You shivered again, and he could see you grimaced in some revolt about the things you had to witness. It was hard not to be rebellious after seeing a young pregnant girl with a life in front of her, stripped of chances and bare human dignity. Yes, it was an experience that either turned you into a mass murderer, or made you put a bullet through your own head – if not supported properly. Leon struggled in his young days. Shit, he still struggles.
That's why he pulled you to his chest.
You didn’t remember making the choice of grasping his shirt and yanking him close without a warning, like he was a breath of air you desperately needed. It could be your nerves that made the choice, the built-up tension from the day.
All you knew was that it was so much more than just a simple way to take your mind off the difficult topics. It mattered. And now you found yourself grazing your lips over Leon’s neck, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
“That’s the last thing we should–” he barely choked out, with no will to pull away. He got quiet after a groan that forced its way out of his throat. “That’s unwise,” he stated, proving to you that he had no care in himself about how unwise.
One of Leon’s arms made its way over your waist, keeping you closer as he shifted his weight. The other found your hand again and gently pulled it off his body. Intertwining your fingers, he left a single kiss on them and pressed your hand to the nasty mattres with the strength of his own.
He kissed your temples, over and over again, when you breathed heavily into his collarbone.
“I pushed my luck before.”
You had to look up to register the words that he said.
Your head was spinning, even more so after he made an effort to brush your hair so they don’t fall into your eyes.
“Is that how you see it? Pushing your lu–”
“Pushing my luck with you, yes,” he admitted, then clung to you like he was aware of the slight chance he found and wasn’t willing to let go. “I don’t mean to use the fact that you’re distressed. I never… I don’t want to take advantage of you, Y/n.”
“Leon…”
“You know me, love,” he breathed out, his nerves clearly taking over. He spoke like a man who was held responsible for a crime, while still holding you like a stolen jewel he would never let go of. “I’m not that kind of man.”
“I know,” you say, feeling the need to comfort him. “You think I’m here with you because I feel lost? Scared? That I broke every single rule of work relationships over the last few years, despite promising myself that would never happen? I might be younger, Leon, but I’m not a child…”
But Leon was a stubborn bastard. You saw it in his eyes. Even on the first day you saw him.
Making him stop thinking less about himself was a long job, and you had a lot of free time to spare on that.
For now, all you cared about was that he stayed with you here.
“Just… hold me, will you?”
“Mhm. That I can do.”
Holding quickly turned into openmouthed kisses and caressing each other’s bodies. Your lips were broken, your head hurt like hell from all the emotions and your chest felt tight, but you were never that healed before.
You wondered, how did a man like Leon manage to keep so much gentleness in him and how lucky you were to be blessed with a knowledge of it.
Your fists ached and Ellis Harmon’s face literally pleaded you to beat the grin out of it. You dreamed of nothing more, truly, but that would be a satisfaction purely for you.
You tortured yourself with the memory of the dead girl’s look, and repeated that you were doing it for her. She certainly would like others to be safe from such fate. You felt the need to know why she was chosen and how it happened. It was only fair to her.
You leaned closer, fully aware that your dress slipped from your shoulder just a bit. Ellis’ wandering gaze only confirmed that.
“So… You like the house, I take it?”
“A lot!”
You send him an innocent smile. At the fucking murderer. It made you sick at once, but you forced yourself into calmness.
He was working on something in the garden when you approached him. You made sure to start the conversation by saying that your husband was busy, and you were feeling lonely. Ellis was eager to keep you company, of course.
“Say, Mrs. Kennedy… Doesn’t he treat you a bit cold, your husband?” He asked with perfectly played worry. “Leaving you alone like that… He should be at your side, making sure you are happy and content.”
“He takes good care of me,” you promised in your playfully naive tone, “and you are here now to do the same.”
He caught the hint and lifted his gaze from the plants again. Wiping his dirty hands on his trousers he finally stood up.
“I am here indeed, aye?”
You forced yourself to smile bashfully.
“Show me more of your work?” You chipped.
“Filthy thing, you are,” muttered Ellis, too happy for your liking.
If you could, you’d love gagging and breaking his nose. Yet, what you were trying to achieve was too important. He offered you his hand which you took without hesitation.
“Promise me you’ll answer a few of my questions about the house later?”
He couldn’t say no to such a sweet, soft voice, couldn’t he? Little did he know you didn’t need his promises even one bit. He would be at the mercy of your gun with talking as his only protection from being killed on the spot.
“Sure, honey. For a girl like you… everything.”
There was very little truth in everything you said in this conversation, starting from Leon’s current activity.
He wasn’t busy and you knew that. It made you feel better, in fact. You didn’t want to approach him about your idea because you knew he would complain, but the thought that sooner or later he would notice what you were doing was consolation. In case something with Ellis went south, you knew Leon would be there to help.
But Leon was there sooner than you expected. He looked over the two of you from the porch, grunting his teeth and begging his rational thinking to not abandon him. He looked with the eyes of a jealous husband, watching his wife flirt with the gardener.
What the fuck were you doing?
For some reason it didn’t cross his mind to check local newspapers. He didn’t see the posters of missing people. Didn’t think about playing with the Harmons a bit longer, to make them confess and explain.
All he saw was you, the woman that he wanted – no – needed close to him and would lift off the ground so she doesn’t have to stain her feet, clinging to this dirty, murderous, piece of shit.
It even crossed his mind if last night wasn’t just a play for you. Something to make you stay in the role easier. Or simply some fun…
He wanted to be smart and civil about it, he really did, but then he saw Ellis grab your shirt a bit too suddenly and drag you to the greenhouse, he lost it.
You took a deep breath and allowed the bastard to grip at your clothes for a bit longer, before he would be lost in lust enough, letting you knock him out without much of a fight.
“You really let that old man lay his hands on this body…?” He hummed into your ear, and you almost pierced the skin on his neck with your nails. “Feisty…”
With a quick count in your mind, you finally snapped your head away and sent a hard kick to the man’s knee. You didn’t see him falling to the floor like you expected, because at the same time he was being dragged away with Leon’s strong grip on his shoulders.
Your partner pushed him to the ground a few steps away from you.
Ellis tried to scream and crawl back, but Leon kept him in place with the force of his boot.
“Give me the rope,” he ordered, looking over his shoulder. His voice was steady, but you could hear the rage.
Truth be told, you shared it, but for different reasons. You grunted your teeth and shook your head.
“Leon…”
You went silent, fighting with the want to just get your gun and finish it here, making Leon look behind. You held your weapon in both of your hands now.
“Y/n, fuck. Pass me the rope,” he ordered firmly, pressing his boot into the man’s chest.
“He doesn’t deserve–” you tried to argue, wanting him gone.
“It’s not about what he deserves. They will both have a lawful trial for what they did,” Leon barked out, and you did what he asked for.
It was hard not to. It was reasonable, professional… and absolutely unhuman.
Just like killing could be human, you thought ironically.
You stood nearby, clearly annoyed and looking away from Leon when he tied Ellis and made sure he couldn’t move.
Leon grabbed your upper arm when you tried to leave, almost violently, and held you close, but he didn’t manage to speak up before you pushed him away.
“Let’s go do the same to Constance, and we can try calling the central again,” you said emotionless.
“She is taken care of.”
“What?”
“Constance. She’s locked in the basement. It’s all done,” he explained, trying to talk some reason into you.
“And you really don’t want to force some information out of them?” You asked harshly.
“It’s not our thing to do. They will be questioned by others.” The sudden softness in his voice pissed you off even more. “And you know it’s not about the information… You just want revenge.”
You scoffed.
“And you judge me for that?”
“Never.”
You turned on your heel to go back inside. For now, you were stuck in this damned place with your annoyingly proper colleague, exactly the one whose touch you could still feel on your body. All you could do now, that would not be risky, hasty or simply stupid, was locking yourself somewhere far from him to start preparing the report. The sooner, the better.
It was peaceful for a while. You hummed an incoherent melody under your breath to make your mind cooperate easier.
You didn’t react when the stairs outside the room squeaked under Leon’s weight.
You couldn’t hear the door being open, yet here he was.
Sitting in the chair, legs curled up to your chest, you gulped when he suddenly turned the chair with a loud creak.
“You think I wouldn’t like to see that motherfucker with a bullet in his head?” He tried to sound steady, but you could tell that your annoyance got to him. “After how he looked at you?”
You looked him straight in the eye, even if his lips were begging you to pay them some attention again.
“Then why the hell not?!”
“Because it’s not about what we want! It’s about our job!” He snapped.
“Then fuck the job!”
“Yeah, I almost did,” he admitted, taking a step back and running his hand over his beard. “Because of you.”
“Excuse me?”
Your shocked expression made him laugh.
“You turn me into an idiot lately. You can’t say you didn’t notice.”
“You did act… strangely.”
“I can barely think when you’re around–”
Then your work phone let out a familiar sound and the voice of your boss erupted in the room.
“We lost connection for some time, Agent. What is your status?”
a/n: i’m sorry for that one. It came from me doing fucking renovations this year and painting my kitchen was so boring that I imagined Leon and then I saw him running with a chainsaw in re9 and here we are
the four times they asked about his sidekick, and the one time he realized why. (pt.1)
worst!logan + d&w!deadpool x suicidal!reader
a/n : okay this is sad and emotion-driven asf, so if you're sensitive to suicide mentions or emotional trumoil and problems of self-worth please do not continue reading this. Also warning for suicide description for the other universes' sidekicks.
first part out of five!
wc : 2k
TW FOR SUICIDE , TW FOR DEPRESSION , SOFT!WADE , SOFT!WORST!LOGAN , WADE BEING UNABLE TO LOOK AFTER A KID , HEAVY/MULTIPLE BATMAN AND JASON TODD REFERENCES , DEADPOOL VARIANTS FUSSING OVER READER.
soft!worst logan . overprotective!deadpool . only-deadpool-still-with-sidekick!wade wilson
Think of Batman and Robin.
Yup. Now turn and twist it around some more and make it.. more chaotic, more unhinged. More morally questionable.
And then think of Deadpool.
The merc with a mouth.
The dude that chose a red suit just so he didn't have to bother about the red stains.
And then add up a teenager to the recipe. As chaotic as the man, maybe a bit naïver. And you've got Deadpool and his sidekick.
Because if all cool superheros had sidekicks, then Deadpool —albeit while not actively being a superhero. Had to have one too, didn't he?
And that's how you had ended up roped into all of his unethical adventures, killing off the bad guys that had the highest price above their head and helping Deadpool run the official Spideypool fanwebsite.
But, despite how many masks you put on, despite how many bad guys you killed, despite how many times you had saved someone. You were still just you.
A teenager.
A teenager paired up with an older, unhinged, mercenary that ran his mouth way too much and that got you into way too much trouble.
A teenager paired up with an irresponsible adult without emotional responsability was the fucking equivalent of throwing a trained lab mouse inside the first maze that didn't have an exist.
Wade cared about you. Yeah, you knew that.
But the problem was that you were a teenager and teenagers needed a certain amount of care to grow healthyly.
Because physically you were great, with how much running around and being-at-the-verge-of-death you did.
But mentally?
God, then you were the messiest mess in the planet.
Spending so much time with someone that had so many intrusive thoughts, that spilled his thoughts without filter, had rubbed off on you.
And sometimes you scared yourself when sudden thoughts popped up in your mind. Like the sudden pull in your legs anytime you walked near the edge of a roof, the "jump!" that flashed across your head. Or the way you wondered, asked yourself, what it would feel to be stabbed when you were cleaning Deadpool's katanas.
Or the way you started to throw yourself at danger's way just for the thrill of it. And if you died, well, there went nothing.
It was wrong.
It was bad.
And it was a totally unhealthy and toxic vice.
You knew you were self-destructive.
But you didn't know how to do doing anything about it.
You see, if Deadpool wasn't so reckless and careless maybe you would've told him. But since he did it, you grew into your late teens thinking it was okay.
,,
Lately, your thoughts had grew more dangerous.
More specific.
And you were starting to get scared of yourself. In movies, that was how villians started —with destructive thoughts. And you didn't want to become a villian.
What would Wade think of you?
He'd be disappointed in you, hate your guts, despise you.
So your mind jumped to the quickest—and most self-destructive—conclussion. Offing yourself before that happened.
And you had nearly 10 pages of your pink diary written with ways of carrying on with that plan. Glitter gel pen words scribbled about the knifes in the house—their lengths and sharpness—, about the belts stacked away in Wade's closet, about the height of the fall from the balcony to the ground. You had everything planned.
And Wade hadn't caught onto anything of it, except for the fact you seemed more twitchy and on edge than usual. He tied it to the usual teenage anxiousness that came with your age.
He didn't know this was the last mission he was going to have you in.
,,
He had just brought you along on this 'adventure' just like he had did with all of the ones before, except in this one there was another.. —reluctant—companion.
Logan Howlett.
The Wolverine.
And not the dead hero that Wade had unburied a few days before. No. This one was the worst variant of Wolverine in the whole multiverse, the one from the timeline where he killed all of the X-Men.
And that Howlett was smelling something coming.
He could smell the irony scent of blood whafting off of you, a bitter scent choking his airways. Your scent was way too bitter for how cheerful you were, except maybe you weren't.
This Logan had only barely known you for two days, but if something were to happen to you he'd kill the responsible, then find a way to kill the mercenary and then find a way to kill himself too.
But, first.
Stop, pause, rewind.
How this did even start?
,,
You groaned as you helped Wade drag the uncounscious body of the drunk Wolverine you had found in a random timeline —the only one in which the dude hadn't tried to kill you at first sight. Entering through the door-shaped orange portal to the TVA room.
"one anchor being coming right up!" Wade's voice rang through the air before the merc, fully dressed in his suit, had crossed the portal.
You let out a startled squeak when the antihero pretty much threw the uncounscious body of the Logan on the ground, wincing at the metallic sound of his skull against the floor.
"Wade!" you hissed. "c'mon pumpkin', don't sweat it. He's full metal, remember?" he said as he gave the drunk Logan a kick in the side, the metallic sound echoing his words.
"listen here, babygirl" the merc started, looking at the unimpressed man before him. "this Wolverine has the he-can-do-anything-even-musical-stuff look to him and bonus he's actually wearing the accurate comic costume. So, uh yeah, there, timeline saved"
The silence coming from the dude that had called Wade here in the first place didn't sound too good get it?. And as you sat there, poking the drunk man's face with your index finger while whispering for him to "wake up, Wolvie, rise and shine, wakey wakey?"
"I don't understand"
"You said my, our" he pointed at you "universe is dying because this nutsack died, well, problem solved" he now pointed at Logan.
"oh my god" Paradox breathed out. "you actually think you can replace an Anchor Being with this?"
Oh, great. A rant was comming.
Like the ones your mother goes on when you mess up too many times.
"I wouldn't have accepted any other Wolverine BT dubs. But you.. have outdone yourself and brought me the worst Wolverine in the whole multiverse!"
It looked as if the dude's temple vein was going to pop, and you weakly interveened. "what do you mean the worst one..?" you breathed out.
"This Wolverine let down his entire world, he's the stuff of Legend but not in a good way and what he did.. well, some things are just beyond forgiveness"
A beat of silence followed, you knew the Wolverine on the floor had been awake and listening for the whole time. But then, you saw Paradox finally looking at you.
"wait"
"what?"
"is that your little sidekick?"
The incredulous, and cruelly amused, tone of the man in uniform made Wade quirk an eyebrow under his mask.
"yeah, why?"
His words were followed by a booming laugh coming from Paradox. His hand going to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, as chuckle after chuckle it just confused Wade and you even more.
"I can't believe you've still got her"
That was like a titty-flash for Wade, and not the good kind.
He stood there, mouth gaping like a fish as he wildly and overexageredly gestured towards you.
"I gave you a chance at greatness, because my superiors deemed you special. But, I did my duty. I gave you the opportunity and you refused, so there's no more bussiness to do here"
And with that, and a strange remote control in his hand, he pressed a button and zapped you three off to somewhere. Leaving Wade with a strange taste lingering in his mouth.
Well, at least it seemed like your last adventure wasn't going to be boring.
Summary: After nearly getting killed by Russians, interdimensional dogs, and one particularly pissed off telekinetic child, you and Steve are supposed to be taking a break. A normal, monster free break.
Warnings: spoiler-free!, based amidst season 2 and 3, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance, cuddling, domestic chaos, babysitting kids, mild language, humor, sweet tension, late-night conversations, sleep deprivation, protective behavior, playful teasing, mentions of nightmares, didn’t add Will because Joyce is one protective mother :)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader
Words: 12.1k
The thing about surviving the end of the world, multiple times, is that nobody really talks about the after part.
Not the big, dramatic after. Not the hospital visits or the government cover-ups or the NDAs you had to sign while still picking interdimensional goo out of your hair. Not the way the news reported it as a “mall fire” and everyone just… went along with it, because what else were they supposed to do?
No, it’s the small after that gets you.
The way you can’t sleep in your own bed anymore because it’s too quiet, too still, and your brain keeps insisting something’s about to crawl out of your closet. The way the Fourth of July fireworks made you hit the ground in the middle of the street, hands over your ears, while everyone around you cheered and you tried not to throw up. The way grocery stores feel too bright and too loud, and you have to leave your cart in the middle of the cereal aisle because some kid popped a balloon three rows over, and suddenly you’re back in Starcourt, back in the tunnels, back in…
Yeah.
That after.
Hawkins looks normal.
Hawkins is not normal.
It hasn’t been normal since Will Byers came back from the dead in ‘83, and it sure as hell isn’t normal now.
But everyone pretends. That’s what you do here. You pretend the mall fire was just a mall fire. You pretend the town curfew is just a precaution. You pretend you’re fine.
You’re all so good at pretending.
So when Steve Harrington, in all his exhausted, bat-wielding, self-appointed babysitter glory, suggested that maybe you guys should stick together for a while, just until things felt less weird, you’d said yes.
Not because you needed him.
Obviously not.
But because the kids needed supervision, and Steve’s house was bigger than yours, and his parents were never around anyway, and it made logical sense.
That’s what you told yourself.
That’s what you’d been telling yourself for three weeks now.
Three weeks of falling asleep on his couch, of midnight conversations that felt too honest and too raw, of Steve circling the house with a flashlight at 2 AM like some kind of paranoid guard dog. Three weeks of pretending this was temporary, that you’d go back to your normal life any day now.
Any day.
Just… not today.
You woke up on Steve’s couch on a Saturday morning in mid-September, and your first thought was that your neck was going to hurt for the rest of your life.
Your second thought was that you really, really needed to invest in a chiropractor.
Your third thought, the one that actually got you to open your eyes, was that the house was too quiet.
The living room looked like a tornado had torn through a nerd convention. Blankets everywhere, tangled and bunched up in weird formations. Empty Coke cans forming a small, sticky pyramid on the coffee table that you were definitely going to make the kids clean up later. A half-finished bag of Doritos spilled across the floor. Someone’s jacket, Mike’s probably, crumpled in the corner.
And the kids.
God, the kids.
Dustin was drooling on a Dragon’s Lair manual, one arm flung dramatically over his face as if he’d died in a Shakespeare play. His hat had fallen off at some point in the night, and his curls were plastered to his forehead. Max was half inside a sleeping bag, only her mess of red hair visible, one pale hand hanging out and resting on Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas had somehow wedged himself between the couch and the wall, which looked deeply uncomfortable, but he was snoring anyway, so apparently it was fine.
Mike was flat on his back in the middle of the floor, mouth hanging open, looking literally dead. You’d checked on him twice last night just to make sure he was still breathing because he slept like a corpse.
And El—El was the only one who looked peaceful. She was curled up in the armchair, her head resting on a pillow, still wearing Mike’s jacket over her shoulders like a blanket. Her face was relaxed in a way it so rarely was when she was awake, and something about that made your chest hurt a little.
These kids.
These stupid, brave, impossible kids who’d saved the world and were now just sleeping in a pile on Steve Harrington’s living room floor like this was a completely normal slumber party.
You rubbed your eyes, trying to orient yourself.
The VCR clock on the TV said 6:47 AM, the red numbers glowing faintly in the dim room. The curtains were still drawn, but you could see daylight starting to creep in around the edges, that soft grey early-morning light that meant the sun was thinking about rising but hadn’t committed yet.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
That’s what had woken you up, you realized. Not a noise—the absence of noise.
Because Steve was always awake before you. Always. And usually, you could hear him moving around. The coffee pot gurgling in the kitchen. The creak of floorboards as he did his rounds. The soft click of locks being checked, windows being tested, doors being rattled just to make absolutely sure they were secure.
But right now?
Nothing.
You sat up slowly, your spine crackling in protest, and looked around.
That’s when you saw him.
Steve was in the other armchair, the one directly facing the front door, and he was awake. Completely, utterly awake. Still wearing the same clothes from yesterday: jeans that had seen better days, his old Hawkins High sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, white socks with a hole forming near the toe that he kept meaning to throw out but never did.
His hair was a disaster, sticking up in about seven different directions, and there were dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises.
But that’s not what made you freeze.
It was the way he was sitting.
Perched on the edge of the chair, spine rigid, shoulders tense. His hands were gripping his knees, knuckles white. And his eyes—his eyes were locked on the front door with the kind of intensity usually reserved for horror movie protagonists who know something’s coming but don’t know when.
The bat was propped against his knee.
The bat.
That nail-studded baseball bat that had become Steve’s security blanket, his weapon of choice, the thing he kept within arm’s reach at all times now. You’d tried to get him to put it away last week, said it was making the kids nervous, but he’d just looked at you with those hollow eyes and said, “What if something happens and I don’t have it?”
And you hadn’t brought it up again.
Because you got it.
You really, really got it.
“Steve,” you whispered, your voice rough with sleep.
He flinched. Like, actually flinched, his whole body jerking before his head snapped toward you. For just a second—less than a second—you saw something wild in his face. Something cornered and afraid.
Then it smoothed out.
Like a mask sliding into place.
“Oh,” he said quietly, and his voice sounded like gravel, like he’d been awake for hours and hadn’t said a single word until now. “Hey. Didn’t know you were up.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“Steve,” you said again, softer this time. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just…” He gestured vaguely at the door, then seemed to realize how that looked and dropped his hand. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d just, you know. Keep watch.”
“Keep watch,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
“For what?”
His jaw tightened. “Just… in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I don’t know, okay?” It came out sharper than he probably meant it to, and he winced, dragging a hand through his hair and making it even worse. “I just—I thought I heard something. Earlier. Like three hours ago. And I checked, and it was nothing, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about what if it wasn’t nothing, what if I missed something, what if—”
He cut himself off.
Took a breath.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
But his hand was shaking where it rested on his knee, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against denim, and his leg was bouncing in that way it did when he was trying really hard to hold it together and failing.
You knew that feeling.
God, did you know that feeling.
“Steve,” you said, and you pushed yourself up off the couch, careful not to step on anyone as you crossed the living room. Your legs were stiff, protesting the movement, but you made it to his chair and crouched down in front of him so you were eye level. “You didn’t hear anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. Because I was awake too.”
His eyes snapped to yours, and you saw the moment he processed that. The guilt that flashed across his face.
“You were awake?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you need to sleep, Steve.”
“So do you.”
“Well, neither of us are very good at it, so.” You shrugged, trying for lightness and probably missing by a mile. “Guess we’re both disasters.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess so.”
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. The way his shoulders were hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. The white-knuckle grip he still had on his knees, like if he let go he’d just float away.
This was the guy who’d fought a Demogorgon with a nail bat and won. Who’d taken a beating from Billy Hargrove and kept getting back up. Who’d been tortured by actual Russian soldiers and still managed to crack jokes while his face was still bleeding.
Steve Harrington, Hawkins High’s former king, the guy who threw parties and broke hearts and made it look easy.
Except none of that was who he actually was.
Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.
“Come on,” you said, standing up and holding out your hand. “If you’re not gonna sleep, you might as well make yourself useful.”
He blinked at you. “Useful how?”
“Coffee. You’re making coffee.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“Yeah, and we’re both awake, so we might as well commit to the bit.”
He stared at your outstretched hand for a long moment, and you could practically see him thinking about arguing. About insisting he was fine, he’d just sit here and keep watching the door, just in case.
But then he sighed.
And took your hand.
His palm was warm and calloused and steady, and for just a second, you let yourself hold on tighter than necessary before pulling him to his feet.
He grabbed the bat automatically, his other hand still wrapped around yours, and you didn’t comment on it.
You just led him into the kitchen.
Steve’s kitchen was weirdly homey in the early morning light.
It was something you’d noticed over the past few weeks, spending so much time here. During the day, with the kids running around and the TV blaring and chaos in every corner, it was easy to see this place as just Steve’s house. Big and empty and a little cold, the kind of house that was built to impress people at dinner parties, not to actually live in.
But in the mornings, when it was just the two of you and the sun was barely up and everything was quiet?
It felt different.
Softer.
The counters were clean. Steve was weirdly meticulous about that, always wiping things down, putting dishes away immediately, like he was trying to maintain some sense of control in a life that had spun completely out of it. There was a little stack of mail by the toaster, bills and flyers that he’d sorted through, and a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet that said “Hawkins Hardware.”
And the Polaroids.
God, the Polaroids.
They were scattered across the fridge door, held up with magnets, a collage of moments from the past few months. Dustin in his Thinking Cap, grinning like he’d just solved world peace. Max mid-skateboard trick, red hair flying, mouth open in a laugh. Lucas and Mike arguing over something, probably D&D. El holding up a waffle like it was a trophy, her face so serious it was adorable.
There was one of you and Robin at Benny’s Burgers, both of you mid-laugh, and you didn’t remember Steve taking it but there it was.
And then, tucked in the corner, half-hidden behind a pizza coupon, there was one of all of you.
You, Steve, Robin, and the kids, crammed into a booth that was way too small, all grinning at the camera. Dustin had taken it. You remembered because he’d been so proud of himself, insisting it was “for posterity” and that one day you’d all look back on this and be grateful he documented it.
At the time, you’d rolled your eyes.
Now, looking at it, you felt something twist in your chest.
Because you all looked happy.
Tired, sure. A little roughed up. Steve had a fading bruise on his jaw in that photo, and your arm was still in a sling from where you’d dislocated your shoulder in the tunnels.
But you were smiling.
All of you.
And Steve had kept the photo.
He’d put it on his fridge.
“You gonna stare at my fridge all morning, or are we doing this coffee thing?”
You jumped, spinning around to find Steve leaning against the counter, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. The bat was propped in the corner now, within reach but not in his hands, which felt like progress.
“I wasn’t staring,” you said.
“You were definitely staring.”
“I was observing.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
His mouth twitched again, that almost-smile that you were starting to recognize as Steve’s version of actually smiling when he was too tired to commit to it fully.
“Okay,” he said, pushing off the counter and moving toward the coffee maker. “Observing what, exactly?”
You shrugged, trying to look casual and probably failing. “Just… you have a lot of pictures.”
“Yeah, well.” He pulled the coffee tin down from the cupboard, popping the lid off and scooping grounds into the filter with the kind of precise focus usually reserved for disarming bombs. “Turns out when you almost die a bunch of times, you start wanting to remember the times you didn’t.”
He said it so simply.
Like it was obvious.
Like it wasn’t the most devastating thing you’d heard all week.
“Steve…”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand, not looking at you, still focused on the coffee like it was the most important task in the world. “Seriously, don’t. It’s too early for… whatever that face is.”
“What face?”
“The face you’re making right now. The ‘oh no, Steve has feelings’ face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You’re absolutely making a face.”
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“I can feel you making the face.”
You bit back a laugh, and he must’ve heard it because his shoulders relaxed a little.
The coffee maker started gurgling and hissing, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell that was starting to feel like home.
When had that happened?
When had Steve’s kitchen started feeling like home?
“So,” Steve said, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms again. He looked more settled now, less like he was going to bolt at any second. “You wanna talk about why you were awake at three in the morning?”
“Not particularly.”
“Cool. Me neither.”
“Great.”
“Awesome.”
You stared at each other.
“Nightmares?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Of course. Of course he had nightmares. You all did. How could you not, after everything?
The coffee pot beeped, and Steve turned to pour two mugs, handing one to you without asking if you wanted any. You wrapped your hands around it, letting the warmth seep into your palms, and took a sip.
It was perfect.
Of course it was.
Steve made annoyingly perfect coffee, which was unfair because he was already good at too many things and he didn’t need this too.
“Your coffee’s better than mine,” you said.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to sound so smug about it.”
“I’m not smug, I’m just correct.”
“That’s literally the same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, and so was he—an actual smile this time, small but real.
And for just a moment, standing in Steve Harrington’s kitchen at 6 AM on a Saturday morning, holding a mug of coffee that was too hot and probably too strong, you felt something that almost resembled peace.
Almost.
Then Dustin’s voice came from the living room, loud and sleep-rough and way too energetic for this hour: “IS THAT COFFEE? ARE YOU MAKING COFFEE WITHOUT ME?”
Steve’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit…”
“BETRAYAL!” Dustin shrieked. “TREASON!”
“It’s six in the morning!” Steve called back.
“I DON’T CARE! COFFEE IS COFFEE!”
“You’re fourteen, you can’t have coffee!”
“THAT’S AGEISM!”
You were laughing now, actually laughing, and Steve looked at you like you were insane.
“This is your fault,” he said.
“How is this my fault?”
“You made me make coffee! Now he’s awake!”
“Pretty sure Dustin was going to wake up anyway.”
“He sleeps like the dead!”
“Not anymore, apparently.”
Dustin stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in every direction, one sock missing, looking like he’d been recently electrocuted. “Coffee,” he demanded, making grabby hands.
“Absolutely not,” Steve said.
“Steve. Buddy. Pal. Friend of mine.”
“You’re not getting coffee.”
“I saved the world.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I saved the world multiple times.”
“Dustin—”
“I was tortured by Russians.”
Steve’s face did something complicated. “That’s… you can’t just… that’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Coffee. Now.”
You snorted into your mug, and Steve shot you a betrayed look.
“You’re not helping,” he said.
“I’m not trying to help.”
“Clearly.”
He sighed, dragged a hand down his face, and poured Dustin half a mug of coffee, which Dustin accepted like he’d just won the lottery.
“You’re the best babysitter ever,” Dustin said, taking a sip and immediately making a face. “Oh my god, this is disgusting.”
“Then don’t drink it!” Steve said.
“No, no, I’m committed now.” Another sip. Another face. “This is like… bitter sadness in a cup.”
“That’s what coffee is, dude.”
“How do adults drink this?”
“Very tiredly,” you said.
Dustin looked at you, then at Steve, then back at you, and something shifted in his expression. Something calculating.
Oh no.
“So,” he said slowly, that dangerous tone creeping into his voice. “You two are up early.”
“Yeah,” Steve said warily. “So?”
“Together.”
“We’re in the same house, Henderson. Kind of hard to be up separately.”
“In the kitchen. Alone. Drinking coffee.”
“Again, same house.”
“It’s very domestic.”
“I’m going to pour your coffee down the sink.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Steve reached for the mug.
Dustin yelped and danced backward, clutching it to his chest. “This is abuse! This is babysitter abuse!”
“You’re not even supposed to have coffee!”
“And yet here we are!”
The commotion must’ve woken the others because suddenly Max appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Why are you all yelling?”
“Steve’s trying to steal my coffee,” Dustin said.
“Steve made you coffee?” Max looked genuinely surprised.
“No!” Steve said. “I mean—yes, but—he guilted me into it!”
“I used facts and logic.”
“You used emotional manipulation!”
“Same thing.”
Max looked at you. “Is it too early to go back to sleep?”
“Probably,” you said.
“Damn.”
Lucas appeared next, then Mike, both of them looking disoriented and confused. El was the last one up, still wrapped in Mike’s jacket, her hair a mess around her face.
And just like that, the kitchen was full.
Full of kids and noise and chaos and life, and Steve immediately shifted into crisis management mode—telling Mike to stop leaning on the fridge, asking Lucas if he wanted toast, reminding Max that there was orange juice if she wanted it.
He was good at this.
Really good at this.
The whole mom-friend thing that everyone gave him shit for, it wasn’t a joke. It was just who he was. Who he’d become, maybe, after everything.
Someone who kept people safe.
Someone who made sure everyone ate breakfast.
Someone who put pictures on his fridge and made coffee at 6 AM and checked the locks twice because he couldn’t stand the thought of missing something, of failing, of losing anyone else.
You watched him move around the kitchen, handing out food and drinks, and felt that thing in your chest again.
That dangerous, terrifying thing that you’d been trying really hard not to think about.
“Hey.”
You blinked.
El was standing next to you, looking up with those big, serious eyes.
“Hi,” you said.
“You okay?”
The question caught you off guard. Coming from El, who’d been through more than any of them, who’d lost more than any of them, it felt heavier somehow.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m okay. You?”
She considered this, tilting her head slightly. Then nodded.
“Better now,” she said simply.
And something about that, the simplicity of it, the honesty, made you want to cry.
Because yeah.
You were better now too.
Not fixed. Not healed. Probably not even okay, not really.
But better.
And maybe that was enough.
Breakfast devolved into the usual chaos—Dustin and Mike arguing about whether Empire Strikes Back or Return of the Jedi was better (a debate that had been raging for weeks now with no end in sight), Max trying to convince Lucas that skateboarding was a legitimate sport, El quietly eating her Eggos and watching everyone with that small smile she got sometimes.
Steve made toast.
You helped.
Well, you tried to help, but mostly you just stood next to him at the counter and stole bites of his toast when he wasn’t looking, which made him swat at you with the butter knife.
“You have your own toast,” he said.
“Yeah, but yours tastes better.”
“It’s literally the same toast.”
“No, see, yours has that special Steve Harrington magic.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s absolutely a thing.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and when you stole another bite he didn’t stop you.
This was nice.
God, this was so nice.
Just… normal. Easy. The kind of morning that felt like it belonged in someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t seen the things you’d seen, someone who got to just exist without checking over their shoulder every five seconds.
But you’d take it.
You’d take every single moment of this, for as long as it lasted.
Which, apparently, was about another ten minutes.
Because that’s when Dustin stood up on his chair—because of course he did—and announced: “Okay. Everyone shut up. I have an idea.”
The room went quiet.
Well, relatively quiet. Mike was still mid-sentence about Ewoks, but Max elbowed him, and he shut up.
“This better be good, Henderson,” Steve said, crossing his arms.
“Oh, it’s good. It’s so good.” Dustin’s grin was absolutely diabolical. “We’ve been here for three weeks, right? And it’s been fine. Great, even. But—”
“Oh no,” Lucas muttered.
“We’re bored.”
“We’re not bored,” Mike said.
“We’re extremely bored,” Max corrected.
“Thank you, Max. We’re extremely bored. And you know what bored teenagers need?”
“Therapy?” you suggested.
Dustin ignored you. “A competition.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of competition?”
“A babysitter competition.”
Silence.
Then Steve laughed. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it though?” Dustin said. “Is it really? Because I think what’s dumb is that we’ve been sitting around pretending that you”—he pointed at Steve—“are the best babysitter, when clearly she”—he pointed at you—“has been pulling equal weight.”
“I never said I was the best babysitter,” Steve protested.
“You literally call yourself the babysitter,” Mike said.
“That’s different!”
“How?”
“It just is!”
You were trying not to laugh. You were failing.
“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Dustin continued, really getting into it now, pacing back and forth like he was presenting a thesis. “We come up with challenges. You both compete. We judge. And at the end, we crown the Supreme Babysitter.”
“Supreme Babysitter,” Steve repeated flatly.
“We’ll make a crown and everything.”
“A crown.”
“Out of pizza boxes, probably.”
Steve looked at you.
You looked at Steve.
“This is insane,” you said.
“Completely insane,” he agreed.
Dustin was practically vibrating with glee. “Oh my god. This is happening. This is actually happening.”
Max high-fived Lucas.
Mike looked at El. “This is going to be hilarious.”
El nodded seriously. “Good.”
And just like that, you were committed.
You and Steve, staring at each other across his kitchen, both of you too competitive for your own good, both of you absolutely not backing down.
“Hope you’re ready to lose, Harrington,” you said.
His grin was sharp and bright and absolutely infuriating. “Hope you’re ready to get destroyed.”
“Bring it.”
“Oh, I’ll bring it.”
“Cool.”
“Great.”
“Awesome.”
Dustin clapped his hands together. “Okay! First challenge starts in twenty minutes. Everyone to the living room. This is going to be legendary.”
The kids scattered immediately, already whispering and planning and scheming, and you were left standing in the kitchen with Steve.
Still staring at each other.
Still grinning like idiots.
“This is so stupid,” you said.
“The stupidest,” he agreed.
“We’re gonna do it anyway, aren’t we?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
You shook your head, laughing, and started to head toward the living room.
But then Steve’s voice stopped you.
“Hey.”
You turned back.
He was standing there, backlit by the morning sun coming through the window, his hair a disaster and his smile soft and real and so, so dangerous to your carefully maintained emotional distance.
“Yeah?” you said.
“Just so you know,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re here. Like… here. Not just for this weekend. For all of it.”
Your chest did something complicated.
Something warm and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
“Yeah,” you managed. “Me too.”
He nodded.
You nodded.
And then Dustin yelled, “ARE YOU TWO COMING OR WHAT?” and the moment shattered, but you held onto it anyway.
Twenty minutes later, the living room had been transformed.
And by “transformed,” you meant it looked like a game show had exploded.
The kids had pushed all the furniture to the walls, creating an open space in the center. Someone, probably Max, had strung up a bedsheet between two lamps like a makeshift curtain. El had made a sign using notebook paper and way too many markers that said “SUPREME BABYSITTER CHALLENGE” in big, slightly wobbly letters, and she’d decorated it with little drawings of what you thought were supposed to be crowns but looked more like deformed triangles.
It was chaotic and ridiculous and kind of perfect.
Dustin stood in the middle of the room, holding a clipboard.
A clipboard.
“Where did you even get that?” Steve asked.
“I came prepared,” Dustin said ominously.
“You’ve been planning this.”
“I’ve been planning this since Tuesday.”
“That’s—actually, you know what, I’m not even surprised.”
“You shouldn’t be.” Dustin clicked his pen, because of course he had a pen too, and looked down at his clipboard with the seriousness of a judge presiding over a murder trial. “Okay. Let’s go over the rules.”
“There are rules?” you asked.
“Obviously, there are rules. What kind of competition doesn’t have rules?”
“The fun kind?” Steve tried.
“Wrong. The fun kind has rules, structure, and a clear points system.” Dustin adjusted his hat. “Over the whole day—”
“The whole day?” Steve interrupted.
“Did I stutter?”
“I just—it seems like a lot.”
“Steve. Buddy. We have been cooped up in this house with nothing to do but watch you two make weird eyes at each other for three weeks. We’ve earned a day of entertainment.”
Your face went hot. “We don’t make weird eyes.”
“You absolutely make weird eyes,” Max said from her spot on the couch.
“Like, constantly,” Lucas added.
“It’s honestly painful to watch,” Mike muttered.
El just nodded.
Steve’s ears were bright red. “Can we please just—can we focus on the competition?”
“Great idea,” Dustin said, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “As I was saying. One day. Multiple challenges. Each challenge is worth points. Whoever has the most points at the end wins the title of Supreme Babysitter, plus this.” He gestured dramatically at the crown El was holding.
It was made of pipe cleaners twisted together, covered in aluminum foil, with what looked like bottle caps glued to it as jewels.
It was hideous.
You wanted it immediately.
“I love it, El,” Steve said desperately. “It’s perfect. I’m going to treasure it forever when I win.”
“When you win?” you repeated.
“Yeah. When.”
“You mean if.”
“I meant what I said.”
Dustin cleared his throat loudly. “Are we done? Can I continue explaining the rules that I worked very hard on?”
“Please do,” Max said, looking way too entertained by all of this.
“Thank you, Max. You’re my favorite.” Dustin consulted his clipboard. “Challenge categories include: crisis management, snack preparation, emotional support, creative problem-solving, and, this is important, general vibes.”
“General vibes?” Steve repeated.
“Yeah, like, who has better babysitter energy.”
“That’s completely subjective!”
“All of this is subjective, Steve. We’re the judges. That’s how judging works.”
Lucas raised his hand. “I have a question.”
“Yes, Lucas.”
“Are we allowed to sabotage them?”
“No!” you and Steve said in unison.
Dustin considered this. “Mild sabotage is acceptable.”
“Dustin!”
“What? It makes it more interesting!”
“It makes it unfair!”
“Life is unfair. Also, you both literally saved the world multiple times. I think you can handle some fourteen-year-olds messing with you.”
He had a point.
You hated that he had a point.
“Fine,” you said. “But if anyone tries to sabotage me, I’m sabotaging back.”
“Same,” Steve said.
“That’s the spirit!” Dustin made a note on his clipboard. “Okay, any other questions before we begin?”
Mike raised his hand.
“Yes, Mike.”
“What do we get if we help the winner win?”
Dustin’s eyes lit up. “I’m so glad you asked. We’re splitting into teams. Team Steve—” Max, Lucas, and Mike immediately groaned. “—and Team, uh…” He looked at you. “Do you have a cool nickname?”
“No.”
“You should get a cool nickname.”
“I’m not getting a cool nickname in the next thirty seconds, Dustin.”
“Fine. Team Her. We’ll workshop it. Anyway, winning team gets to pick the movie for the next three movie nights AND gets out of dish duty for a week.”
“Sold,” Max said immediately, standing up and walking over to you. “I’m Team Her.”
“Traitor!” Steve gasped.
“You made me do the dishes last night even though it was Mike’s turn.”
“Because Mike was asleep!”
“Not my problem.”
Lucas stood up too, hesitating for a second before joining Max. “Sorry, Steve. But she’s right. You’re weird about dishes.”
“I’m not weird about dishes! I’m responsible about dishes! There’s a difference!”
Mike looked between you and Steve, clearly torn. Then El tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear.
He sighed. “El says we should be on your team.”
“Yes!” Steve pumped his fist.
“But I’m only doing this because El asked,” Mike added quickly. “Not because I think you’re going to win.”
“I’ll take it.”
Dustin checked his clipboard. “Okay, so teams are set. Max and Lucas are Team Her—we’re still workshopping the name—and Mike and El are Team Steve. I’ll be the neutral judge and scorekeeper because I’m the only one with organizational skills.”
“You literally lost your retainer twice last week,” Lucas pointed out.
“That’s different. That’s an object. This is a system.” Dustin clicked his pen again. “Now. Let’s begin with Challenge One: The Snack Preparation Challenge.”
He said it with such gravity that you almost laughed.
“You have twenty minutes,” Dustin continued, pulling out an actual timer from his pocket—because of course he had a timer—“to prepare the best after-school snack you can manage with the ingredients available in Steve’s kitchen. You’ll be judged on taste, presentation, creativity, and whether or not anyone gets food poisoning.”
“That last one seems important,” you said.
“It’s happened before,” Dustin said darkly.
Steve’s head whipped toward him. “When?!”
“Summer of ‘84. We don’t talk about it.”
“You can’t just say that and not explain!”
“No time! The challenge starts…” He held up the timer dramatically. “Now!”
And then chaos erupted.
You and Steve both bolted for the kitchen at the same time, nearly colliding in the doorway.
“Move!” Steve said.
“You move!” you shot back.
“I live here!”
“That doesn’t give you special kitchen privileges during a competition!”
You hip-checked him out of the way and made it to the fridge first, yanking it open and scanning the contents. Okay. Okay, you could work with this. There was cheese, some deli meat, apples, peanut butter, jelly, bread—standard stuff.
Behind you, you could hear Steve rummaging through the cabinets, muttering under his breath.
Max appeared in the doorway. “Need any help?”
“Aren’t you supposed to stay out of this?” you asked, pulling out the peanut butter and apples.
“Dustin said mild sabotage was allowed. He didn’t say anything about mild assistance.”
You grinned. “What’s Steve making?”
Max peered around the corner. “Looks like… sandwiches? Really boring sandwiches.”
“Perfect.”
Your mind was already racing. Okay, if Steve was going traditional, you needed to go creative. Something that looked impressive but was still actually edible, because knowing these kids, they’d revolt if you made anything too healthy or weird.
Apples. Peanut butter. You could work with that.
You started slicing apples quickly, arranging them on a plate in a fan pattern. Then you grabbed the peanut butter and a spoon, creating a small bowl in the center for dipping. That was too simple, though. You needed more.
“Max, what else is in the pantry?”
“Uh… pretzels, chocolate chips, some granola—”
“Grab the chocolate chips and pretzels.”
She darted off and returned thirty seconds later with both. You scattered them around the plate artfully, creating a little dessert charcuterie situation. It looked good. Really good, actually.
“Shit,” you heard Steve mutter from the other side of the kitchen.
You glanced over. He was making what looked like fancy grilled cheese—not a bad choice, actually. The bread was already in the pan, butter sizzling, and he was layering cheese with the focused intensity of a surgeon.
Competitive Steve was kind of hot.
No. Nope. Not thinking about that right now.
You turned back to your plate, adding a few more touches—some granola for texture, a strategic drizzle of honey you found in the back of the cabinet.
“Thirty seconds!” Dustin called from the living room.
“Shit!” Steve flipped his sandwiches frantically.
You stepped back, surveying your work. It looked like something out of a Pinterest board. The apples were arranged in a perfect circle, the peanut butter bowl was centered, the chocolate chips and pretzels created visual interest—
“Time!” Dustin yelled.
You grabbed your plate.
Steve grabbed his—and immediately dropped it because it was too hot.
“Fuck!” He juggled the plate, nearly sending sandwiches flying, before managing to secure them. His face was red. “I’m fine! It’s fine! Everything’s fine!”
“Real professional, Harrington,” you said sweetly.
“Shut up.”
You both carried your creations into the living room, where the kids had arranged themselves on the couch like judges on a reality show. Dustin had his clipboard. El had produced a notebook from somewhere and was holding a crayon, ready to take notes.
This was absurd.
This was the most absurd thing you’d done in weeks.
You were having so much fun.
“Present your snacks,” Dustin announced.
Steve went first, setting down his plate with a flourish. “Grilled cheese sandwiches. But not just any grilled cheese sandwiches. These are made with three types of cheese—cheddar, swiss, and mozzarella—on sourdough bread with butter. They’re golden brown, perfectly crispy, and scientifically proven to be delicious.”
“Scientifically proven?” Lucas repeated skeptically.
“I watched a cooking show once.”
“That’s not how science works.”
“It’s food science!”
Mike picked up a sandwich and took a bite. His eyes widened. “Oh shit. That’s actually really good.”
“Language,” Steve said automatically.
“You literally just said ‘fuck’ in the kitchen.”
“That was different. That was a crisis situation.”
El tried a bite next, chewing thoughtfully. Then she nodded. “Good,” she said simply, which from El was high praise.
Your turn.
You set down your plate, and there was an immediate reaction.
“Whoa,” Max said.
“That looks fancy,” Lucas added.
“It’s not fancy,” you said. “It’s an apple snack plate. You’ve got sliced apples for dipping in peanut butter, chocolate chips and pretzels for variety, and a little granola and honey for extra flavor. It’s healthy-ish but still fun, and nobody has to turn on the stove.”
“The stove is not a problem!” Steve protested.
“You literally burned yourself just now.”
“On the plate! Not the stove!”
Max grabbed an apple slice, dragged it through the peanut butter, added a chocolate chip, and took a bite. “Oh my god.”
“Good?” you asked hopefully.
“Really good. Like, really, really good.”
Lucas tried it next, then made the same face. “Steve, I’m sorry, but she’s winning this round.”
“What?! My grilled cheese is perfect!”
“Your grilled cheese is great,” Mike said diplomatically. “But this is like… I don’t know, it feels less like babysitter food and more like mom friend food.”
“That’s the same thing!”
“It’s really not.”
Dustin was scribbling notes furiously. “Okay, scores. For taste: Steve gets an 8, she gets a 9. For presentation: Steve gets a 7, she gets a 10. For creativity: Steve gets a 6, she gets a 9. For avoiding food poisoning: both get a 10 because nobody’s dying yet.”
“Yet?” Steve repeated.
“It’s only been two minutes. Give it time.” Dustin tallied up the scores. “Final score for Challenge One: Steve, 31 points. Her, 38 points. She wins!”
“Yes!” You pumped your fist while Max and Lucas cheered.
Steve stared at his grilled cheese like it had personally betrayed him. “I can’t believe I lost to apples.”
“Not just apples,” you said smugly. “Apples with presentation.”
“I hate this. I hate this competition.”
“You’re just mad because you’re losing.”
“I’m not mad, I’m motivated. There’s a difference.”
“Sure there is.”
He pointed at you with a spatula that he was still holding for some reason. “Next challenge. I’m coming for you.”
“Bring it, Harrington.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
Dustin interrupted your stare-down by clearing his throat. “Okay, lovebirds, save it for the next challenge. We’re moving on to Challenge Two: Crisis Management.”
“Lovebirds?” you and Steve said simultaneously.
“Did I stutter?” Dustin checked his clipboard. “This one’s going to be fun. Here’s the scenario: Mike just called from the Wheeler house. He’s locked himself in the bathroom, there’s a spider the size of a dinner plate, and he’s crying. What do you do?”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “I would never—”
“It’s hypothetical, Mike.”
“It’s character assassination!”
“Do you want to be on Steve’s team or not?”
Mike crossed his arms and slumped back on the couch, muttering something about defamation.
Dustin continued: “You have five minutes to talk through your crisis management approach. Judges will score based on practicality, speed, empathy, and overall effectiveness. Steve, you’re up first.”
Steve set down his spatula—finally—and crossed his arms, getting into what you were starting to recognize as his Problem-Solving Stance. “Okay. First, I’d call him back and tell him to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
“He’s in the bathroom. He can’t reach the towels without getting closer to the spider.”
“Then…” Steve paused, thinking. “Then I’d tell him to use toilet paper. Bunch it up, trap the spider, flush it.”
“Interesting approach,” Dustin made a note. “Pros: practical, uses available materials. Cons: requires Mike to get very close to the spider, which given his current panic state seems unlikely. Also, possible plumbing issues.”
“Okay, fine. Then I’d get in my car and drive to his house.”
“It’s a fifteen-minute drive.”
“Then I’d drive really fast.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Hopper’s not going to pull me over for saving Mike from a spider!”
“Hopper absolutely would pull you over.”
Steve dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. “Fine. Then I’d call Mrs. Wheeler and ask her to help.”
“She’s not home. No one’s home except Mike.”
“This is an impossible scenario!”
“That’s the point. It’s crisis management.” Dustin turned to you, grinning. “Your turn.”
You thought about it for a second. “Okay, first, I’d stay on the phone with him the whole time. Keep him talking, keep him distracted.”
“Good start,” Dustin said.
“Then I’d ask him what the spider’s doing. Is it moving? Is it just sitting there?”
“It’s sitting there,” Mike supplied, now invested. “On the wall. Above the door.”
“Perfect. So it’s not an immediate threat. I’d tell him that most spiders are more scared of us than we are of them, and this one probably just wants to be left alone.”
“He’s still crying,” Dustin said.
“Then I’d tell him a joke. Or ask him about the campaign he’s working on. Something to get his mind off it.”
“While he’s trapped in a bathroom?”
“He’s not trapped. He can leave anytime. The spider’s above the door, not blocking it. So I’d walk him through it—count to three, open the door fast, duck under where the spider is, and get out.”
Max nodded. “That’s actually pretty smart.”
“And if the spider moves?” Dustin pressed.
You shrugged. “Then I tell him it’s okay if he needs to wait until someone gets home. I’d stay on the phone with him. Put on a movie at the same time so we’re watching together. Make it feel less scary.”
“You told him to calm down while he was crying. That’s literally what not to do.”
“I—okay, fair.”
“Her turn.” Dustin tallied the numbers. “Practicality 8, speed 7, empathy 10, overall effectiveness 9. Total: 34. She wins again!”
“Yes!” Max and Lucas high-fived.
Steve looked genuinely stunned. “How are you winning everything?”
“Because I’m better at this than you.”
“You are not.”
“Scoreboard says otherwise, Harrington.”
He stepped closer, that competitive fire sparking in his eyes again. “This isn’t over.”
“It really isn’t,” you agreed. “Because you’re still losing.”
“Challenge Three!” Dustin announced. “Starting in ten minutes. This one’s going to be good.”
The third challenge was “Emotional Support,” which sounded ominous and was somehow worse than it sounded.
“Scenario,” Dustin said, reading from his clipboard with way too much glee. “Lucas and Max just had a fight. They’re not talking to each other. Lucas is sulking in the basement, Max is rage-skateboarding in the driveway, and the rest of us are stuck in the middle. How do you fix it?”
Lucas and Max immediately started protesting.
“We don’t fight that much!” Lucas said.
“Yes we do,” Max said.
“Okay, yes we do, but we don’t need a scenario about it!”
“It’s for educational purposes,” Dustin said primly.
“It’s for humiliation purposes,” Max muttered, but she was smiling a little.
Steve went first again, and you could tell he was taking this one more seriously. He sat down on the coffee table, hands clasped, and actually thought about it.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “First, I’d talk to them separately. Give them space to vent without making it worse.”
“Good start,” Dustin said.
“I’d ask Lucas what happened from his perspective. Let him explain. Not take sides, just listen.”
“And then?”
“Then I’d do the same with Max. Hear her side.”
“And if their stories completely contradict each other?”
Steve hesitated. “Then… then I’d point out that they’re both probably right, from their own perspectives. And that it’s okay to see things differently.”
Mike was nodding. “That’s actually decent advice.”
“Then I’d—” Steve paused, looking uncomfortable. “I’d probably tell them that fighting happens. It sucks, but it’s normal. And that they’re both too stubborn to stay mad at each other for long anyway.”
“Would you make them apologize?” Dustin asked.
“Not right away. I’d let them cool off first. Maybe put on a movie, order pizza, let them sit on opposite sides of the couch until they naturally gravitate back together.” He shrugged. “They always do.”
It was sweet.
It was genuinely sweet, and from the look on Max and Lucas’s faces, it was also accurate.
Dustin made notes. “Okay. Solid approach. Your turn.”
You took a breath, thinking about all the times you’d played mediator with the kids over the past few weeks. “I’d start the same way—talk to them separately. But I’d also ask them what they think would help. Like, what do they need from each other right now? An apology? Space? A do-over of the conversation?”
“Giving them agency,” Dustin said. “Interesting.”
“Yeah. Because sometimes people don’t want you to fix it, they just want to be heard. So I’d validate their feelings—tell Lucas it’s okay to be hurt, tell Max it’s okay to be angry. And then I’d ask if they want help talking it out, or if they’d rather work through it on their own.”
“And if they want help?”
“Then I’d sit with both of them and let them talk. Keep it from escalating. Remind them that they care about each other when they start forgetting that.”
El was watching you with those intense eyes of hers. “That’s what you did. When Mike and I fought.”
You blinked. “When—oh. Yeah. I guess I did.”
“It helped,” she said simply.
Your chest did that warm, tight thing again.
Dustin was tallying scores. “Steve: 28 points. Her: 35 points. She’s still winning!”
Steve dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it,” you said, trying not to sound too smug and definitely failing.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m enjoying it exactly the right amount.”
He looked up, and despite the competitive frustration written all over his face, he was smiling. Really smiling. “Okay. Okay, fine. You’re good at this.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
“Challenge Four!” Dustin interrupted. “And this one’s the big one. The tiebreaker, if you will.”
“It’s not a tiebreaker if she’s winning,” Steve pointed out.
“It’s a dramatic reveal. Work with me here.” Dustin straightened his shoulders. “Challenge Four: General Vibes. Also known as the popularity contest.”
“Oh no,” you said.
“Oh yes. Each team gets to explain why their babysitter is the best. You two can’t say anything in your own defense. This is all about what we think.” He looked at Max and Lucas. “Team Her—we’re still workshopping the name—you’re up first.”
Max stood up like she was about to give a speech at the UN. “Okay, here’s the thing about her.” She gestured at you. “She doesn’t try too hard. Like, Steve’s great—”
“Thanks?” Steve said.
“—but he’s always in Dad Mode. Always worrying, always checking on us, always acting like we’re going to die if we’re out of his sight for five minutes.”
“Because you might!” Steve protested.
“Let her finish,” Dustin said.
Max continued: “But she’s different. She worries too, but she also treats us like actual people. She asks our opinions. She doesn’t freak out when we want to do something slightly dangerous—”
“Define ‘slightly dangerous,’” you interrupted nervously.
“—and she’s funny. Like, genuinely funny, not just dad-joke funny.”
“My jokes are funny!” Steve said.
“Your jokes are painful,” Lucas said, standing up to join Max. “But yeah, she’s cool. She doesn’t make a big deal out of stuff. And she’s not always trying to be the hero, you know? She just… is.”
Your face was hot. You hadn’t expected this to feel so sincere.
“Also,” Max added, “she always takes my side when I’m arguing with the boys.”
“That’s blatant favoritism!” Mike called out.
“It’s called having good taste!” Max shot back.
Dustin made notes, nodding. “Compelling arguments. Team Steve, your turn.”
Mike stood up reluctantly, dragging El with him. “Okay, look. Steve’s annoying.”
“Great start, Mike,” Steve said flatly.
“But he cares. Like, really cares. He’s driven into literal hell multiple times to save us. He’s taken beatings for us. He’s—” Mike’s voice cracked slightly. “He’s always there. Even when we’re being annoying or ungrateful or whatever. He doesn’t give up on us.”
Steve’s expression softened.
El spoke up next, her voice quiet but steady. “Steve makes me feel safe. When things are scary, he’s there. He protects us.” She looked at Steve directly. “You’re a good friend.”
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Dustin cleared his throat, looking suspiciously emotional. “Okay. Scores for Challenge Four…” He scribbled some numbers. “This one’s close. Really close.”
“How close?” Steve asked.
“She’s still winning overall, but you pulled ahead in this round.” Dustin looked up. “Final scores: Steve, 95 points. Her, 107 points. She’s the Supreme Babysitter!”
The room erupted.
Max and Lucas were cheering, shouting about their victory. Mike was arguing that the scoring system was flawed. El was watching everything with that small smile. And Steve—
Steve was looking at you with this expression you couldn’t quite read. Pride, maybe? Amusement? Something softer underneath it all?
“Congratulations,” he said, holding out his hand.
You shook it, his palm warm and solid against yours. “Thanks. You put up a good fight.”
“Not good enough, apparently.”
“Hey, you got ‘good friend’ from El. That’s basically worth more than any crown.”
His smile went crooked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Dustin thrust the hideous pipe cleaner crown at you. “Your prize, Supreme Babysitter!”
You took it, turning it over in your hands. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
You loved it.
After dinner, after the kids had been wrangled into cleaning up (with minimal complaining because you’d invoked your Supreme Babysitter privileges), after the dishwasher was loaded and the counters were wiped down and someone had spilled juice on the floor and cleaned it up, everyone migrated back to the living room.
Movie night was a sacred tradition now.
It took twenty minutes to agree on a movie—The Goonies, finally, because it was the only thing that didn’t have someone vetoing it—and then another ten minutes to get everyone settled with blankets and pillows and optimal seating arrangements.
You ended up on the couch next to Steve, because of course you did.
The kids were sprawled on the floor in their usual nest formation, already yelling at the TV even though the movie had barely started.
“This is the best part!” Dustin announced as the opening credits rolled.
“The movie just started,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, and it’s already the best part!”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“You don’t make any sense!”
Steve leaned over, his shoulder pressing against yours. “They’re gonna argue through the whole movie, aren’t they?”
“Absolutely,” you whispered back.
“And we’re just gonna let them.”
“Obviously.”
His smile was soft in the flickering TV light. “Good.”
You should’ve moved away. Put some distance between you. The couch was big enough that you didn’t need to be sitting this close, your thighs touching, his arm warm against yours.
But you didn’t move.
And neither did he.
The movie played on, and gradually, the kids started to settle down. The arguments faded into occasional commentary, then into sleepy silence. One by one, they started to doze off—Dustin first, always the first to fall asleep during movies, then Lucas, then Mike.
Max lasted longer, fighting it, but eventually her head drooped onto Lucas’s shoulder.
El was the last one awake, but even she was fading, curled up against Mike.
“Out like lights,” Steve murmured.
“Every time.”
“You’d think they’d learn to pace themselves.”
“They never do.”
You were both whispering now, careful not to wake anyone. The movie was still playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore.
“So,” Steve said quietly. “Supreme Babysitter.”
“I know. It’s a lot of responsibility.”
“How are you handling the power?”
“With grace and humility.”
He snorted softly. “Right. That’s exactly what I’d call you. Humble.”
“I’m humble! I’m the most humble person you’ve ever met.”
“That’s not how humility works.”
“Sounds like something a sore loser would say.”
He turned to look at you, and suddenly he was very close. Close enough that you could count his eyelashes, see the little flecks of gold in his brown eyes, notice the tiny scar on his chin from god knows what fight or accident or brush with death.
“I’m not a sore loser,” he said.
“You kind of are.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
Your breath caught. “Steve—”
“You were really good today,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “With the kids. You’re always good with them.”
“So are you.”
“It’s different. You make it look easy.”
“It’s not easy. Nothing about this is easy.”
“I know. But you make it look like it is. And that’s—” He stopped, swallowed. “That’s really something.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
The TV cast blue-grey light across his face, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. How easy it would be to just lean in a little more. Close that gap.
How much you wanted to.
“Steve,” you said again, softer this time.
He was looking at your mouth.
You were definitely looking at his.
This was happening. This was really happening. After weeks of dancing around it, of pretending you weren’t feeling what you were feeling, of late night conversations and shared looks and moments that felt too big to fit in your chest—
Dustin snored. Loud and sudden and completely momentum-killing.
You both jumped apart like you’d been electrocuted.
Steve cleared his throat. “I should—we should probably get them to bed.”
“Right. Yeah. Definitely.”
“Before they wake up with neck injuries.”
“Good thinking.”
But neither of you moved for a long moment, just sitting there in the TV light, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Then Steve stood up, running a hand through his hair, and started the process of waking up kids and herding them toward sleeping bags and blankets and whatever makeshift beds they’d claimed.
You helped, of course.
And if your hands brushed when you were both tucking a blanket around El, neither of you mentioned it.
You woke up on the couch again the next morning, the pipe cleaner crown somehow still on your head, digging into your scalp at an uncomfortable angle.
The house was quiet. Properly quiet this time, the kind that meant everyone was actually still asleep and it was genuinely early.
You sat up slowly, your neck protesting, and squinted at the VCR clock. 6:23 AM.
Great. Your body had apparently decided that six-something in the morning was just your wake-up time now, regardless of how late you’d stayed up or how little sleep you’d gotten.
You pulled the crown off, setting it carefully on the coffee table—you’d won that thing fair and square, you weren’t about to crush it—and looked around.
The living room was a disaster zone. Again. Blankets everywhere, empty popcorn bowls, someone’s shoes in the middle of the floor. Dustin was drooling on Mike’s shoulder. Max was somehow upside down in her sleeping bag. Lucas had migrated halfway under the couch, which seemed both uncomfortable and structurally impressive.
El was sitting up in the armchair, wide awake, watching you.
You jumped about a foot in the air, pressing a hand to your chest. “Jesus—El. How long have you been awake?”
“A while,” she said simply.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
She shrugged. “You looked tired.”
That was… actually really sweet.
You rubbed your eyes, trying to force your brain into something resembling consciousness. “Can’t sleep?”
“Bad dreams,” El said quietly.
Your heart clenched. “You want to talk about it?”
She considered this, tilting her head in that way she did when she was thinking hard about something. Then she shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Okay. But if you do want to talk, I’m here. You know that, right?”
“I know.” She paused. “You’re good at that. Listening.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“That’s why you won yesterday.”
You smiled. “I don’t know about that. I think I just got lucky.”
“No.” El was very serious now, looking at you with those intense eyes that always felt like they were seeing more than they should. “You won because you care. And you don’t try to fix everything. You just… stay.”
Something about that hit harder than it should have.
“Yeah, well,” you said, your voice coming out rougher than intended. “You guys make it pretty easy to stay.”
El smiled—small and genuine—and then turned her attention back to the sleeping pile of kids. “Steve was awake too. Earlier.”
“Was he?”
“He checked the doors. Three times.”
Of course he did.
“Is he asleep now?” you asked.
El nodded. “In the kitchen. At the table.”
You sighed. That sounded about right. Steve probably couldn’t make it back to his actual bedroom, so he’d just… passed out at the kitchen table like some kind of exhausted dad who fell asleep doing the bills.
“I’m gonna go check on him,” you said, standing up and stretching. Your spine made concerning cracking sounds. “You good here?”
“Yes.”
El was right.
Steve was slumped over the kitchen table, one arm pillowed under his head, the other hanging limply at his side. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes—jeans and that Hawkins High sweatshirt, now even more rumpled than before. His hair was a complete disaster, sticking up in every possible direction.
The nail bat was leaning against his chair.
Of course it was.
For a moment, you just stood there, looking at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, visible even in sleep. At the tension that never quite left his shoulders. At the way his hand was curled into a loose fist, like even unconscious he was ready to fight something.
Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ reluctant hero, currently drooling slightly on his own kitchen table at six thirty in the morning.
Your heart did that stupid fluttering thing again.
You were so screwed.
“Steve,” you said softly, walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”
He jerked awake with a sharp inhale, his hand immediately going for the bat before his eyes were even fully open.
“Whoa, whoa!” You stepped back, hands up. “It’s just me!”
Steve blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself, his chest heaving. Then recognition dawned, and his whole body sagged. “Shit. Sorry. I—sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I could’ve hit you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could’ve—”
“Steve.” You moved closer again, keeping your voice gentle. “It’s okay. You didn’t. I’m fine.”
He dragged a hand down his face, and when he looked up at you, he looked so tired. Bone-deep, exhausted tired. “What time is it?”
“Early. Six thirty-ish.”
“Why are you awake?”
“Why are you asleep at the kitchen table?”
He looked around like he was just now realizing where he was. “I was… I was checking the perimeter. Must’ve sat down for a second.”
“Steve, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” You gestured at him, at the bat, at the whole situation. “Not sleeping. Staying up all night checking doors and windows. Running yourself into the ground.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You just tried to hit me with a bat.”
“I didn’t actually—”
“Steve.”
He went quiet, jaw working like he was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.
You pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “When’s the last time you actually slept? Like, really slept. More than a couple hours.”
“I sleep.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I sleep enough.”
“Also not an answer.”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands on the table. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t sleep. Not really. I try, and I just…” He made a frustrated gesture. “I see it all again. The tunnels, the Russians, the—everything. And then I’m awake and I can’t stop thinking about what if something happens while I’m sleeping? What if something gets in and I don’t wake up in time? What if—”
He cut himself off, his hand curling into a fist on the table.
You reached out slowly, carefully, and put your hand over his. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But Steve—you can’t protect everyone all the time. You can’t stay awake forever.”
“I can try.”
“You’re going to kill yourself trying.”
The words came out harsher than you meant them to, but they were true and you both knew it.
Steve’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going to—”
“You fell asleep at the kitchen table. With a nail bat. After checking the doors three times.” You squeezed his hand. “Steve, that’s not sustainable. That’s not… you can’t live like this.”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Let someone else help. Let me help.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were so raw it hurt. “You’re already helping. You’re here. That’s—that’s more than—”
His voice cracked, and he looked away quickly, like he was embarrassed.
“Hey.” You waited until he looked back. “You don’t have to do this alone. You know that, right? You’re not—we’re in this together. All of us. Me, Robin, the kids. You’re not the only one who’s responsible for keeping everyone safe.”
“Feels like I am sometimes.”
“Well, you’re not. And I’m not gonna let you burn out because you think you have to be some kind of solo superhero.” You stood up, tugging on his hand. “Come on.”
“What—where are we going?”
“You’re going to bed. Your actual bed. Not the couch, not the kitchen table. Your bed.”
“I can’t just—”
“You absolutely can. The kids are asleep. I’m awake. I’ll keep watch.”
He started to protest, then stopped, something shifting in his expression. “You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay.”
“And if something—”
“Then I’ll wake you up. But nothing’s going to happen, Steve. It’s Sunday morning in Hawkins. The most dangerous thing happening right now is Dustin’s snoring.”
That got a small smile out of him. Tiny, but there.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay, but just for a couple hours.”
“However long you need.”
“A couple hours,” he insisted.
“Sure, Steve. A couple hours.”
You both knew that was a lie, but he let you pull him to his feet anyway.
Steve’s bedroom was on the second floor, down a hallway lined with family photos that looked staged and impersonal. His room was surprisingly normal—a double bed with navy blue sheets that were actually made, a desk with homework he’d probably never finished scattered across it, a dresser with cologne and loose change on top. Posters on the walls: a couple of bands, a sports car, a Risky Business poster that made you snort.
“Don’t,” Steve said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it really loud.”
“I’m just thinking that you have very interesting taste in movies.”
“Everyone loves that movie.”
“Everyone loves that scene from that movie. There’s a difference.”
He was too tired to argue, which was probably for the best. He just kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, face-first into the pillow.
“You’re not even going to get under the covers?” you asked.
“Too much effort,” came his muffled response.
You rolled your eyes, grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, and threw it over him. He made a sound that might’ve been “thanks” or might’ve been just general exhaustion.
“I’m setting an alarm,” he mumbled. “Two hours.”
“You’re not setting an alarm.”
“Yes I am.”
“Steve, you can barely move.”
“’M fine…” His words were already slurring. “Just… couple hours…”
You sat down on the edge of the bed, and his hand found yours in that automatic way that was becoming familiar. His fingers threaded through yours, holding on even as his breathing started to even out.
“Stay?” he asked, barely conscious now.
“I’m staying.”
“Good. That’s… that’s good…”
And then he was out.
Like actually, completely unconscious in the way only truly exhausted people can be. His face relaxed, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders, his hand still holding yours but looser now.
You should’ve left. Should’ve gone back downstairs, kept an eye on the kids, let Steve sleep without you sitting here like some kind of creepy sentinel.
But you stayed.
Because he’d asked you to. Because he looked so peaceful like this, more peaceful than you’d seen him in weeks. Because some part of you needed to make sure he was okay, even though you knew that was ridiculous.
So you sat on the edge of Steve Harrington’s bed, holding his hand, watching the morning light creep through his window, and thought about how completely and utterly screwed you were.
You meant to stay for just a few minutes.
You really did.
But Steve’s bed was comfortable, and his hand was warm in yours, and you were so tired, and it had been such a long few weeks, and before you knew it you were listing sideways, then lying down on top of the covers next to him, and then—
You woke up to whispering.
Very loud, very obvious whispering that was clearly meant to be quiet but was failing spectacularly.
“Oh my god.”
“Dustin, shut up—”
“Are they—they’re totally—”
“If you wake them up, I’m going to kill you.”
“Max, we need photographic evidence—”
Your eyes flew open.
Five kids were standing in Steve’s bedroom doorway, various expressions of delight, shock, and smugness on their faces. Dustin had a camera. Max was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Lucas looked vaguely uncomfortable. Mike seemed caught between amusement and horror. El just looked pleased.
It took you a second to remember where you were.
Steve’s bed. You were in Steve’s bed. Still on top of the covers, still fully clothed, but definitely, undeniably in Steve’s bed.
And Steve—
Steve was pressed against your back, one arm slung over your waist, his face buried in your hair, still completely dead to the world.
You’d fallen asleep.
You’d both fallen asleep.
Cuddling.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
The camera flashed.
“DUSTIN!”
Steve jerked awake with a startled “What—” and immediately tried to sit up, which just resulted in him rolling off the bed and landing on the floor with a solid thud.
“Ow. Fuck. What—” He was blinking rapidly, hair sticking up in every direction, looking completely disoriented. Then he saw the kids. “What the hell are you all doing in my room?”
“Bearing witness,” Dustin said solemnly.
“Witnessing what?”
“Your feelings,” Max said, like it was obvious.
Steve looked at you, still lying on his bed. You looked back at Steve, currently on his floor. Both of you were blushing so hard you probably looked sunburned.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Steve tried.
“It looks like you two were cuddling,” Lucas said.
“We weren’t—we were just—she was—”
“I was making sure he slept,” you said, finally finding your voice and sitting up. “That’s it. He hasn’t been sleeping, so I made sure he actually slept for once.”
“By cuddling,” Dustin said.
“By staying in the room—”
“While cuddling.”
“We weren’t cuddling!”
“You literally had your arm around her, Steve,” Mike pointed out.
Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I was asleep! I didn’t know—I wasn’t consciously—”
“So you unconsciously cuddled,” Max said. “That’s actually even better. That means it’s instinct.”
“Oh my god,” you said, dropping your face into your hands.
“Oh my god,” Steve echoed, still on the floor.
El stepped forward from the group, and everyone went quiet. When El wanted to say something, people listened.
She looked at Steve, then at you, then back at Steve.
“It’s okay,” she said simply. “We already knew.”
“Knew what?” Steve asked warily.
“That you like each other.”
“We don’t—” you started.
“You do,” El said, with the kind of certainty only El could have. “It’s obvious. You’re always together. You look at each other a lot. Steve makes you coffee the way you like it without asking. You fixed his jacket collar on Tuesday. Mike does the same thing with me.”
Mike’s face went red. “El—”
“It’s nice,” El continued, ignoring him. “You should just tell each other.”
The room went silent.
You were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing.
Steve was staring at El like she’d just announced she could read minds—which, honestly, maybe she could. You wouldn’t put it past her at this point.
“I—” Steve started, then seemed to lose all his words.
You weren’t doing much better. Your brain had just completely shut down. Blue-screened. Error 404, thoughts not found.
Dustin cleared his throat. “So, uh, just to confirm for the records: are you two dating or…?”
“No!” you and Steve said simultaneously.
“But you want to be,” Max said. It wasn’t a question.
More silence.
Lucas whispered to Dustin: “I think we broke them.”
“Okay!” you said, suddenly finding the ability to move again and standing up from the bed. “Okay, this has been a delightful morning ambush, but I think it’s time for everyone to go back downstairs. Now.”
“But—” Dustin started.
“Now, Henderson.”
“Fine, but this conversation isn’t over!” he said as Max physically dragged him out of the room.
Lucas and Mike followed, Mike still looking embarrassed but unable to hide his smile. El was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway to look back at both of you.
“It’s okay to be happy,” she said quietly. “You both deserve that.”
And then she was gone, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Leaving you and Steve alone.
In his bedroom.
After you’d been caught cuddling.
After El had basically announced to everyone that you had feelings for each other.
“So,” Steve said from the floor.
“So,” you echoed.
“That happened.”
“Yep.”
“El might be psychic.”
“That would explain a lot, actually.”
He laughed—sharp and surprised—and then pushed himself to his feet, running a hand through his already disastrous hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was asleep, I didn’t know I—”
“Steve, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, you were just trying to help and I made it weird—”
“You didn’t make it weird.”
“I literally cuddled you in my sleep!”
“Unconscious cuddling doesn’t count!”
“How does unconscious cuddling not count?!”
“Because—” You stopped, took a breath. This was ridiculous. This whole thing was ridiculous. “Because I didn’t mind.”
Steve froze. “You… didn’t?”
“No. I didn’t.” Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Mind. Would you have minded? If you’d been awake?”
He stared at you for a long moment, and you watched his expression shift through about seven different emotions before landing on something that looked like determination.
“No,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Okay,” you said.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
You were standing in the middle of Steve’s bedroom, the morning sun streaming through the window, kids probably eavesdropping on the other side of the door, having the most awkward conversation of your entire life.
And somehow, it was perfect.
“So,” Steve said, taking a step closer. “El thinks we like each other.”
“Apparently.”
“And that we should tell each other.”
“That’s what she said.”
“And you didn’t disagree with her.”
Your mouth went dry. “Neither did you.”
He took another step closer, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that you could see the flecks of green in his eyes again, close enough that you could count the moles on his neck, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” he said, voice low and rough and honest.
Your breath caught. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I also really don’t want our first kiss to happen right after I fell off a bed and got ambushed by teenagers, so—”
You kissed him.
Just leaned up and closed the distance and pressed your mouth to his, cutting off his rambling in the best possible way.
For half a second, he froze, surprised. Then he made this small sound in the back of his throat and kissed you back, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure and perfect.
It was soft. Careful. A little bit awkward because all first kisses were a little bit awkward, but also somehow exactly right.
When you pulled back, Steve’s eyes were still closed, his lips curved into a smile.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, that was—”
“Yeah.”
“We should probably—”
“Yeah.”
“But later, right? We can talk about this later?”
“Definitely later.”
His smile widened, and then he kissed you again, quick and sweet, before stepping back. “Okay. Okay, cool. That happened.”
“It did.”
“And you’re—you’re okay with that?”
“Steve, I literally just kissed you. Yes, I’m okay with that.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He was grinning like an idiot now, and it was possibly the cutest thing you’d ever seen. “We should probably go deal with the kids before they break something.”
Steve Harrington x gf!reader x platonic!Dustin Henderson
The bell above the door of Family Video chimed, cutting through the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant sound of Back to the Future playing on the overhead monitors.
Steve Harrington, currently leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, let out a long, dramatic sigh. He didn't even look up at the door. He was too busy staring at you. You were sitting on the counter, technically against company policy, but Robin was on break, mending a tear in your denim jacket.
"You know," Steve said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "I get off in ten minutes. We could go to Enzo’s. Just the two of us. No monsters. No Russians. And definitely no—"
"Y/N!"
The shout cracked like a whip. Steve closed his eyes, his face crumpling into a mask of pure resignation. "—children," he finished, whispering the word like a curse.
Dustin Henderson scrambled up to the counter, breathless, his curly hair a chaotic halo under his Camp Know Where hat. He slammed a stack of VHS tapes onto the glass, completely ignoring Steve.
"Y/N, you have to settle a debate," Dustin said, his eyes wide and shining with that specific intensity he usually reserved for Dungeons & Dragons or science experiments. "Lucas says that Return of the Jedi is the superior film because of the emotional payoff, but I told him that Empire is objectively better because of the structural complexity and the darker tone. Since you have the best taste out of anyone in this town, what do you think?"
Steve tapped his fingers on the countertop. "Hello? Employee standing right here? The guy with the keys?"
Dustin waved a dismissive hand at Steve without looking at him. "Not now, Steve. The adults are talking cinema." He turned his beaming smile back to you, leaning his elbows on the counter, invading your personal space just a fraction. "So? Empire, right?"
You laughed, stitching the needle through the denim. "Dustin, you know I’m an Empire girl. The Han freezing scene alone?"
Dustin spun around and pointed a finger at an imaginary Lucas. "Ha! See? She gets it!" He turned back to you, his voice dropping an octave, trying to sound smoother. "That’s exactly what I said. You just... you really understand narrative structure, Y/N. Most people here—" he cast a side-eye at Steve "—just want to see explosions."
Steve snatched the tapes off the counter. "I like narrative structure! And for your information, Henderson, I'm renting you The Care Bears Movie if you don't back up three feet."
"Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Steve," Dustin quipped, flashing you a toothy grin. "Anyway, Y/N, are you doing anything after this? I built this new long-range radio tower extension, and I really need a second pair of eyes on the wiring. Steve’s hands are too... clunky."
Steve jaw dropped. "Clunky? My hands are athletic! They are dexterous!"
"I'd love to help, Dustin," you said gently, hopping off the counter. "But Steve and I were gonna grab dinner."
Dustin’s face fell, just for a millisecond, before he pivoted. "Great! I'm starving. I can eat in the back. You won't even know I'm there."
You definitely knew he was there.
The BMW rumbled down the dark Hawkins roads. Steve was driving, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. You were in the passenger seat. Dustin was in the back, leaning forward so far between the two front seats that his chin was practically resting on your shoulder.
"So," Dustin said, ignoring the radio Steve had turned up. "I noticed you’re wearing that blue sweater again. It really brings out your eyes. It’s a chromatic match. Very aesthetic."
Steve hit the brakes a little too hard at a stop sign. "Henderson, sit back. Safety belt. Click it or ticket."
"I am buckled, Mother," Dustin groaned, but he didn't retreat. "Y/N, did you know that based on your astrological chart, which I calculated, by the way, you’re chemically predisposed to be a genius? It makes sense why you’re the only one who understands the Planck Constant when I talk about it."
"I think she just nods to be nice, man," Steve muttered.
"False!" Dustin scoffed. "We have a connection of the minds. Intellectual peers." He looked at you, his expression softening into pure adoration. "Hey, do you want a bite of this nougat? I saved the last piece. I usually wouldn't share, but..."
He held out a slightly squashed 3 Musketeers bar.
"Oh, thanks, Dustin," you said, breaking off a piece. "That's really sweet."
"See, Steve?" Dustin said triumphantly. "She thinks I'm sweet."
Steve stared straight ahead, his jaw tight. "I bought you that candy bar, Dustin. I paid for it with my money."
"Capitalism is merely the vessel, Steve. The gesture is what matters." Dustin turned his attention back to you, launching into a detailed explanation of how magnets worked, keeping his voice low and intimate, effectively cutting Steve out of the conversation entirely.
Every time Steve tried to interject with a comment about the music or the road, Dustin would say, "One sec, Steve, we're having a moment," or "Don't interrupt the flow."
You reached over and rested your hand on Steve’s knee, squeezing gently. He glanced at you, his eyes pleading: Help me.
When the BMW finally pulled up to the Henderson house, the porch light was already on.
"Alright, kid. Out," Steve said, putting the car in park.
Dustin didn't move immediately. He lingered, unbuckling his seatbelt slowly. "So, Y/N... if you ever get tired of..." He gestured vaguely at Steve, "you know, 'The Hair' and the general lack of scientific curiosity... I'm usually free on Friday nights. For... studying. Or whatever."
You smiled, turning in your seat to face him. "You're a catch, Dustin. Any girl would be lucky to hang out with you."
Dustin turned a shade of crimson that was visible even in the dark car. He looked like he might actually ascend into the stratosphere. "Right. Yeah. Totally. Cool. Cool, cool, cool."
He scrambled out of the car. But before he shut the door, he leaned his head back in. "Goodnight, Y/N! Dream of electric sheep!"
He slammed the door and sprinted into his house, tripping slightly on the bottom step but recovering with a thumbs-up.
Steve waited until the front door of the house closed. Then he waited another five seconds.
Then, he exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour.
"Unbelievable," Steve said, slumping back against the leather seat. "Absolutely unbelievable."
"He's cute," you teased, shifting your body to face Steve.
"Cute? Y/N, he was practically proposing to you in my backseat! 'Chromatic match'? Who talks like that? He's fifteen!" Steve ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in his frustration. "And calling my hands 'clunky'? I have great hands! You like my hands!"
"I love your hands," you reassured him, reaching out to take one of them off the steering wheel. You interlaced your fingers with his.
Steve looked at your joined hands, his shoulders dropping. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "He totally has a crush on you."
"You think?"
"Think? Babe, he literally offered you his last piece of nougat. Dustin Henderson does not share food. That is a biological impossibility. He would let me starve in a ditch before giving me a bite of roast beef." Steve shook his head, chuckling softly. "Little traitor."
"He just looks up to you, Steve," you said softly. "He wants to be like you. And since you’re dating me... he thinks he needs to impress me to be on your level."
Steve looked at you, the streetlamp outside casting shadows across his face. The annoyance faded, replaced by that soft, vulnerable look he tried so hard to hide from the world.
"Yeah, well," Steve mumbled, lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles. "He's got good taste. I'll give him that. He knows a keeper when he sees one."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah." Steve leaned across the console, his voice dropping to a murmur. "But he's gonna have to find his own. You're taken."
"I am," you whispered, leaning in to kiss him.
It was a sweet, lingering kiss, only interrupted by the sudden crackle of a walkie-talkie from the backseat, Dustin had left it there.
"Steve? Steve, are you guys kissing? Because if you are, you should know that statistically, ninety percent of teenage relationships end before college, so—"
Steve groaned, breaking the kiss and snatching the walkie-talkie.
"Goodnight, Henderson!" Steve shouted into the device, before switching it off and tossing it into the backseat.
He looked back at you, a grin finally breaking across his face. "Okay. Now... Enzo’s?"
summary: when visiting your friend robin in hawkins turns into an indefinite stay, you decide to entertain yourself by getting under steve’s skin. it turns out different than you expect. maybe better.
word count: 13k
content: fluff, slight angst, no major st5 spoilers (just settings used), upside down is implied but not explicitly mentioned, prob some inaccurate wsqk descriptions, r is a little delusional, a couple of small time jumps, mentions of blood (nosebleed), and a kiss!!
a/n: hiii guys!! it’s been too long since i’ve written a long steve fic and i had so much fun with this one!! i just had to write steve a little bitchy (but in a yearning way) after ppl accused him of being annoying in s5. that’s my princess!!! thank you to my angel @bruisedboys for looking over bits of this one for me! i hope u all love it <3
(¬`‸´¬)
What was meant to be a quick visit to Hawkins turned into an indefinite stay.
While quarantine wasn’t exactly how you saw your spring break trip going, but it isn’t all bad. Despite it being a small town, you’ve managed to find ways to entertain yourself. One of those being getting on Steve’s nerves, finding your way under his skin.
You’d never actually met him before, only ever heard of him through Robin’s letters and phone calls. First, it was complaining, annoyance at how he waltzed through Hawkins High like nothing affected him. Then a ‘hey, you’re not going to believe this’ and stories about the pair working at Scoops together, a tally board that amused Robin at Steve’s expense.
And, maybe most surprising of all, them becoming partners in crime. Robin’s tone towards Steve turned more familiar, still teasing but far warmer.
You and Robin became friends in middle school, the kind of friendship that started with a simple introduction and grew into giggling under covers at sleepovers and knowing that someone saying ‘don’t tell anyone’ didn’t apply when it came to your best friend.
Your parents decided to move before high school, but you’ve stayed in touch with Robin ever since. A few visits scattered throughout the years, far more conversations on two sides of a phone line, cords twisted around your fingers.
A trip (back) to Hawkins for you had been a long time coming, and though it obviously didn’t end up going according to plan, you’re grateful for it, in an odd way.
Your first couple of years in college weren’t going as well as you’d hoped. No friend group to mess around with, no courses to especially inspire you. It was exactly what you’d wanted and not at all like you’d imagined.
A break from it all is probably good for you, minus the whole devastating disaster thing.
Your school was not willing to let you resume studies when you got back, despite your very valid and sort of unavoidable reason, so you’d basically lost a whole semester of classes that you didn’t even enjoy in the first place.
It’s like you’re in some kind of snow globe—minus the snow—with nothing much to do but sit and let the world shake you, let the glitter tumble through the air and fall to the ground at your feet.
Some people would probably be going stir crazy in your shoes. Eager to get back to their life. You’re grateful for this in between to figure out what to do next. What you really want.
Plus, it’s been nice to be back in Hawkins. It’s the only place that’s ever truly felt like home, even after moving away. Even better to be welcomed into the fold. Introduced to Robin’s friends and get pulled in by the group’s tide like a shell on the beach.
And then, of course, there’s Steve Harrington.
Steve, who you’ve heard so much about. Who you feel like you know already despite never really meeting him. When Robin had told you they’d become close, like, almost inseparable close, you’d been surprised but pleased. It was like you went on their whole friendship arc along with Robin.
She spoke so highly of him, about how different he was now, how he was kind of a massive dork and not nearly as cool as he pretended to be (to her, this was a positive), and naturally, you’d been looking forward to meeting him.
Even more so after she sent over a polaroid of the two of them, Steve reluctantly posing, an annoyed look on his face that’s broken up by a hidden smile, Robin grinning wide, both in their Family Video vests.
He was handsome. It was impossible to deny.
Unfortunately for you, Steve has decided, for some reason, that he is not your biggest fan.
Your first official meeting was at Family Video, actually. Pre-quarantine. Robin had asked you to stop by during her shift so you could pick out a movie to watch together later, and you’d happily obliged.
The bell above the door chimed happily with your entrance, and Steve was the one who greeted you.
“Hey,” he called from behind the counter.
You walked up, and found that the picture didn’t even fully do him justice. His t-shirt sleeves tight around his upper-arms as he leaned on the counter, hair flopping over his forehead all intentionally messy, like its had fingers run through it.
He straightened when you approached. Smiled politely, even. Big brown eyes trailing over you and focusing on your face.
And something passed between you then. The air heavier, the room and the muffled radio drifting into the background. He looked at you like you were something rare.
“Hi,” you spoke. And maybe you shouldn’t have. “Is Robin here?”
Because that’s when the moment cracked, fizzled out. That’s when Steve dropped his elbows back onto the counter, like he couldn’t hold himself up any longer.
“Sorry!” you heard Robin’s voice ring out, coming closer until she was beside you. “Sorry! I was in the back, didn’t hear you come in.”
“Wait,” Steve said. “Who are you?”
“Um,” you started.
“Steve!” Robin chided. She reminded him of your name, and he mouthed it after she said it, confused. “My friend from middle school who’s staying with me for the week? It’s why you’re covering my shift tomorrow, dingus. I told you like ten times.”
“By that she means twice,” you joked, trying to extend some sort of ‘we both tease Robin’ olive branch.
He seemed to remember himself during the brief conversation, his face hardening, building a wall around himself brick by brick. His eyes were no longer intrigued, his gaze no longer weighted. No, he was something akin to irritated.
“Oh, don’t be jealous, Steve,” Robin said, clearly noting the shift in his demeanor, too. “I do in fact have friends that aren’t you.”
Steve rolled his eyes at her, and you opened your mouth to say something else, but you weren’t sure what words would suffice. Robin linked her arm through yours and guided you away before you could say anything else, anyways.
“Did I do something?” you whispered.
“Ignore him,” Robin urged you. “He’s fussy sometimes, but I swear he’s not an asshole. Anymore.”
Okay. You believe her.
At first, you’re bothered, looking over your shoulder at him like maybe you could figure out what you did wrong just by looking at him.
But then, later, when you’re in the guest room of Robin’s house laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, you remember that look. The first few seconds before you mentioned Robin, before she walked over.
Those moments where he seemed more honest, more open and warm and kind. And then he armed himself, dropped the mask of his helmet and became different.
If Robin says he’s a good friend, a good guy, then he must be. And everyone has their off days, you can understand that. Even relate. So you write it off as a one time thing, thinking next time he’ll apologize for being short with you and introduce himself properly and remember your name.
You’d only gotten that last bit right.
When he saw you next, it wasn’t an apology or a reintroduction. Rather, he’d said your name like it bugged him just to form the sound.
After the massive earthquake, you joined Robin to volunteer. You were directed to the station Steve was already manning, and Robin to the sandwiches.
When you walked up to the table, you took the time to observe him before he noticed you. Towel slung over his shoulder, his eyes heavy, like he’d been tired or seen too much. He smiled at people walking by, helped them find what they needed with a gentleness you admired.
You wanted to forget last time, give it a clean slate, so you walked up with a small but genuine smile and said a small ‘Hey, Steve.’
He looked up from his folding, pressed his hands onto the table and assessed you. Steve wasn’t mean to you, not necessarily, but he was a bit cold. Unwelcoming. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m actually from here and I just.. thought I could help. Looks like I’ll be sticking around anyways,” you shrugged, making your way around the table to join him on the other side. “Unless you wanted to fold all of these boxes on your own?”
And maybe you let your loose sweater slip off your shoulder to expose your lace bra strap. And maybe you noticed the way his eyes flicked over to your newly exposed skin before quickly flicking back to your face, like he just couldn’t help himself.
“You don’t need my permission,” he muttered. Then, “You picked an excellent time for a trip, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, thanks,” you deadpanned. “I like to plan all my travels around disastrous events.”
“Ha,” he responded, unamused.
You’d folded boxes of donations in silence for the remainder of the day.
Normally, if someone didn’t like you, you’d spiral about it a little bit. Wondering what you did wrong, how you could fix it. But it’s different with Steve.
It’s thrilling, actually, to get under his skin. To rile him up by simply being around. You know he’s got to have a reason for it, because the longer you spend in Hawkins, the longer you spend around him, you’re slowly starting to see the way he interacts with everyone else.
How much he cares about Dustin, how worried he is about Max, the way he drives Lucas to visit her every time he asks.
Steve’s not a mean guy, but he’s snappy with you. And you like to bring it out of him. Maybe he needs an outlet for his frustration, or maybe it’s just something about you, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset over it.
No, you’re determined.
You’ll make Steve Harrington crack one of these days. One way or another, you’ll tear his walls down, unarm him. You won’t let him scare you off.
-
It’s been a couple of months now. Spring giving way to the heat of summer, that stretch at the end of May into the beginning of June that warms up quickly.
And yes, you’re still in Hawkins. You’re sort of becoming a local again, you think.
With the weather warming up, you’re all finally able to take advantage of the Harrington’s pool. Sunlight bouncing off the ripples in the water tinted blue from the pool’s tile. It’s just the older bunch today, Lucas and Mike and the others doing their own thing that you’d probably rather stay curious about.
Robin had extended the invitation to you to come to Steve’s, because he’d never invite you himself.
Even after months spent around him, in his orbit, he’s still keeping you at arm’s length. Holding you back with a firm hand on your collarbone and a practiced scowl on his face. You won’t give up, though.
There’s something beneath that front he puts on around you, a reason that curtain is drawn, and you intend to find it. To tear the curtains open and let the sunlight pour in.
So, naturally you’d agreed when Robin asked if you wanted to join. Yes, it would be nice to go for a swim, to sit out in the sun and just drift for a while. But it’d be even nicer to get a rise out of Steve again. To see him roll his eyes at your jokes or sigh at your arrival or drag a big hand over his face at your prodding.
Luckily for you, you’re an overpacker and thought to bring a bathing suit with you. Even luckier, it’s one of your nicer ones. A two piece that sits high on your hips, thin straps sitting on your shoulders.
You show up to the Harrington’s in it and a pair of denim shorts, sunglasses pushed up on your head like a headband, worn tote bag hanging from your shoulder.
Steve opens the backyard gate when Robin knocks on it and follows up with a shout a solid three seconds later.
“Still here, are you?” Steve asks when he sees you.
“Oh, I’m sorry, let me just break a military-ordered quarantine to get out of your hair, princess.”
“Aw, guys,” Robin whines. “It’s too early for this. We haven’t even walked through the gate yet.”
You raise your eyebrows at Steve, because you’re not the one with the problem here. Though you suppose you do egg it on. Just a little.
“Don’t worry Robs,” you say. “Somewhere deep down, Steve likes me. He just has a funny way of showing it.”
And with that you walk through the gate, forcing Steve to move aside for you. He and Robin linger a few paces behind.
Just as you’ve been welcomed into the fold, yours and Steve’s bickering has become a usual occurrence.
“I thought we talked about your attitude, dingus,” she whispers harshly.
“I do not have an attitude.”
“Right, and I don’t have a problem with rambling. Any other lies you’d like to spew?”
“Whatever,” is his retort. Admittedly, not a great one.
By the time Steve and Robin are done with their hushed conversation, you’ve already dropped your stuff by one of the lounge chairs on the pavement, waving hello to Nancy and Jonathan where they sit with their legs dipped in the pool before turning back around and reaching for the button on your shorts.
You glance up as you do, and find that Steve’s already looking at you. Huh.
Looking him in the eyes, you purposefully slip your shorts off slowly, making a show of pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. He looks away quickly once your shorts reach your ankles like he’d been caught, his cheeks reddened. Maybe from the sun, or maybe not.
Tucking your shorts into your tote bag, you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a pleased smile.
It’s these kinds of things that keep your faith in Steve alive. The secret glances, the way his eyes find you before his mind can tell him otherwise. And his eyes are so honest then, so expressive and deep with words he refuses to say.
But you’ll get them out of him. You’re willing to play the long game here.
For now, you grab a worn paperback lent to you by Nancy out of your bag and settle onto the lounge chair on your stomach. Elbows holding you up, sunglasses slipped down over your eyes, knees bent so your feet hover in the air.
The sun beats down on your back, but you welcome it. It isn’t that harsh, aggressive burn that comes in the height of summer, but the gentle whispers of warmer days ahead.
You barely get a chapter in before a shadow falls over the yellowed pages of your book, and you can tell just by the silhouette that it’s him.
“Hey, you’re cramping my style, Harrington,” you call.
“Didn’t know the sunlight belonged to you, princess,” he responds, arms crossed, firing the nickname from earlier back at you.
Only, it doesn’t sting one bit. You imagine him saying it in a softer way, sweeter. Then you remember you’re meant to be a nuisance and wave your hand at him, urging him to scoot out of the way.
He simply rolls his eyes and steps aside.
Too easy, you think. At least, until you hear the slap of his feet against concrete as he runs towards the pool, doing a stupid cannon ball as close to you as possible, effectively splashing both you and the pages of your current read.
You glance over your shoulder at the pool as Steve comes up for air, shaking out his hair like a wet dog.
“Thanks for that,” you say, and he wipes the water from his eyes to watch you speak. “I was starting to get too hot anyways.”
He splashes you again with his hands.
“Real mature,” Robin says to him from the corner of her mouth.
You give him a pointed, sarcastic smile before turning back to your book. And that smile turns into something more real, your fingertips tracing the water droplets on the pages as if he placed each one himself.
“Asshole,” you mutter to yourself with a shake of your head, though it comes out somewhat affectionate.
One of those drops of pool water landed directly on the word cares, and you tap it once more before shutting your book and resting your head on your arms.
That’s just it, you think. Steve must care in some capacity about you. He wouldn’t be so easily frustrated, so easily revved up if he didn’t.
You wind up falling asleep like that, the sounds of water sloshing and your friends laughing fading into the background as you drift off. Your neck is sore by the time you wake up, though judging from where the sun still shines high in the sky it couldn’t have been that long.
Robin has moved to the chair next to yours, Jonathan and Nancy sharing a floaty in the pool. And Steve is no longer in sight.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Robin says when she sees your head lift.
You rotate onto your back and stretch your arms above your head. “Mm. How long did I sleep?”
“I dunno. Twenty minutes, maybe.”
“Where’d Harrington go?”
She gestures loosely towards the house. “And there goes my peace,” a pause, then, more serious; “I really wish you two would get along.”
“We’ll get there,” you say, reaching over to pat her hand. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“I think that makes me more worried, actually.” And when you swing your legs over and push yourself to stand, she adds, “Where are you going?”
“Just gonna grab a drink. I’m not gonna like, jump him, or anything.”
“Please don’t, he’s only ever won one fight.”
How many fights does one have to get into for only one win to really be notable, you want to ask, but you refrain. You take your sunglasses off completely and leave them on the chair and make your way inside.
The cool air or the AC hits you as you step inside, a welcome break from the heat that seems to be rising with the afternoon.
You’ve been in Steve’s house before, but never on your own like this. You walk to the kitchen slowly, taking in the decor around the house, the notable lack of family photos, or even ones of just Steve. It feels lived-in, yes, but it lacks the warmth of a family home. You frown at the framed landscape on the wall and move along.
You’re alone in the kitchen too, at first. Wooden cabinets giving the room a warmer tint, white backsplash with the occasional fruit tile, silver appliances. It’s simple, classic, and so clean that it doesn’t look like anybody’s cooked in it in a while.
The fridge isn’t too bad, though, a variety of sodas and a few beers, milk and orange juice and a vegetable drawer. You grab a can of Sprite and crack it open, the pop of the tab echoing in the empty room.
You close the fridge and lean your lower back against the counter. It’s cold against your sun-soaked skin.
“Oh, sure, make yourself at home,” is how Steve announces his presence, shoulder leaned against the doorframe.
He’s always doing that, you’ve noticed. Leaning on something, resting his weight somewhere as if it’s exhausting to keep himself upright, to keep himself steady.
“Aw, thank you. Very hospitable of you, Harrington.”
He scoffs at you. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re an excellent host.” You hold up your can in mock cheers.
And then it happens again, that split second where Steve’s eyes speak for him. They trace your figure, and you suddenly feel exposed in nothing but your swimsuit. Not in an uncomfortable way, necessarily. Just.. heated by his stare, by the warm brown of his eyes and how they seem almost pained.
Besides, you do your own looking, too. Steve’s still shirtless, still damp from being in the pool earlier. His shoulders pink from the sun. Your eyes follow the path of a drop of water that drips from his hair onto his chest, through the thatch of hair there and down over his stomach, disappearing into the band of his swim shorts.
You both suck in a breath at the same time, your eyes flicking upward to find his. Neither of you says anything about it, but there’s an awareness there, like the ACs been shut off, the room growing thicker.
“That was my last one,” he says, nodding to the can in your hand. Though it lacks the usual irritation he employs when speaking to you. It’s slight, like he’s trying to find it again.
The armor’s back.
“We could always share, Stevie,” you poke, holding the drink out for him.
He scoffs and spins on his heel to leave the room. You grin behind the can and take another sip.
-
The heat feels more cruel in August. A lingering, sweltering thing that has ripples coming off pavement. The humidity makes the air feel harder to walk through, a wall of resistance greeting you each time you step outside.
Today is one of the hottest days yet. So much so that even the shade doesn’t help very much.
In the time since Family Video’s… closure, Robin has found her new calling as a radio host, Steve working the sound effects and making sure things run smoothly, because God forbid they’re ever employed in separate workplaces again.
You’d helped them set things up at WSQK when they’d first taken this whole thing on. Unpacking boxes, figuring out a way to tame the mess of wires in the booth, getting some actual furniture in the place.
This time, you’re mostly just there to hang around, to watch them in action. To see Robin make use of her endless source of words to say and to watch Steve, a pencil tucked behind his ear, juggle the sound effect tapes and his can of soda. Still, he manages to look relaxed while doing it, hip leaned on the desk, t-shirt a little wrinkled. A little sweaty, even.
It’s an old building, with a severe lack of AC that is especially obvious on a day like today. Not a single cloud in the sky, the sun beaming relentlessly.
A fan whirs inside the booth, placed as far from the mic as possible. Another spins where you sit, aimed directly at you.
After a solid twenty minutes you get a little fidgety just sitting there. Assuredly, it has almost nothing to do with Robin’s hosting skills—who you’ve heard rehearsing through the walls at night—and almost everything to do with you.
You feel like you need to make yourself useful, especially after everything Robin’s done for you. Letting you be her roommate free of charge (“Your currency is putting up with Steve for me”), being completely willing to let you just join her friend group. To tag along to a life that isn’t naturally yours.
Tracing a finger along the surface of the table next to you and frowning when it comes away dusty, you decide to help them out by cleaning up a bit.
You find the supplies easily. You’re pretty sure you’re the one who unpacked them, and that they haven’t been touched since. There’s a duster, all-purpose cleaner, some paper towel, the basics. You grab it and shut the cupboard quietly and decide to start with the area outside the booth.
It’s easy enough to get into a rhythm, especially with music filling the speakers. If Steve weren’t currently occupied, you’re certain he’d give you shit for the way you bounce on your feet as you clean. You can almost hear him in your head. Wiping surfaces really puts a pep in your step? Seriously?
The booth is, obviously, currently (and for you, sort of always) off limits, so when you finish up with the little seating area, you move along to the living quarters. The two bedrooms are still a work-in-progress, some boxes still unopened, mattresses with no sheets, so you leave them alone and head into the kitchen.
It isn’t fully equipped, either, but a little more so than the bedrooms. It’s warmer here than where the fans had been going, and you lift your hair off the back of your damp neck and fan yourself for a second.
You check the fridge, but it’s pretty barren. At the very least, you shut your eyes and let the cold wash over you for a few seconds.
The heat seems to creep up on you here, beads of sweat building on your forehead, your mind going a little fuzzy in it. You finish wiping up the countertops and decide to go in search of another fan that probably won’t help much. It’ll only blow around the hot air, but a breeze is better than the thick stillness.
Just as you reach for the door to the basement, a voice stops you. His voice, of course.
“You can’t go down there,” Steve says, sneaking up on you, making you jump the slightest bit.
You turn to face him and find him with his arms crossed. Unsurprising. His t-shirt sticks to his chest a little, pushes against his arms, rides up to expose the band of his jeans.
“Didn’t know I needed authorization to go down a flight of stairs, security guard Harrington.” You wipe the back of your hand over your forehead. “I just wanted to grab another fan. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s boiling in here.”
“We don’t have another one. Two not enough for you?”
“No,” you huff, but you give up and walk away, muttering a “dunno how you’re even wearing pants right now” as you pass him.
He follows that with a stupid call of “Perv.”
You pause, not wanting him to get the last word. He sighs audibly and walks back into the booth, and just before the door clicks shut behind him, you add an immature “Weirdo.”
It’s silly, but the annoyed furrow in his brow you spot through the glass tells you it worked.
Unsuccessful in your search for a fan, you go back to the kitchen to finish cleaning in there. Climbing up onto the counters to dust the tops of the cabinets, even busying yourself by wiping down empty drawers and shelves in cabinets.
You’re onto the one beneath the sink when you get a little dizzy, your hands reaching up to grip the edge of the countertop to keep yourself from tipping over. It passes quickly enough, but it leaves you feeling a little funny. Disoriented, sluggish.
When you push yourself up to stand, it worsens, little spots dotting your vision like you moved too fast, your head aching. You lift your hair from your neck again, squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help much, but it forces the dizziness to subside enough for you to walk out of the kitchen, through the main room, and out the front door.
Yes, it won’t be any colder outside, but maybe the fresh air will help a little. It’s stuffier inside, heat being pushed around by the fans, a thickness with nowhere to go.
The sting of the harsh sunlight on your eyes makes your head pound, but you breathe in deep a few times, still hoping whatever you’re feeling will pass like a leaf carried by the wind.
Only, it doesn’t. If anything, it just keeps building. Your heartbeat thumping in your ears, nausea creeping up on you, the spots dancing in your eyesight again.
You have to catch yourself on the station’s wall just to stay upright. Closing your eyes and taking heaving breaths.
You’re so caught up in it you don’t even hear the door opening and closing. Don’t hear the footsteps approaching until there’s a shadow in front of you and a question that comes out more genuine than you’d expect.
“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks. The wording is a little harsh, because that’s how he’s used to speaking to you, but his tone is quieter, honest.
“Not used to Indiana summers anymore, I guess,” you reply, head tilting back against the wall with a little thump. It makes you wince.
And Steve, well, he surprises you. He doesn’t tell you it’s ’cause you don’t belong, or that you should’ve just stayed home. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist and says “C’mere.”
“I’m fine. I just need a minute,” you say, embarrassed.
Still, you let his hand dig into your skin, let him hold you up and guide you over to where his car is parked. He doesn’t even let go of you when he digs in his pocket for the keys.
It’s probably the closest you’ve ever been to him, and despite the circumstances, you let his touch seep into you. Let his smell surround you, amber and something a little sweet. A hint of hairspray and the saltiness of sweat.
Steve opens the car door and guides you into the driver's seat with the arm still around your waist, the other hand placed delicately on the top of your head so you don’t hit it. He leans over you to start the car, holding himself up on the centre console and fidgeting with some buttons and knobs to turn the AC up.
You resist the urge to lean into him and sink into the seat, your head tipped back against the headrest.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, pulling away and shutting the door gently. You watch him jog off through the window, feeling warm in a completely different way.
True to his word, he’s back in a couple of minutes, a water bottle in one hand and some paper towel in the other. He opens the BMW door and then takes the cap off the water bottle before handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it from him, a spark zipping up your arm. You take a few sips, and when you’re done Steve takes it and screws the cap back on.
He sets the bottle onto the roof of the car. “Here,” he says, a hand slipping to the back of your neck to get you to lean forward. You oblige, and Steve lifts your hair out of the way and places the damp paper towel there to help cool you down.
“How’s that?” he checks, a hand going in front of one of the car’s air vents to make sure they’re working. “Too cold?”
“‘S good,” you say.
And you do feel better, the pounding in your head shifting to a dull ache, your eyes focusing as they should. You feel fuzzy in a new way, looking at him. Taking in the way he makes sure the vents are aimed at you, how he hands you the water bottle again and coaxes you to take a few more sips.
It feels like you’re dreaming now.
Steve is nearly silent as he does it, like it’s completely natural for him to take care of you like this. To drop whatever he’d been outside for and let his concern bleed through the look on his face, the softness of his gaze.
It’s probably the longest he’s ever gone without snapping at you, the longest you’ve gone without taunting him in some way. The gloves have come off, and it’s just you and him. The real versions.
He sees your eyes flutter and lets the words slip before he can catch them, gentle and doting. “Hey, you feeling okay? Talk to me, honey.”
Honey. It’s earnest. Not sarcastic, but soft. What would have been a jab another time dulled to a poke, not a stab.
Steve freezes a little after he says it, worried you’ll call him out on it. Say something about how different he’s being and why he is the way he is with you.
But you do something worse. You look at him like you can see right through him, through every layer he’s covered himself in, nod, and say a delicate, “Thank you, Steve.”
He doesn’t understand why you don’t hate him by now. Can’t fathom how you never get angry at him for the things he says or the way he pushes you away. He almost wishes you would, because it would make it all so much easier.
Steve knows it’s the wrong way to go about it, has heard it from Robin a hundred times now, but his demeanour with you is his own twisted way of protecting you.
If he doesn’t let you get close to him, you’re at a greater distance from the mess he’s entangled in. If he keeps you at arm’s length, you won’t ask questions, won’t get yourself into trouble willingly.
If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have to push you away to protect you. To protect himself. But it’s far too late for that.
At first, the annoyance was real. Frustration at how clueless you were to everything, at how Robin brought you around without concern. Irritated at the prospect of having another person to look out for when he could barely manage everyone already.
But somehow, you’ve wormed your way into his life without struggle. Lingering in the corners of his mind when you’re not around, his eyes drawn to you whenever you walk into a room like a string ties him to you.
He indulges, just for a moment, and traces a knuckle across your cheek before straightening.
It’d be so easy to tell you everything, to let it spill from him in a rush and tug you close afterwards. To let the truth seep from him and move forward. But Steve, who is meant to be brave, is so afraid.
The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt because of him. So he pulls away.
“Don’t sweat too much on my seats,” he tells you before shutting the door and walking away. He’s glad he isn’t facing you, so you can’t see how hard this is for him.
You watch him leave, the hum of the air conditioning filling the space that all of a sudden feels so empty.
-
Just as it always does, August gives way to September. The heat of summer lingers during the day, the first chills of fall creeping in at night.
Not quite cold enough to wear a jacket, not warm enough to be in a tank top. This evening, you’ve opted for a mini skirt, tights, and a sweater. Steve’s in his usual jeans and a crew neck.
Steve, who you’re currently, miraculously, alone with in the WSQK van.
You’d been helping out at the station again when something went wrong with the broadcast, and after diagnosing the issue that you know nothing about, Robin sent you and Steve out to pick up some supplies to fix it.
“It’s a two-person job,” she’d urged. “And I have to stay here and be Rockin’ Robin.”
“I don’t need help,” Steve had insisted, offended at the thought of being incapable on his own.
“Actually, you do,” Robin stated. “Last time I sent you to get something you got it wrong because you can’t read labels.”
“I can read-” he cut himself off. Robin’s just as stubborn as him, and he’s not in the mood to go back and forth. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”
Steve walked out, keys spinning around his finger, without a word directed at you. That is, until he’d noticed you weren’t following him and tilted his head at you. “Well? Are you coming, or what?”
“Oh,” you’d been surprised he gave in so quickly, actually. “Right. Sir, yes sir,” you saluted like an idiot.
And now you’re here, sitting in the passenger seat of the van, Steve beside you, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tight, the radio barely audible over the sound of the wheels turning, the wind around the vehicle.
It’s nearly dark out, that shade of blue just after the sun has fallen behind the horizon, streetlights flicking on and casting a warm glow on everything.
He hasn’t said a word to you besides a muttered ‘buckle up’ since you got into the car, and you’re starting to get antsy in it. You think you’d prefer his pointed comments, his barbed words, over the silence that feels louder than it should.
It isn’t awkward, not quite, but it’s strained in a way. Like there’s some unspoken battle going on and whoever says the first word loses.
Tired of pulling at the loose thread on your skirt and saying nothing, you reach forward to mess with the radio. Turning up the volume so you can hear it properly, flipping through channels and pausing each time to hear what’s playing. You glance at Steve’s reactions, too.
You’re successful when a song sounds through the speakers and he actually winces. You turn it up a bit more to drive it home.
He’s getting predictable, you think. The twitch of his eyes or the arch of his brows.
Except, he does surprise you, sometimes. He did. That day in August, when you got overheated and he caught you effortlessly. When he doted on you and called you honey all sticky sweet like the word itself. When he was the barest you’ve seen him yet.
Steve, almost completely unguarded. Almost.
Today, though, his fences are mended. Built up once more. Which is why you’re not surprised in the slightest when he side-eyes you, huffs a dramatic breath, and mumbles “I hate this song.”
“Oh do you?” You look over at him, knees tilted towards his side of the van. “I couldn’t tell from the exaggerated sighing.”
He gives you this bitchy little twitch of his lips and flips it to another station. You hate how good he looks doing it.
You give him a sweet smile and switch it back.
And just to really get him, you start to sing along. Poorly. Completely off-key and a little shouty and absolutely uncaring.
Steve drags a hand over his face, but you aren’t deterred. You keep singing, grabbing the walkie from the dashboard and using it as a faux microphone. You don’t push any buttons, because that’d probably give him an aneurism.
“My ears,” he whines. “This is so-”
You cut him off by singing even louder. Totally annoying, but you can tell he’s battling a smile behind his hand, little crinkles at the corner of his mouth. It makes you grin stupid and genuine.
Then there are headlights shining through the windshield, bright enough to make you squint. You quiet and twist your head to get a look at the car, eyes widening a bit when you notice it’s one of the military vehicles.
Sure, their presence is known, expected, even, but it’s an odd time of day to see one driving around.
By the way Steve’s grip on the wheel has gone from tight to white-knuckle, he seems to think so too.
The vehicle’s red brake lights shine next, slowing to a stop just after passing by the van, and Steve slows, too. Not as abruptly, but to a crawl, keeping the military truck in his rear view. It pulls over. Steve does too.
“Shit,” he whispers.
“What?” you ask, brows furrowed in confusion. “The U.S. army after you, or something?”
And Steve, who would usually give you some stupid retort about how you’re more likely to be on their radar—Tourists are liabilities, he’d say morosely—says absolutely nothing. Stares in the rear view mirror with concerned focus on his face. Eyes a little wide, the rest of his face composed.
“Steve?” you prod again.
“Stop it,” he says, eyes still glued to the mirror. “Just act.. normal.”
You don’t know what it is that forces you into gear. Whether it’s the look on Steve’s face or the tension in his shoulders, if it’s the beating of your heart that feels like a warning, or maybe the sound of a car door slamming and the cool blue beam of a flashlight turning on. But something has your instincts kicking in, and you unbuckle your seatbelt before climbing into the back of the van.
Steve, even with how he acts around you, looks away when he notices the way your skirt rides up. A gentleman even when perpetually irritated.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks once you’re settled in the back. He turns around to look at you over his shoulder, at how you’ve kicked your shoes off.
You get on your knees and lean forward, unbuckling Steve’s seatbelt for him and grabbing a fistful of his sweater to get him to follow you into the back of the van.
“Giving him a reason to leave us alone.”
Steve, stunned, lets himself be pulled along by your grip, climbing out of his seat and into the back to join you. He kneels, too, your knees slotted together like puzzle pieces, his bumping your thigh.
You’re still holding his shirt even though he’s right in front of you, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath it, can smell his cologne and feel his breath fan across your cheek.
“Uh-” he starts, but fumbles. Never finds the words to say.
In his defence, you don’t really give him a chance to. The flashlight shines through the back window, heavy footsteps on pavement drawing nearer.
You do the only thing you can think of that’ll make the problem go away. You pull Steve in by his collar and kiss him.
Steve is, understandably, completely frozen at first. You bring your other hand to the back of his neck to try and get him to understand. His hesitation doesn’t last long after you sink your fingers into his hair, scraping his scalp a little.
No, he dives in. Hands shooting to find your waist and squeeze slightly before moving again, like they can’t settle in one place. A wide palm is splayed across the small of your back, the other lowering to your hip to urge you to scoot forward.
His mouth moves against yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s heated, a little frenzied, like he’s just been set loose. The hand on your hip shifts again, running up your arm, over your collarbone, knuckles tracing the side of your neck until he plants it on your cheek, using it to tilt your head where he wants you.
Yes, your goal had been to get him to kiss you convincingly enough that the man outside would just see a pair of young people making out and walk away, Steve goes beyond.
He kisses you like you’re the one that needs convincing of something. His lips firm, bruising, his grip unwavering.
The kind of kiss that tomorrow, even a week from now, you’ll feel warm just remembering.
Steve knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is a terrible idea. That falling into you this way will cause irreparable damage for him. That pushing you away will become ten times more difficult, little shards of glass embedded into his heart with each shove.
But God. He just can’t stop himself.
Not with how soft you feel against him, how well you fit, how you let him guide you and make the tiniest involuntary noise when he nips at your bottom lip. How you pulled him in, nerves in your eyes, but determination, too.
How you stepped in to help him without asking any questions.
He doesn’t deserve to have you this way, and yet he can’t imagine a world in which he’d pull away first.
Which is why you’re full on making out in the back of the van, the windows probably starting to fog, the radio, the chirp of the blinker, all fading into the background and all that’s left is the sounds of your breathing, the panting when you break away from each other just for a second before dipping forward again.
You don’t hear the man curse and walk away, you don’t notice the absence of the flashlight’s harsh glow. You don’t even notice he’s gone until you hear the door slam again, the tires rolling off, headlights fading into the distance until they’re gone completely, swallowed by nighttime.
It’s only then, when you’re certain the vehicle’s gone, that you pull away from Steve with a lewd smack.
Your eyes flutter open just in time to see the way he chases your kiss when you go.
And then his eyes are open, too, searching your face frantically, blinking like he’s not certain this whole thing has actually just happened. His hands slip away until they’re resting on his knees. Though, with the way you’re sitting, legs slotted together, you can feel his pinky brushing the inside of your thigh, tracing the seam of your tights.
You follow his lead now, dropping your hands away and sort of hugging yourself.
“Sorry,” you say. Quiet. “I probably should’ve asked before I… you know.”
Steve looks at you. Really looks at you. At how your arms are crossed over your stomach, your shoulders dropped. It’s like you’re trying to fold in on yourself, to make yourself smaller. To make his target more difficult to hit.
His hands twitch on his knees. His pinky still runs its tiny course against your leg.
“No, it was, um, smart,” he says. His voice comes out rough, not totally himself. “Good plan.”
You look at Steve, too. And you can see whatever inner struggle he’s having written on his face. His stupid, beautiful brown eyes looking a little lost, a little further away.
You understand him. Somehow, you know what he needs. When to push, when to back off.
“Steve Harrington giving me a compliment?” you say, attempting to bring things back on track. To diffuse his racing thoughts with something he’s used to. “Are you sick or something?”
You straighten and press the back of your hand to his forehead for emphasis.
Like a rehearsed routine, he scoffs lightly, smacks your hand away gently. Even then, it lacks its usual conviction.
-
As expected, the kiss is on your mind. Often.
This whole thing with Steve started out lighthearted. Flirting, teasing, poking, prodding. But over the course of your months spent back in Hawkins, it’s become more than that. Something in you seeks to be around him, even if it means shouldering the weight of his distance.
It’s become clearer the longer you spend with him that it isn’t how he really feels, but how he thinks he should feel. How he thinks he should act around you.
Your goal is much the same. Get under his skin, but even more than that, you just want to know the truth. The why.
You actually like him, and you haven’t even had the privilege of knowing the Steve that’s tucked away beneath the layers of protection. There are glimpses, light breaking the shadows, but a cloud always comes back to cover up the cracks.
After that night in the van, after that kiss, you’re more determined than ever. Because there’s no faking that. The want and desire, a match lit by the press of your mouths, by the touch of his hands.
So, yeah, you’re thinking about kissing Steve a lot. Sometimes, you’ll press your fingertips to your lips when the memory pushes itself forward, like you’re trying to remember exactly how it felt, that it wasn’t a dream.
Even now, sitting across from him in a booth at the diner, you’re thinking about it.
About how easy it would be to bridge the gap again, to see how he’d react if you weren’t doing it as a cover, if it was out in the open, no security blanket of pretending for the sake of your safe getaway.
You’re not hiding your distraction well enough, if the little kick and accusing glance Robin gives you from her seat beside you is anything to go by.
You shake your head at her, not sure if you’re denying whatever she’s thinking or just putting it off for now. Either way, it works, and she goes back to whatever debate she’d been having with Nancy, Jonathan chiming in every now and then and getting mostly overlooked save for a sweet pat on the knee from his girlfriend.
You watch them interact with a small smile, this group of people that have become your people. The way they’re able to joke with each other and know it’s out of love and warmth.
You look away when Nancy concedes and Robin, too proud, celebrates her win with her arms raised and a chant of ‘victory!’
Steve’s eyes are already fixed on you from across the table when you turn your head. And like that day at the pool those months ago, and other days since, he doesn’t hold your gaze, he looks away as if caught. Red-handed and the tips of his ears going pink.
The group’s silence is a hint for you to follow their lead and look over the menu, even though you all get the same thing every time. So you drop your gaze too, letting the toe of your shoe tap against Steve’s shin lightly.
Could be an accident, could be something else. I see you, it might say.
His leg shifts, but you’re not sure if it’s in response or just a reflex.
You look down at your menu and scan the options that you’ve practically memorized by now. There are only so many places to eat in Hawkins, after all, especially when groceries aren’t as easy to come by.
You’re reading the handhelds section when a splotch falls onto the page and interrupts your reading. It’s a small dot, and you look up to find the source when you feel the pressure in your nose. Another drop falls when you look back down and realize the source is you.
“Shit,” you mumble, reaching for some napkins.
Everyone looks at you at once, various levels of question and concern written on their faces as you hold a crumpled napkin to your nostril.
Steve’s the first to speak, and it’s a tone reminiscent of that day at the station when he sat you in the BMW and took care of you like it was easy, natural. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out awkward with the way your hand is held in your face. “Just a nosebleed.”
Only, that doesn’t seem to reassure him. Or anyone. They’re all still staring at you.
“I’ll just, uh, go clean up,” you say, scooching out of the booth and walking in hurried steps to the bathroom.
Steve watches you go. Well, they all do, but the look on his face is a little different. It’s not only worried, it’s etched with fear.
“I’m gonna check on her,” he announces. It hasn’t even been two minutes, but he doesn’t care. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t think it’ll slow until he can see you alive and talking.
For once, Robin doesn’t give him any crap as he walks off.
Uncaring and far too concerned, Steve shoulders the women’s bathroom door open after knocking twice. He doesn’t give you time to respond.
You’re standing at the sink, a fresh piece of paper towel held to your nose as you look in the mirror, assessing the damage. Luckily, no blood spilled onto your shirt. You flinch when the knocks come, when Steve comes tearing in like a heavy breeze, door blown open and shutting heavily behind him.
“Steve!” you pivot to face him, hip leaned against the counter, the arm that isn’t occupied with holding pressure crossed over your chest. “You know this is the girl’s bathroom, right?”
He ignores you. Doesn’t respond and instead searches your face with frantic, gorgeous eyes. “Have you been getting headaches lately? Nightmares?”
“Um, thanks for the therapy session, but-“
“Please.”
Steve Harrington, pleading with you. Safe to say it shuts your sarcasm off, makes your stomach twist with the way he shoves an anxious hand through his hair.
“No, Steve. I’m fine,” you tell him. It’s sincere. A promise, almost. “It’s probably just dry in here, or something. It’s like you’ve never seen a nosebleed before.”
“I’m not playing around.”
“Me either,” you say, but get frustrated with how your words come out a little nasally with your nose blocked. You pause, twisting to look in the mirror again and pulling the paper towel away to check if the bleeding has stopped. Luckily, it has.
You turn to Steve again, making sure to catch his eye, to hold it and speak as honestly as you can. “I’m okay. No headaches, no nightmares. Just a regular, boring nosebleed, alright?”
He holds your eye for a second afterwards, as if searching for any sign that you’re being dishonest. When he doesn’t find one, he nods, messing with his hair again and looking down at the floor. Breathing a couple of deep breaths.
You can’t look away from him.
You’re trying to find where his distress is coming from, as if you might see the answer written on him somewhere. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve so afraid, and it’s completely unmooring.
He cares about you, that much has become clearer now, but there’s something holding him back. Something other than himself. Something that genuinely frightens him.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” you ask. Gentle, trying not to spook him into hiding again.
“I-” he starts, but stops himself just as quickly. He shakes his head, reroutes. Steve walks over and pulls another piece of paper towel from the dispenser and wets it in the sink.
“Here,” he says, squeezing out the excess water and coming to stand right in front of you, the toes of your shoes touching.
Steve tilts your head up for him, his hand splayed on the side of your neck, his thumb tucked under your chin. He uses the damp paper towel to wipe the dried blood from your nose.
“You don’t have to-”
“Please, honey” he says again. “Just let me.”
You do.
It’s impossible to say no to him this way, with his voice low and quiet and rough, his touch so delicate. The reappearance of the word honey. It nearly undoes you. Your eyes flick over his face as he cleans you up, his tongue poked out the slightest bit in concentration.
You’re afraid to speak, afraid to shatter whatever’s happening here. Afraid to revert whatever’s made Steve drop his weapons at the door and reveal himself. Here, in the silent bathroom, it’s your own little bubble.
The rest of the world muffled, shining pink and blue in the light and tinting the moment that way, too.
When Steve is satisfied with his work, he tosses the paper towel into the garbage without moving away. His hand is still cradling your jaw lightly, like he’s afraid to hurt you. The other, now free, wipes away the leftover moisture on your upper lip with his thumb.
Steve drops it after that, as if burned. You catch his wrist before he can let the other hand fall away the same. He doesn’t meet your eye until you squeeze, your thumb feeling the rush of his pulse.
“Hey.”
He seems embarrassed all of a sudden. His cheeks getting warmer, some kind of self-appointed guilty grimace on his face. “Mm?”
“Thank you.”
You say it in that way that feels exposing to him. Thank you, but there are other meanings sheltered beneath the two words.
I understand. I can tell you’re hiding something.
I know exactly who you are, Steve Harrington. You don’t have to tell me.
You drop his wrist then, having said what you needed to. And Steve turns on his heel and leaves after whispering a small ‘yeah. ‘course.’
His shield is held in front of him again, though it no longer feels like a tough sheet of metal, but a mere piece of paper, easily poked through with the right tool.
Easily poked through if you’re the one on the other side.
-
There’s a slight shift to things since the nosebleed.
Or maybe this is only when you notice it, the tiny bits and pieces slowly building up over time until they’re big enough for you to see. A house settling on the ever-shifting earth, cracks in the porch steps, a door becoming harder to shut.
Steve hasn’t rolled his eyes at you, hasn’t so much as sighed, in at least a week. It’s probably the longest he’s gone without doing so since you’ve met, and you know it means something.
That the rock face that is Steve Harrington’s guard has slowly been eroded away by your efforts. Changed by the constant tide. His carefully pointed words dulled into a teasing that makes you feel like you’re in on the joke rather than the butt of it.
If you weren’t so zeroed in on him, if you didn’t know him well enough to be able to see his eyes soften or hear the change in his tone, you probably wouldn’t have paid any mind to any of it.
But you do focus on him. You do know him. Whether he wants to let you or not.
It gives you this dangerous little seed of hope. It's taken root in your chest, petals unfurling with every glance he steals that you pretend not to notice.
Hope that your mission, completely driven by your feelings for him now, might be succeeding. That you could make Steve crack. That you’ve chiseled away at that stony exterior to get a glimpse of the heart on the inside. Caring and kind, endlessly loyal.
Hope that things could truly be different. Better. That you could, at the very least, become friends.
Though the word friends doesn’t feel quite right. A square peg pushed into a round opening. It just doesn’t fit.
Not after everything that’s happened these last few weeks. Taking care of you in the sun and with your nosebleed, the genuine concern, the tenderness that leaked through. Especially not after the way he kissed you in the van.
You think about it now, walking up to the doors of the WSQK building, the van parked outside, ground crunching beneath your feet.
You weren’t planning on coming by today. You were fully planning on lounging around at Robin’s for the day. Watching whatever movies she has lying around, napping on the couch. You’d gotten about five minutes into movie number one when you saw Robin’s lucky coin left on the coffee table.
She’d told you about it once when she asked if you had any change and you had pointed it out. Told you that she keeps it in her pocket for every broadcast, that it would be ‘an abomination’ to get rid of it now.
You can tell it’s the coin because she’d placed a dollop of nail polish on it to differentiate it from the others. Won’t that mess with its luckiness, you’d asked her. Um, that’s totally not how it works, Robin had responded, like it was a ridiculous question.
So anyway, when you spotted it left behind on the table and knew she was doing a broadcast later today, you wanted to bring it to her.
Turns out her lucky token is kind of shit when it’s in your pocket instead.
You open the doors to the Squawk, expecting to find Robin and Steve bantering in the main area. To hear them, at least. Or to see Dustin fixing something with the satellite or whatever it is.
Instead, you’re met with silence.
You know people are here though. Steve’s BMW is outside, too. The doors unlocked, the lights on. There’s even a half-empty pot of coffee in the kitchen. A couple of dirty dishes in the sink.
However, your search of the main floor comes up empty. Briefly, you wonder if they’re pulling some kind of stupid prank on you. If they saw you walking up the drive and decided to hide and jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ when you jump.
Then your eyes land on the doors leading to the basement. The strip of light slipping through the cracks of the door.
You can’t go down there, you remember Steve saying. All stern and irritated. But things aren’t how they were in August. You shake your head and walk towards the doors.
Tugging a heavy one open with a click, you breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of voices travelling up the stairs.
“There you guys are!” you call, heading down. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Robin you forgot your-”
You freeze at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone is down here. Like, everyone. And they’ve all gone silent, staring at you with varying expressions of surprise and nerves, like they’re worried you overheard or saw something you shouldn’t have.
“-lucky coin,” you finish weakly.
“Oh!” Robin walks over to you and takes the coin from your palm, sliding it into her pocket. “Well, thanks for bringing it. We were just, uh..”
She’s doing that frantic rambling thing, saying a bunch of words that don’t actually mean anything strung together. You look around and find that pretty much everyone else is acting strange.
Jonathan’s shoulders are tensed high, Nancy worrying the inside of her cheek. Lucas and Mike share a look that says something like ‘what do we do?’ and ‘I don’t know.’
And Steve. Steve can’t even look at you.
“What’s going on?” you ask. “Is everything okay?”
“We’re fine!” Robin tells you, but the squeak in her voice isn’t very convincing. “Why don’t you head upstairs, and we’ll be right behind you.”
“I know when you’re not being honest, Robin,” you say.
It’s one thing when it’s the others hiding something. Lucas or Mike or whoever. You could live with them not telling you something. Hell, you’ve been coping with Steve’s secretiveness this whole time and you still haven’t given up, but it’s different with Robin.
She’s your best friend, and she doesn’t trust you enough to let you in on this.
“It’s nothing,” she tries again.
“Robin. Come on, it’s me.”
“I, um.”
Robin doesn’t get the chance to find the words, because Steve finally looks up from the floor and steps forward.
“You should go,” he says. His voice is cold. Detached, almost.
You’re taken aback by it. Not the words, necessarily, but the way he says them. This is the Steve from before. Not the one you know now.
“What?” you say, weak.
“Leave,” he practically spits.
“No. No, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”
“You can’t,” Steve adds. Every word is a sharp little paper cut swiped against your vulnerable skin. “You aren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. You don’t belong.”
“But-”
You can feel your resolve cracking with every syllable. Your heart beating an uncomfortable rhythm in your chest, your stomach sinking.
Then, he really does you in.
“You never should have come to Hawkins.”
It’s something aimed to not only cut, but stab. Words picking at an old wound.
Because there’s an underlying message in there. That you were never supposed to be in his life, that he didn’t want you in it. It’s as cruel as saying he wishes he’d never met you.
You look around at everyone else in the room, face heating, embarrassed. Nobody says anything. They don’t defend you, they don’t tell you to stay, that Steve didn’t mean it.
You nod, chin wobbling, and turn around, rushing up the stairs. Robin tries to grab your wrist, but you shake her off, the door slamming harshly behind you as you go.
The tears don’t fall until you’re outside, the wind speeding them along and making them tumble in fat drops down your cheeks, streaking your face.
You don’t belong, when you thought you’d been making progress. That maybe Steve actually liked you. You never should have come to Hawkins.
No, maybe you shouldn’t have, you think, wiping at your cheeks and your nose with the cuff of your sweater. Your hands are harsh, much harsher than Steve’s were in the bathroom at the dinner.
You kick a pebble. Even now, when he’s hurt you, he’s on your mind.
Back in the basement at the Squawk, the group’s eyes have turned onto Steve instead of you. Robin’s are the most accusing of all, though they all feel heavy against him. It makes his skin itch, uncomfortable.
“What?” he bites, before going upstairs himself.
And the thing is, Steve thought he was done nipping at you like that. He wanted to be done. With all of it. The name calling and annoyed looks, the sighing and the comments.
He wanted to move forward. He’d been trying to figure out how to apologize to you, actually. What the right words would be, if they would be enough.
Because he fucking cares about you. So much it scares him.
He doesn’t even know every piece of you, and he cares this much. It terrifies him to think about how big his feelings could get if he let you in. How badly it would hurt him if you got hurt, if it was because of him.
Steve knows what he did today was wrong. It wasn’t even what he wanted to do, but he was trying to get you as far away from the danger as possible and it manifested itself in the way he was used to.
He’s not an aggressive person. He isn’t who he used to be in high school. He doesn’t know why he bites.
And that look on your face just before you left, the wobble of your lip and the way your eyes welled but you wouldn’t let a tear fall, the defeat, your shoulders deflated. Well, that look will haunt him for a long time.
But if there had to be a monster in your life, at least it’s him and not something much, much worse. At least you’re still alive and breathing.
Steve can bear the weight of your hurt, can let it crush him and break him down to dust, as long as you’re alright in the end.
-
You cry the whole way back to Robin’s.
It’s the sadness, at first. The hurt and the sting of everything that had happened. Everyone’s silence, Steve’s words and how he sounded like a different person when he said them.
After that, it’s frustration. At yourself for thinking things had changed, for letting yourself cry over it now. And at Steve, for being so confusing. Because when the emotions subside, you look at things more broadly.
Sometimes, he can be so sweet. His eyes go soft and honest and expressive, and then he pulls it away. He puts up a wall that he just refuses to let you tear down or climb. You really thought you’d found a way, that you’d met in the middle of it.
You did your share of trying, of finding your footing between stones, and Steve held out a hand and tugged you the rest of the way over.
And then today happened.
But now, with your tears dried and your head less clouded, more than anything, you’re fed up. Tired of throwing fake punches and watching them land. Of taking hits yourself. So you come up with another plan.
You’re going to get answers out of Steve, and this time, you won’t back off until you get them.
First, you wait. You turn on the radio and listen to the Squawk, trying not to relive this afternoon every time you hear Robin’s voice or catch a sound effect and know that Steve is behind it. You listen until the broadcast ends sometime in the evening. Then you wait some more, calculating the time it would take Steve to get home from the station.
Once you’re pretty sure he’d be back at his house, you slip your shoes on and head out the door again.
The skies have darkened since earlier today, the sunset hidden behind gray clouds, but you don’t care. Don’t pause to grab an umbrella or a jacket, you just keep walking.
Eventually, rain starts to fall, but you let it seep into your clothes and over your skin.
You’re soaked by the time you get to the Harrington household, pressing the doorbell nonstop until you see Steve through the glass and hear the lock turn.
“What are you doing here?” he says, not nearly as harsh as his tone had been earlier today.
Steve is shocked to see you, but he’s glad, too. He was afraid that how he’d acted today was enough to push you away for good. It’s what he thought the right thing to do was, and it felt like the complete opposite.
He looks you over. The same clothes from before, now drenched, your shoes squeaking a little as you bounce on your feet. Your wet hair clings to your cheeks. You look beautiful, you always do.
Your shivering has him springing into action. “Jesus, you must be freezing. Come in.”
Steve tugs you inside with a hand loosely wrapped around your wrist. He drops it to shut the door behind you, then leaves. You slip off your shoes in his absence, wrap your arms around yourself.
He comes back with a towel and a blanket, first draping the towel over your shoulders, then following it up with the blanket. He rubs your arms to help warm you up.
And this is exactly what you’d been talking about. The contrast between the Steve from earlier and the one standing in front of you now is clear. Now, his instincts have kicked in. And those instincts have him taking care of you once more.
He pushes your hair off your face and behind your ear so tenderly. It’s what makes you finally speak.
“Did I do something?” you ask.
Steve drops his hand, but he doesn’t back up. “What?”
“Was there something I did to make you not like me?”
“I- I don’t not like you,” he stutters out.
“Then how come you act the way you do? Like today?” You don’t even give him the chance to respond, to lie weakly to your face. “I really thought we were getting somewhere. I even thought-”
That you cared, you almost say.
You shake the thought off and continue. “I just want to know why, okay? Then I’ll go.”
“You didn’t do anything,” he says. He sounds torn, pained. “You didn’t.”
“So tell me the truth,” you try. It’s strained too. The drops of water spilling from your clothes and your hair might as well be your blood with the way you feel. Like you’re bleeding out in front of him and waiting to see if he’ll wrap the wound or slice you further. “Stop being so afraid, Steve.”
“That’s not fair. You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. So make me understand.”
Steve runs an agitated hand through his already messy hair. Like he’s been doing it all day. His chest is heaving, and a part of you wants to reach out and place a hand over his heart, to see if he’s as affected as you are.
His head turns to the side, you pry it back to you with a murmured, “Steve.”
“I was just trying to protect you.”
A breath is punched from you. Maybe because you’re finally getting what you wanted, that your suspicions have been confirmed. Or maybe because, even though you’d been right, it doesn’t feel good.
“You had to be.. to be mean to do that? Really?” You almost laugh at how it sounds. What could possibly be so bad that made him think he needed to in the first place? “I’m not defenceless, Steve. I’m not dumb or weak.”
“I was trying to keep you safe!” he huffs, as if you hadn’t heard him the first time. “I’m still trying to.”
“Well, stop. It’s not for you to decide what I can or can’t handle, Steve.”
“I know-”
“So what is it? What’s this big bad secret I can’t possibly be strong enough to keep?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then tell me what you mean. Please, Steve, for once, just tell me.”
He’s practically panting now, and he knows you won’t stop until he gives you something, and maybe he’s tired of hiding, too. Both hands come up to fist his hair, drag down his face.
He’s fighting a battle that’s living in his own head, not with you.
“Steve,” you say his name again, and it undoes him.
“Because I care about you, okay?” the words seem to spill out of him like they’ve been trying to escape for a long time now, rushed and loud.
But then something changes, Steve’s wild eyes scan your face, like he’s waiting for you to shut him down, to run. When you hold his eye, scrunch your brows in a gentle question, it’s like he’s been set free completely.
“I like you,” he says, quieter now but no less intense, wholly honest and devastatingly relieved, a weight finally dropped to the ground and off his back. “I like how you never mind your own business and how you reread the same books over and over. I like that you sometimes mouth the words Robin says because you know her so well. I like how much you fit in with everyone, how Dustin asks you for advice and Lucas talks to you about Max.”
Your eyes well for a whole other reason. All this time.
“I like how you speak with this little accent ‘cause you moved away, and I like that you came back.” He huffs a small laugh to himself. “I like you so much it scares the shit out of me, because this town, us, we’re not normal. It’s not- it’s not safe.”
“Wha-”
“And I thought that by pushing you away, by keeping you at a distance, you’d be far from the danger, too. That as long as you were safe, I could handle being the villain in your book, or whatever.” Steve looks down at his feet. “I realize now how stupid that sounds. I’ve been called an idiot plenty of times before, so, yeah.”
Your eyes are soft on him, and you look at him the way you always do. Like you know who he really is.
“I like you too, Steve,” you say finally, and it feels freeing. An ember relit in your chest. “You could have just talked to me, you know.”
“I should have,” he settles on. It’s his version of a white flag waving. I’ve dropped my weapons, he’s saying. It’s a battle finally over. Troops called back, the sun rising anew. “I’m sorry, honey.”
You’re still cold from the water trapped in your clothes, but the room feels far warmer.
“I’m sorry, too,” you tell him. “I was kind of riling you up on purpose, so..”
“I fucking knew it,” Steve whispers, shaking his head, but he lets himself smile when he does. The fondness not only in his eyes but in the shape of his mouth this time.
He steps closer, your toes almost touching, and pries your hands away from where they grip the edge of the blanket tight. He holds them between his own, larger and far warmer. Steve hisses through his teeth when he feels how icy your fingers are, dipping his head down to blow some warm air on them, tightening his grip.
There are still things left unsaid, questions unanswered, but the touch is grounding. Reassuring. It’s a promise that they will be said soon, that he isn’t going anywhere.
“It worked, didn’t it?” you joke gently.
“Yeah, it worked.”
You’re not sure who moves first after that, all you know is that you’re shrugging off both the blanket and the towel to free your arms, Steve dropping your hands in favor of framing your face, thumbs running sweet lines across your cheeks.
Yours wrap around his back, drag him closer, one hand fisted in the material of his shirt, the other on the back of his neck. He shivers, from the coolness of your touch, yes, but from the honesty of it, too.
The familiarity.
His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then he’s kissing you, lips bruising against yours, but not as heated as that time in the van.
It’s a slow dance, him taking your bottom lip between his, you meeting him in the middle, your stomach swirling.
The best part isn’t the way he licks at your lip in between kisses, though it makes your heart flutter, or the sweet caress of his thumbs on your cheekbones, but the way that he pulls away.
Because the kiss is broken by his smile. Unabashed at last.
You can’t help but mirror it, cold long forgotten when he leans in and drops his forehead against yours, like he can’t bear to not have you close anymore.
“So,” you start, voice soft in the space between your faces. “Will you let me come?”
“Uh, a little forward, honey-”
You swat his stomach. “Mind out of the gutter, Harrington. Am I a part of this now?”
Steve pulls back just to make sure you can really see him, hands still warm on your cheeks as he says, “Yeah, you’re with me.”
(¬`‸´¬)
thank u so so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog and letting me know!! reblogs are the best way to support writers like me and it would mean a bunch!! love u!!
"Oh my God, have you seen the new girl?" It's almost cliche, the way the group of girls giggle over the latest hot school gossip.
"Right? I mean, come on with that outfit!"
They quiet when Stanley walks by, giggling for a whole new reason now. One girl twirls her hair around her finger, batting her eyelashes, but he just keeps moving. He had no interest in people like that, but that only seems to make them swoon over him more once he passes.
He makes a hard left, the school chemistry lab just ahead, with Xeno likely already inside.
"Yo," He says, throwing the door open. Several other science club students startle, but Xeno doesn't budge. He stands calmly, carefully mixing chemicals and noting the reactions.
"Stanley," Xeno says. "You made it."
"Uh-huh." Stanley kicks out a chair from a nearby table and drops himself into it.
The lab returns to its quiet bustle, the other students focusing again on their experiments and reports. Stanley idly glances around the room, watching each and every one of them for a moment before letting his gaze settle on Xeno.
Xeno's eyebrows are knitted tightly, his eyes entirely focused on the delicate chemicals. His gaze never wavers, his attention never strays.
"You see the new student today?" Stanley asks once he finally gets bored of watching Xeno drop one chemical into another at an excruciatingly slow pace.
"Indeed. She and I share our third period computer science class together," Xeno says, voice soft as if he worried being too loud could ruin his experiment.
"Mm."
"And you, Stanley?"
"American Lit. Fifth period. She sits next to me."
"How lucky for her."
Stanley chuckles and rolls his eyes. He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, toying with the lighter he hid within one of them. He was itching for a smoke, but the last time he got caught on campus he was threatened with suspension, which he couldn't afford right now.
The two fall once again into silence, but that wasn't uncommon. They'd known each other for so long that they rarely needed to talk too much about little nothings anymore. At most, Xeno may make a few idle comments about whatever he was testing, but any real conversation would likely wait until they were in Stanley's car on the way home.
Xeno's eyes lift, finding the source of the voice standing in front of him, anxiously gripping a notebook.
"Yes?" He asks. You shift your weight from foot to foot, the tips of your ears a cute pink.
"The teacher...said to work with a partner on the, uh, project she assigned?" You say it like a question, as if you weren't totally sure you were correct in what you'd been told.
"Ah, did she? I apologize, I wasn't listening." It was a lie, of course, he'd heard the instructions perfectly clearly. He was used to working mostly alone, so he was a bit surprised that you had approached him.
"Do...do you mind?" You ask, cheeks turning pink now. He can hear the sounds of some other girls giggling, the weight of their stares heavy on his shoulders. So, you'd been denied by everyone else, it seems.
"Of course not," He says, gesturing for you to take a seat by him. You let out a relieved sigh, grabbing a chair from a nearby desk and settling it across from him, gingerly setting your notebook down on the top of his desk. "We haven't yet met officially, my name is Xeno."
You tell him your name, smiling sheepishly when he repeats it carefully back to you.
You dust your hands over your shirt, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Xeno had said to meet him in his club's classroom after school so that the two of you could go home together and work on your project, but you couldn't help feeling nervous.
Making friends in this new school had been really difficult, but he had been very nice to you the past few days, so you felt hopeful that you might be able to come out of this assignment with someone you could continue to talk to and maybe hang out with on weekends. But that relied on you not totally fucking this up and making him hate you on accident.
You start to reach for the door, jumping a little when it swings open from the inside.
"Oh," The young man who looks down at you is downright stunning. You'd seen him before, of course, he was your desk neighbor in your American Literature class. But this was the first time you'd heard his voice, the first time he'd actually paid you any attention. "Hey."
"Hi," You say softly. "I'm...looking for Xeno?"
"Inside," He says, brushing by you and heading down the hall, hands stuffed in his leather jacket pockets. He didn't strike you as the kind of person to be in the science club, but anything was possible.
Stepping inside the room, it's exactly what you expected. There are are several students inside, some in groups while some worked individually. Xeno stood at a desk in the front right corner, his back to you as you walk further in. He turns to glance at you when you softly call his name upon approach, offering you a kind smile.
"Give me one moment to finish this and we will leave shortly," He says, waving for you to come closer and sit in the chair that rested at his side. You decide to work on some homework while you wait, carefully balancing both a textbook and your notebook on your lap.
It takes about an hour for Xeno to finish what he's working on and clean his station, but soon enough he's giving you a gentle nudge and telling you it was time to go. He smiles when you scramble to pack your things up and throw your backpack over your shoulders.
"My friend Stanley will be driving us," He says, leading you from the room. "I hope you don't mind, he'll be sticking around for the rest of the day."
"That's fine!" You say, perhaps a little too eagerly. Xeno smiles again at you.
"Excellent," He says. You follow him through the halls, pausing at his locker long enough for him to transfer a few items to and from his bag, then out into the parking lot. He walks slightly ahead of you once you exit the doors, his pace picking up the moment you both hit fresh air.
He pauses at the edge of the sidewalk where parents would pick up students who didn't drive yet or ride the bus, but the two of you only wait about a minute and a half before a car whips around, stopping just in front of you. The passenger window slides down, and in the driver's seat, you see the beautiful boy from earlier leaning over the middle console to look at the two of you.
"Get in," He says. You note the cigarette between his teeth, wondering now if that was the reason he'd left in such a hurry.
Xeno opens the back door to deposit his bag, taking yours from you to do the same before telling you to sit up front.
"Don't worry," He says when you hesitate. "Stan doesn't bite."
Stanley Snyder does, in fact, bite. He just doesn't bare his teeth until he has to.
You get comfortable around him pretty quickly, which seems to drive every girl in the school totally insane. Not that you could blame them, Stanley was objectively beautiful and ignored just about everyone.
On a typical day, he's calm-if not a bit lazy-and generally collected. He sticks close to Xeno, which means that as you and the young scientist get closer, he begins sticking to you as well. He talks to you in class now, leaning over to mumble bad jokes that make you laugh too hard to be ignored by the teacher.
But today was not your typical day.
You'd been on you way to meet Xeno and Stanley for your after school hangout and homework time, when you were cornered by a senior guy by your locker. He'd leaned against the lockers, grinning and proud at the way you startled at the sight of him. You tied to go around, but he moved to purposefully block you, keeping himself in front of you so that you couldn't break and run.
"I just wanna talk to you," He says.
"I really don't want to talk to you," You say, trying to scoot around him, only to fail yet again. You were getting frustrated and a little scared. Xeno and Stanley were waiting for you, you didn't want them to leave you behind just because some asshole wanted to make himself feel big.
"C'mon, you hang out with that science club freak and his pretty faced boytoy all the time, why don't you spend your day with someone else, huh?" He asks, reaching to make a grab for you. His words make you flush a bit in anger. Sure, you knew Stanley and Xeno were something (they weren't exactly subtle), but to have it thrown at your face as if it's a bad thing made you absolutely livid.
Who was this guy to talk about your friends that way? He didn't know them! How dare he!
"Don't talk about them like that!" You snap, just barely too slow to avoid the hand that clasps around your forearm. The boy in front of you scowls, his grip on your arm tightening to a bruising hold.
"Come hang with me, and I'll show you what a real man is," He sneers, making your face flush even hotter.
"I said no!"
"Don't be such a little prude-"
What happens next happens so fast that it takes far longer than it should for you to process. The boy holding to you is jerked backwards hard enough to force him to release you, though you also stumble forward a few steps at the sudden movement. Then, before you can blink, Stanley has him slammed into the floor. He stands over him, frighteningly calm despite the hard glare his golden eyes burn into your harasser.
"Pretty sure when a lady tells you no, you're supposed to back the fuck off," Stanley hisses, his voice dripping with sarcasm and anger.
You can't help jumping a little when those sharp eyes flit up to look at you, though you note how they soften at the sight of you're slightly shaking figure.
"You alright?" He asks. You nod quickly.
"Y-yeah, I'm good. Can we go?" You ask, taking a tentative step towards him.
"Course we can," He says, stepping back from the other boy and lifting an arm for you to tuck yourself under. He holds you against his side, escorting you without further issue outside to where Xeno had been left waiting.
You don't question where he goes after he and Xeno discover the hand-shaped bruise on your arm, nor do you question why that same boy comes to school several days later with two broken hands and a black eye.
Something inside you already knows that Stanley did it for you.
Your relationship shifts suddenly one night after graduation.
The three of you are in your room, Xeno leaning against your pillows with a book in his hand while you sit in the middle of you bed, makeup strewn around you, and Stanley sits on the edge, leaned forward so you can paint his face as you see fit.
"Open," You say. Stanley huffs in amusement, parting his lips so that you can press the lipstick against his waiting mouth, swiping your favorite deep purple across his surprisingly soft looking lips.
"Now rub."
He hums, doing as instructed. You pick up a little pocket mirror and open it, handing it to him so that he can look at your handiwork.
"Not bad," He says, turning his head left and right to fully inspect his new face.
"The dark lips suit you, Stan," Xeno says, peering over his book to take a look for himself, earning an amused hum from Stanley.
Its in this moment that you realize how close Stanley had gotten. His face mere inches from yours, eyes heavy with...something. Something heavy, something wanting. It makes you flush and shuffle backwards on instinct alone.
Stanley follows, crawling after you, backing you up even further. He doesn't stop until you're literally in Xeno's lap, the other young man letting out a noise of annoyance and frustration.
"Must we do this now?" Xeno asks, letting his book fall to his side, his arms wrapping around your middle as if to guard you from Stanley, who pouts. It was always quite the sight to see, when his lower lip stuck out and his eyebrows furrowed like that.
"Don't act all innocent right now, Xee," Stanley says, smirking when both he and you notice that one of Xeno's hands has snuck under the hem of your shirt, his fingertips gingerly brushing over the soft skin of your side.
Your whole body feels warm, heart hammering in your chest. Weren't they partners? What was happening right now?
Stanley creeps closer, effectively sandwiching you between the two.
"Hey," He says, voice low. "Wanna make out?" His question flusters you just as much as Xeno's continuing touch. It felt so out of character for him, yet he still sounded so like himself.
You must nod, or agree in some other way, because before you know it, Stanley's lips are on yours, smearing his freshly done lipstick all over you. His tongue ends up in your mouth, and you suddenly become very aware of how much more experience he has.
He pulls back slightly, lips drifting from yours to press kisses to your cheeks and jaw while you pant softly. Both of Xeno's hands are up your shirt now, his wicked fingers making you shiver.
"What's the verdict?" Xeno murmus, pressing his own lips the soft spot between your neck and shoulder.
"Perfect," Stanley hums, sinking his teeth into your other shoulder, kissing the spot when you wince.
"Quite the conclusion you've come to," Xeno says, one hand sliding from your torso to your chin, turning your head as far as it would comfortably go to look back at him. "I think I'd like to give my own opinion, if I may."
"Okay," You breathe, drunk on all the attention.
Xeno's kiss is slower, more exploratory. He doesn't devour you, like Stanley had, but that doesn't change how good it was.
Both of them kissed you like they wanted you, like they'd wanted you for a while, and by the time the night ends, all three of you are covered in lipstick.
A collection of my fics (most are still WIPs) in which the DCST boys find love in all the wrong places.
Warning: All of these contain age gaps! I explore more taboo themes!
Tenderness For The Coffee
Synopsis: Xeno is experiencing a midlife crisis, and a young barista appears to be the answer to sweeten his bitter life.
I. Sugar Cube
II. [PENDING]
Teacher's Pet
Synopsis: Dr. Ishigami, a beloved professor praised by his peers and even more by his students. Known for starting his lectures with awful science jokes that coincidentally elicit laughter, for falling into tangents that leave him winded, and for teaching with an infectious smile and laughter that spread across his lectures, only to fail to reach the student he desperately wants, you.
You are what he considers a rare scientific prodigy! You have a knack for picking things up quickly, yet you have no interest in pursuing a career in science. Countless email threads, staying behind after lectures, and invitations to private office hours, Dr. Ishigami is determined to change your mind.
[PENDING]
Off The Menu
Synopsis: Officially retired from the U.S. Marine Corps, Stanley finds himself back in his small town, in the dingy diner where he spends his days loitering. Older and bitter, with his right foot occasionally giving him trouble, Stanley drives away all the waitresses with his crude attitude and responses, except for the only person who spits his attitude right back at him.
[PENDING]
Past Due
Synopsis: Playboy Ryusui finds himself at the local city library, holding an old book falling apart at the seams, which he found left behind at the café he frequents. A simple transaction leaves him infatuated with the cute librarian, who barely meets his gaze and is quieter than a mouse.
𖹭.ᐟ SUMMARY: Senku received an invitation from NASA to join a mission but it seems he forgot one thing, actually it seems like he's forgotten about a lot. After becoming complacent in his relationship with you, it seems he forgot about the concept of romance itself. You and him have been in a relationship for a long time now and yet, would you even be called a couple?
Romance has been neglected in this "romantic" relationship and it sends Senku spiraling. He questions whether or not he's done anything to deserve your loyalty and devotion to him, after all he's only ever repaid it by coming home late everyday and barely even treating you right.
But Senku's never been a quitter, science gives him no choice in that regard with all the trial and error he has to endure, so instead of giving you up he vows to make things right even if it means learning how to be conventional.
𖹭.ᐟ Word count: 11.8k
𖹭.ᐟ Content: Senku's POV, Canon divergence, Senku works at NASA, Established relationship, Light angst, Happy ending, SFW
Senku's project advisor closed the door as he exited the meeting room. The leek-haired man's phone vibrates, reminding him he was on a call.
"Taiju? Oh, sorry about that." Senku presses his phone to his ear, talking to the man on the other side. "Don't worry about it! And that's amazing, Senku! Congrats!" Taiju's boisterous voice rang loud, making Senku put some distance between his phone and his ear.
He let out a laugh, trying not to feel too smug about it. "Yeah, well, it's no big deal. It was almost to be expected with the amount of work I contributed into the project."
He smirks, leaning on a wall while the conversation continues. "That's true... then I assume that they're okay with it?" He hears Taiju ask and raises a brow.
"Them?..." He licks his lips in thought, "What do you mean?"
Taiju's line goes quiet for a moment before Senku hears his voice again, he mentions your name and continues. "Do they not know? Oh, well, I just mean... don't you ask your partner first before agreeing to those kinds of things?"
Taiju pauses before continuing, "Since its a big deal and you had agreed so quickly, I assumed you already talked about it with them."
Senku's reply is only him humming in thought. "Though if I was in that situation, Yuzuriha probably won't be mad anyways so I can't imagine them being any different... oh well!" He couldn't believe that Taiju, that oaf, of all people was giving him something vaguely like relationship advice.
It was true that Senku had agreed rather fast when the project advisor had approached him, he was on the phone with Taiju when it happened so it was only natural that his friend had overheard everything. Senku was offered a seat in the latest mission, a project he'd also contributed a lot towards. For him, it was a no-brainer to accept, it was a great opportunity after all. It's not like it'd be his first time flying off to space either, so... was it really necessary to bring it up to you first? The thought hadn't crossed his mind. Though now that Taiju had pointed it out, it left him conflicted.
Senku was almost completely lost in thought when he heard Taiju speak again, "Oh, Senku! Yuzuriha's calling me down for dinner so I gotta go. It was nice catching up!"
Senku's eyes found the clock hanging on the wall opposite to him, realizing Taiju was right, he hasn't even noticed. "Yeah man, have a good one." The call ended.
Senku brought the phone down from his ear and stared at his lockscreen. The clock on his phone had also read 7:22 PM. His eyes drifted to his wallpaper, looking at the photo he had set as his wallpaper. It was a photo of you and him wearing your highschool graduation robes, taken after the ceremony.
He sighs, Taiju's words was bothering him more than it should. Why was it gnawing at him? He turns off his phone and rubs his temple, the bright lights were starting to get to him too. Perhaps it'd do him some good to come home early, and have that chat with you too while he's at it.
...
The apartment was quiet when Senku entered, but not silent. He could hear you were home, if the mood lighting turned on was not enough evidence of your presence.
"I'm home..." Senku announced, closing the door behind him as he loosened his tie. Upon entering the living room, he immediately spotted you by the couch. The warm glow of the floor lamp was the only thing illuminating the room, but it was enough for Senku to see the scattered mess across the coffee table.
You, who were sorting through folders, looked over your shoulder with shock to see him. "Senku! You're home early?" Not waiting for a reply, you immediately picked up some documents laying on the couch, adding it to the pile on the coffee table instead. Tucking them away to make space for him to sit.
Senku was about to argue. One, that it wasn't an early time to be home and two, that you didn't need to bother. But he shut his mouth instead, sitting next to you, and compared to the time he'd usually go home- it was early.
"If I'd known, I would've cooked us dinner." You smile, discarding the folder to focus on him instead. "Oh! have you actually eaten dinner yet? If not, I can-"
He sighs, cutting you off. "I ate at the office, it's fine."
He leans into the couch, relaxing. You copy him, "Alright, that's good..." You let out a satisfied hum.
What once would've warmed his heart with appreciation for your understanding nature, now tugs his heartstrings.
It slips into his mind again, he'd forgotten about it briefly on the commute home. But it's here again. There was this doubt that it shouldn't be like this. Then again though, it's not like it was actually something to complain about. Other people would probably die to have a partner that wouldn't complain even if they always get home from work late, even if they always missed dinner, or go on work trips without asking for permission first.
He sighed and ran his hand through his scalp. Of course, it doesn't escape you.
"Was work extra tough today?" He turns to look at you, only to find the gentlest eyes paired with the warmest of smiles. The look of love he's ever so familiar with, you never looked at him with anything else but love in your eyes, and it made his chest feel tight.
You didn't push him for an answer, recognizing the look of distraction on him. His mind was always running. "I'll get us something to drink." You stand up, heading to their kitchen. And Senku was left with his thoughts. Again.
Well, he came home with a concept of a plan. Talk to you about what he was feeling. Because he had never struggled to voice out what he felt, ever.
Lies, of course. For someone who is always telling other people to just verbalize what's on their mind, Senku certainly struggles when it was his turn. It was inefficient, and the heavy feeling on his tongue was mocking him.
It reminded him why it took years to even admit he had romantic feelings for you. He can hear your soft humming coming from the kitchen and it reminds him of how long you've actually been together. From quietly working together in the school's science club, to staying up during the late nights to finish college assignment and now living under the same roof.
Your relationship with Senku was never rocky, steady, in fact. You've always been together, always the other's constant and Senku had grown comfortable with that. But now there was this lingering thought that won't leave him.
He might've continued spiraling but the feeling of cold glass pressing on his cheek brought him out it, "Huh?"
"Something's on your mind, isn't it?" You ask him, handing him the glass of water while you sipped your own.
Senku puts off answering the question by drinking his own, but decides to speak up in the end. "...I got invited to join the mission."
You hum, "The one you were working on? Mhm, that sounds great."
Right, see? What Taiju said, it was unfairly making his stomach sick. Got him thinking about "normals," something he hadn't done since he was in middle school and wondering if there was something wrong with him when he struggled to feel romantic attraction towards other people. Something that seemed to come so naturally towards his peers.
But, he thought for sure things were surely different now. Senku got comfortable with that. How can he not? It came so easy with you.
You had accepted his entirety without struggle, and with welcoming arms instead. When Senku had first mentioned to you about his struggle with intimacy, you didn't even have a hint of surprise on your face.
Throughout your relationship with him, you never asked for more than what he gave. But what has he given you? The guilty feeling that he’s been lacking is what weighs him down, Taiju only made him remember it was there.
Senku eyes you sitting next to him, rubbing your eyes as you look over some documents. So normal couples even bother asking to go away on business trips? Well, a space mission isn’t a typical business trip but… semantics.
If Senku had missed the note on that, what else had he missed out on that the average conventional couple did?
“Are you…” Senku starts, licking his lips. “Are you okay with that?” His hands wetter from sweat than the condensation from the glass of water.
You look at him weirdly, “What.” You chuckled. “Well, yes..? Why wouldn't I be?”
He wasn’t nervous about the possibility of you not being okay with it, in fact he doubted it was even a possibility at all– and you had just confirmed that.
“You never usually ask anyways?”
Senku placed the cup on an empty spot on the table. “I hear it’s what other people do.” He spoke, slower, words feeling a little heavier than they usually do. “…ask for their partner’s opinion.” He clarifies.
You hum absentmindedly, “Doesn't mean we have to, it’s fine. Why would I ever want to hold you back from what you enjoy?”
Those comforting words send Senku spiraling once more, why did you immediately go to assure him? It felt wrong to him. He wasn’t the one who needed it, he should be the one comforting you instead. Tell you that it was okay to hold him back, to selfishly ask for his company instead of going some place else. Instead, he was being comforted for his own shortcoming.
“No…” He stands up and sighs. “You don’t hold me back.” He affirms. “If anything, don’t you think I'm the one who holds you back?”
In a softer voice, “Senku…” You called. “Where is this coming from?”
Senku runs a hand through his hair. “You can ask me to stay with you.”
“I don’t understand…” You shake your head, “Do you not want to go?”
He wasn’t stupid, he knew there was probably a better way to get what he meant across but right now… the words hung heavy and Senku couldn’t find strength to reach them.
“No, I- I do…” he stammers out. “I'm just asking what you- you…” he pauses, trying to catch his breath. “You're just okay with this?”
You stand, brows furrowed and concern plastered on your face. “Yes?” You let out a sigh. “C’mon Sen, what is it really?”
Senku wills himself to calm down, the beating of his heart slowing down. “Taiju… that oaf, mentioned something about talking to your partners and it- it just got me thinking about you.”
Have I not before? He thought. Why was this the first time I had thought to ask first?
His eyes drift down, no longer looking at who was standing in front of him… in shame? Embarrassment?
“Asking your partner before agreeing to business trips?? I didn't even know about that. What else do I not know?”
His voice, now full of frustration, was getting louder. “Just how much have I actually been holding you back? Dates, romantic evenings, affection… don't you want it? Why don't you ask me for it?”
For a second, You don’t say anything. His outburst probably caught you off guard. “I… because…” You start.
He doesn't see it but, You were looking at him so tenderly. “I never minded it. I mean, asking for those kinds of stuff, they would just get in the way right? And… science has always been your priority, something I never really wanted to get in between of.”
Get in the way? No…
Despite having a drink of water not long ago, his throat felt strangely dry. “No, that’s… you can tell me. I wouldn’t choose science over y-“
“You don’t have to say stuff like that.” You take a step forward towards him, entering his field of vision once more. “I'm more than happy just being with you.”
Senku shakes his head in disagreement, placing his hands on your shoulder. “No, let me… hold me accountable if I’m not enough.” Desperation was obvious in his voice as it trembled, why was this harder than rebuilding humanity from scratch?
He opened his mouth to speak but you had beaten him to it. “Sen, I have always loved you for who you are. I never needed you to change.”
“It's always been fine if I came second, or if there were things I couldn't have. As long as it meant I could stay by your side.”
Senku’s hands, that found their place on your shoulders, fell to his side. He pulled away, took a step back and averted his gaze. He felt like he was about to collapse any second now. “You're wrong…” He whispered, finding his own voice too weak. “I can-“
…
He couldn't even find the words. How could he convince you when he couldn't even convince himself? Maybe you were right. Maybe it was foolish to even think otherwise, maybe it would’ve been better to just brush it off and think nothing of it, to just keep going with the way things were.
“Sen, I love you. Its okay, really, don't need anything else.”
But as Senku’s eyes find the ever gentle smile on your face, he just couldn't give up, couldn't just let it end there, and he’d have to be maimed before he would even consider backing down.
It was late into the night now. A couple of hours had passed since the… argument? Disagreement? Could it even be called that? Regardless, Senku’s mind was a little clearer now. That isn't to say his frustrations had disappeared though, no, if anything it was stronger now. If Senku had to describe it, it would be like the frustration that came with trying to solve an equation when all the principles weren’t given, leaving him to find it on his own.
He was leaning on the kitchen counter, pondering by himself with only the warm kitchen lights to accompany him. You had already gone to bed, no doubt that the unexpected outburst he threw at you had worn you out. Ironic, as it was the same thing that was currently keeping him wide awake now.
The more he thought about it, the more he couldn't accept it. Though he also knew that denying the facts is just being stubborn. It was true that science has always been what he put, it was true that no matter how much time would pass, Senku would probably always struggle with feelings and affection. But what wasn't true was that there was nothing he could do about it.
It was on Senku’s third attempt that he managed to launch a rocket beyond the earth’s atmosphere, each one taking a grueling amount of patience, research and care. He was going to be damned if he was going to be defeated by his inexperience with romance. It was time to do things his way, because he’d rather fail in his attempts for hundreds of times than potentially lose something good, the one thing that kept him anchored.
With a fire in Senku’s eyes, one that usually only showed when he got his hands on a new discovery, he would look at you soon enough, brand his usual cocky smirk that tells you he knows something you don't and show you just how much he can achieve for you. He clenched his fists, he was going to prove he deserved to let you stay.
...
The office has been busy with preparations. Senku was supposed to be focused on running simulations for the launch to happen with zero casualty, but really, he was running simulations in his head for something else. He was no stranger to having to go through plenty of trial and error when doing something for the first time, and now he was stumped with having to figure out how to romance his own partner.
If he had it his way, he would’ve just tried anything and everything, it was the fastest way to get accurate information on what works and what doesn’t. It’s a little shameful that he doesn’t even know, actually.
He truly felt like he had gone back in time to when he was still a fumbling highschooler trying to figure out how to woo the person he was admiring. Though, arguably, he was still fumbling and trying to figure out to woo you- it’s just that, now he was older. Wiser? that’s debatable. He has plenty of experience under his sleeve with rocket launching and outer space research now but probably still in the same place he’s always been when it comes to love.
Even now, that word still rolls off his tongue in a weird, unnatural way. Love.
What did love mean? What did it mean to love? Senku feels slightly silly thinking about it, such questions felt like they would really only come from a pubescent girl trying to sound deep. Still, you made it look simple. When he tries to recall all the things you had done to show him love, he would fill up a notebook trying to list it all down.
Acts of love he so graciously repays by coming home late and droughts of affection.
Senku sighs, feeling dejected by his own neglect. He runs a hand through his hair, unintentionally glaring at the screen in front of him. He had gotten barely any work done and he hadn’t even gotten far on the other heavy topic that was weighing him down. Perhaps it was time to take a break.
The scientist moves to stand, finding his way to the nearest vending machine. It was lunch time now anyways, even if he was usually known for prioritizing work above all else, it wasn’t going to be unusual to step away.
Actually, would you have eaten lunch by now too? He thinks as he pushes the button for a can of cold coffee and inserting the exact number of coins for it. It drops and he picks it up, though he doesn’t open it just yet. Instead, he takes out his phone from his pocket and pulls up your contact.
His thumb hovers over the call button for a second before ultimately pressing it. Senku hoped you weren’t busy. His phone vibrates in his hand, the call ringing. While he waited, he opened the canned coffee and leaned over a nearby wall- just in time for you to finally pick up.
“Senku?” You answered, dragging out the last syllable of his name. You sounded cheery. Though, it’s not like the you were ever upset for long periods of time when it came to him, even if you had gotten into what you’d essentially call a disagreement just a few nights ago.
Senku grunted out a reply, “Hey.” Clearing his throat before taking a sip of his coffee.
“What’s up? Did you need something?”
“Did you eat lunch yet?” He answers the question with another question.
“Ah? Mhm, not too long ago …why?”
“I’m just asking.” He mumbles, throwing away the empty can of coffee in a nearby trashcan.
You giggle, “What? Is something up? Have you finally inhaled too much fumes?” You teased.
He smiles to that. “So, I can’t just ask you that? Whatever happened to making small talk?” Senku swears he almost choked on air while trying to form a coherent sentence. Since when did a casual back and forth make his palms sweat?
“What.” Senku can hear your laughter through the phone. “You’re being so weird, when have you ever made small talk? If you need something- “
Maybe it was the taunt, but now Senku had felt like he had to bite back to that. Why can’t he just do it for the sake of it? He ought to prove he can do such things soon.
He licked his lips, “Yeah, maybe I needed some of your attention?” His voice cracked at the end, and Senku couldn’t be more thankful it was only a voice call. He so badly wanted to bury himself for that fumble of a line delivery.
However, he was then snapped out of his self-deprecation when he hears you yelp.
“WHAT.” Senku presses the phone closer to his ear to hear muffled coughing from the line but quickly has to pull it away again when you start rambling at louder volume. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. ARE YOU SICK…”
“S-seriously! You can’t just say stuff like that, what is wrong with you- you should get checked out, I think the fumes have actually entered your brain-“ You don’t stop, spouting at an incredible speed, no doubt flustered as well.
He smiles at the thought. Well, he might’ve not given the best line delivery but it seemed to at least worked out anyways.
“I gotta go.” Senku cuts you off. He didn’t actually have to go but it was time to retreat for now.
“H-huh? Oh okay…” You stutter out, still taken aback.
“Seriously… what the heck.” He hears you whisper before ending the call.
A win is a win. Senku thought, huffing out a laugh. That little unplanned, stunt he pulled had gained him some confidence. If earlier he was feeling stuck on how he should go about his whole plan about romanticizing his own long-term relationship, then now he feels a little more certain.
Perhaps it was going to be good, perhaps it was even going to be fun.
And if anyone saw Senku walking back to the office with an evil smirk and a dangerous glint in his eyes? No, they didn’t.
...
Unfortunately, breaking habits never come easy.
In Senku’s defense, the workplace was getting busier. With the launch date coming closer and closer, the need to double check and eliminate any potential of something going wrong. The tiniest wirings needed to be inspected over and over again, hundreds of simulations that needed to be ran through and in case something does go wrong- safety measures that needed to be taken.
And thus, Senku came home late once again. To no one’s surprise, really.
He felt specially exhausted as well too, something he usually wouldn’t think much of as he’d normally be coming home feeling quite content. The blanket of exhaustion would be his proof of a well spent day at the lab. But today, he’d wanted to go home early for the sake of spending time with you and it’s been ruined.
The unmoving traffic was not helping either. He sighed, glancing at his phone to check the time again as if it’ll make it a difference. A chuckle coming from the man beside him had caught his attention, however. “In a rush to get home, Senku?”
Xeno, who had offered him a ride when the older one noticed they were leaving at the same time, looked at him with curiosity. “You’re usually the last one to leave. How unexpected to see you rushing to get home for once.”
Senku hid his impatience with a smile. “Heh. You’ve been watching me that closely, Dr. Xeno?”
“Hmph, it was merely an observation.” The older one retorts. “Perhaps, there’s a special occasion today?”
He looks away, leaning against the window instead. “Nah… nothing like that.”
The traffic finally moves and the car reaches a more familiar area. It’s completely dark out now, all the buildings in the area had turned on their lights and the streets was far less busy now compared to how it would be during an earlier time. Everyone seemed to be on their way home now.
“We’ll be nearing your block soon.” Stanley, whom had been driving for them, assured as the car came to a stop again- the last red light in the way of Senku reaching home.
He gripped his phone, debating if he should just go for it as he eyes the screen of the traffic signal counting down 120 seconds. “Actually, I’ll just get off here.”
“Are you sure?” The man beside him asked.
He hurriedly made sure he got all his belongings before replying, “Yeah, this way you won’t have to take an extra turn either.” He put his hand on the handle, ready to exit. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Well, get home safe.” He hears Xeno say as he closes the car door.
Senku didn’t know why he was rushing home. Why had every minute mattered now when it didn’t before? Well actually, he did know why. It was just hard to admit. It was a mix of reasons, between wanting to competitively prove something and genuinely wanting to show that he can love something else that wasn’t work- that no, he wasn’t just a man drowning himself in chemical compounds and scientific equations, he too can do something in the name of love.
Which was quite hard to prove now that he can’t even manage to come home early.
Ever the man with no stamina, he’s already breathless from speedwalking and climbing a couple flights of stairs. He opens the door to the apartment and is greeted with the absence of light. Had you already gone to bed? He shuffles around and tries to feel around the walls where he remembered the light switch was. After awkwardly palming the wall, he eventually manages to smack the switch on.
Senku hears a scream and flinches. His eyes hadn’t even adjusted to the sudden bright light yet but is already trying to look for you, worried you somehow managed to get hurt.
“Ugh… Senku? Is that you? I just got flashbanged…” His eyes eventually land on the clumsy you who was laying on the balcony floor for some reason.
He frowns, wondering what it was that you were up to. It was worrisome, why were you laying on the balcony floor with no lights on? It was a small balcony, just big enough for a couple of chairs so someone could hang out there in case they needed some fresh air, and on the occasion- where they hanged laundry to dry.
“What are you doing? Freak.” Senku questions, squatting down near you.
You tilt your head to look up at him, with a big goofy grin. “I’m trying to let my eyes adjust! It’s common practice to let your eyes to get used in the dark for at least 30 minutes first before doing any stargazing.”
“Although… now I’ve been flashbanged, thanks to you! I think I’ll have to restart.” You pout.
Senku sighs, standing up. “And laying on the floor also helps with that?” He pulls one of the chairs closer to them and signals for you to stand up and sit on the chair instead. “Sit on a chair like a normal person. Isn’t the floor cold? If you get sick, I’m not taking care of you.”
He hears you groan before moving, “Research says that floor time is great, actually.” Your voice slightly fades as Senku walks away, turning off the light switch from the hall.
Research? He lets out a dry laugh. “Uh huh, I’d love to read that study.”
The scientist can barely hear you mumbling out some complaints when he enters the shared bedroom. Senku puts down his stuff on the floor somewhere, careful to avoid knocking down a random furniture from how dark it was. He squints his eyes, trying to find a blanket. When he spots one, he snatches it and walks back to the balcony.
The balcony lets in a bit of light at least. The moon illuminating your figure. He slows down, quieting his footsteps as if he was trying not to scare a small animal. Perhaps he was scared that if he made a noise, he’d somehow scare you away into disappearing- away from him. He frowns.
Senku drops the blanket on you inelegantly before taking a seat on of the chairs as well. “Ah! That scared me…” Judging from your laughter, it didn’t actually. You wrap the blanket around you better than Senku did, a smile on your face.
“Andromeda is supposed to be visible to the naked eye tonight, it’s great!” You exclaim.
Senku looks away from the night sky, staring at you instead. “You know we have a telescope, right?” He says as a matter-of-fact, raising a brow.
“Yeah, but this is still different! There’s just something about actually spotting it with your own eye, you know?” You insist, looking up with a sparkle in your eyes.
“Not really, I mean I see these galaxies on like a regular basis from our telescopes. It’s almost a chore now.” He states dryly, leaning back.
You pout, “Boo.” You stick out your tongue as taunt. “Okay, we get it, Mr. Astronomer Scientist!”
“You’re looking at one of humanity’s potential doom. Unlike other galaxies, Andromeda moves towards us. If the sun doesn’t explode first, then we’ll be wiped out when the Milky way and Andromeda inevitably collide.” Senku smirks, explaining dryly as if he wasn’t talking about the wipeout of humanity.
“Well, that’s for the future. For now, it’s just beautiful to look at.” You shrug, used to the somewhat deprecating comments he would make.
And Senku looks at you. Really looks at you.
He can admit that Andromeda looked beautiful up closely. Well, closer than from Earth’s surface anyways. On land, Andromeda looked like just an average star. Maybe slightly bigger and fuzzier- almost blurry. But that was about it, he didn’t think it was anything to celebrate about.
“Oh! I think my eyes are adjusting… I can see a lot more stars now.” You chirped. “And soon, Andromeda!”
Right now, it wasn’t any star or galaxy that held Senku’s gaze. It was you. Senku chalked it to fatigue, too tired to lift his head and look at the stars, so instead he admires the person next to him. Whether anyone would buy that excuse doesn’t concern him. It was just easier than admitting to the whole universe that he found you beautiful, so he tucks it inside his chest with a poor disguise.
Senku can’t actually recall the last time he had properly looked at you like this, too busy looking at microscopes most days.
Time has passed; the two of you, together, for a long time now. You’ve both grown out of your baby faces, developed a few wrinkles and deepened smile lines. Both having respectively gone far in your careers, and have entered a stable spot in your lives long enough for you to say that it has become mundane.
Mundane…
Perhaps that’s why Senku got complacent in the relationship. It was just something he put at the back of his mind, repeating that he’ll get to it later yet making no plans to actually go through with.
He frowns and glances away, finally choosing to look up instead. His eyes immediately spotted the distant galaxy, Andromeda. It was terribly small from this distance.
“Can you see it yet?” The scientist asks only to find you scrunching your face in an effort to squint harder.
You grumble. “No, am I blind?”
He can only snicker, “Idiot, you’re looking at the completely wrong direction.”
You let out a drawn out, “Huuuh?” Senku stands up and moves behind you. He wraps an arm around the back of your shoulder as he crouches near your level and points.
“Focus your eyes on that area.” He instructs. “See that fuzzy thing that kinda resembles a star?”
You let out a small gasp after realizing, “Woah. That’s it?” You question. “It looks so… normal. That’s a whole galaxy? It just looks like a slightly stretched out star.”
Senku smirks, “Why do you think it took so long for the existence of other galaxies to be accepted? It’s only been a hundred years that people started comprehending that the Milky Way was only one of the thousands of galaxies out there.”
“And that’s gonna crash into us one day.” You giggle. “How unthreatening.”
“Uh huh. Let me know if you still think that way when you see it up close.” He quipped.
You hum in thought, “I don’t know… We’ll be old and wrinkly by the time it comes for us.”
“I’ll be surprised if that’s all we’ll be, decomposed is more like it.”
A comfortable silence blankets over them, quietly admiring the cosmos in peace. We’ll be old and wrinkly, huh? Senku found he didn’t hate the thought.
...
“Senkuuu…” You whine. “Wake! Up!”
The man groans in protest. “Ugh.” He lifts up his head and rubs his eyes in frustration. “What.” Senku deadpans. He looks over to you, still clad in your pajamas and obviously looking like you’ve also just woken up.
“Why are you still here? Aren’t you supposed to be at work by now?” You hurriedly question. “It’s already 7’o’clock!”
Senku groans again and falls back to the bed, slightly grumpy from having been woken up. “I don’t have to go in early today, they’re preparing a few training stuff for the people who’s gonna get on board.”
“Oh.”
You scratch your head sheepishly. “Sorry… you usually leave so early, I kinda panicked. And plus! You didn’t say anything about it.”
Too sleepy for a coherent conversation, Senku just babbles a response, already closing his eyes again. “Alright, well, just go back to sleep then.” You say as you move to leave the bed.
Before you can, Senku throws an arm around you. Not totally keeping you in place, Senku’s stick arms being too small for that. “Huh? Why?”
“Silly, I have work.” You blink, confused as to how he forgot.
Defeated, Senku lets out a third groan. It was super rare for the both of you to wake up at the same time. Usually, the scientist had to wake up much earlier in order to immediately get back to work. But now, all he wanted was a lazy morning and you were threatening to leave. It was cruel.
“No one’s gonna die if you’re five minutes late.” He complains.
You laugh, mocking his distress. “Wow. I never thought I’d ever see the great Ishigami asking for morning cuddles.”
Still, the whining seemed to have worked as you slide back under the blanket with him. A win is a win. Senku cheered in his head.
You laid together quietly, warm and cozy. And he was so close to slipping back to dream land when he felt you shift again. “Okay but like, I really do have to get ready now.” You whisper. As much as Senku wanted to protest more, he let you out of his grip now.
He hears the bathroom door open when you enter it and decides to also get up now. Granted, he could’ve kept sleeping. He wasn’t needed at work anytime soon, lest he volunteers himself for physical labor. Still, he drags himself to the kitchen.
Routinely, he made himself his usual pot of coffee and your preferred hot drink. He settles your cup at the dining table while he sat and sipped his drink. He can hear the water from the bathroom has stopped now. You were most likely going to come out of the room soon after getting dressed.
After thinking through some simulations in his head, you come out and walk towards him. He hands you the cup of milk. “Careful, it’s hot.” He warns, knowing you’ll still probably burn your tongue anyways.
And you did, “Ah. Oops.” You stick your tongue out as if that’ll make it feel better.
Senku can only huff in disbelief, “Idiot.”
He watches as you blow air into the hot drink, cooling it down, when an idea presents itself to him. It immediately paints an evil grin on his face. He doesn’t usually do it, but the opportunity is just far too tempting, far too amusing.
You eye him weirdly as he lets out a stream of evil, low chuckles. Senku pays you no mind. “Shouldn’t you get going soon? You were so worried about being late earlier.”
“Huh? Oh, right.” You test the temperature of the drink and after confirming it was at a much tolerable level, quickly gulp it down. “Thanks!”
You move quickly, grabbing the last of your things before heading towards the door. Senku, who was in no rush, places both of your empty cups by the sink. “Are you leaving now?” He calls out.
“Hm? Yeah!” You answered, putting on an extra outer layer of clothes by the door.
Senku walks over, putting his plan into motion. He leans on the wall and crosses his arm, failing to hide his smirk as he was preparing to drop a bomb.
“No goodbye kiss?”
It was amazing to watch you completely freeze in motion, face morphed into horror and warm. “E-excuse me?” You choke out.
Senku holds back his laughter, keeping up the act of composure. “Hm… Just gonna leave me to take care of the house all day for nothing in return?” He teased.
“O-okay? First of all, I sincerely doubt you’re going to do anything productive before leaving for work too. Second! Yeah, you’re not going to be here all day. So, I don’t know what you want, good sir.” You ramble, blurting out words faster than you can think in an attempt to conceal how flustered you were.
And this time, Senku couldn’t contain his laugh. He steps forward, going closer to you. “A goodbye kiss would be nice.”
He thinks that, if you were a volcano- you would’ve definitely erupted from embarrassment by now. “Since when! You’re acting crazy-“
“Since now.” He cuts you off.
You squawk in disbelief. “I swear- they actually did something to you in that lab. A failed experiment or something, and now you’re all weird and crazy.”
He shakes his head. “You can just say no. Why do I have to be dragged into a conspiracy theory?”
He smirks in triumph, knowing he’s won when you couldn’t find any other rebuttal to make. Just quiet, debating whether or not you should take the bait. “I swear, I’ll be the one who turns crazy with how you’re acting crazy lately.” You huff.
You take a step towards him, closing a bit more distance. If Senku’s heart wasn’t beating so loudly in his ears, he might’ve just heard the curses you were spewing under your breath before finally kissing him on the cheek.
“There. Happy?”
Not quite. Senku cups your cheeks before you could move away and presses his lips with yours. He hears your little squeal as he deepens the kiss, and it makes Senku’s heart do a little backflip and a twirl as a landing pose.
When they part, your eyes were so dilated it would’ve been concerning under any other circumstance. Though, Senku doesn’t say anything about it, he was sure he probably looked the same.
They quickly take a step back from each other. Senku letting out a little cough and you were suddenly much interested on what was on the ceiling. “Well, uh… you should go.” He broke the silence first.
“Yeah, I- yup! I’m gonna go…”
You both awkwardly shuffle for a few seconds, Senku moving out of the way to let you out. “I uh… I’ll see you later then.” You croak out, turning to leave.
The door closes and Senku almost keels over right there and then. WHAT WAS THAT!
A kiss was just a kiss, lips on lips. It held no purpose, not even in recreation. The only reason it holds any significance was because humans decided it had one and oh god- Senku was spiraling. In an attempt to calm himself he was now rationalizing what a kiss was. Senku doesn’t know how other people manage to kiss in a relatively casual manner without going on the verge of a heart attack.
But in terms of a trial, it certainly didn’t end as an error. Although he realizes, maybe he should’ve thought about it more before going through with it. After all, when was the last time you’ve had a proper kiss like that?
Senku lets out a sigh as he crashes on the couch, feeling slightly weak in the knees. He can still recall how hard his heart was beating, and was still in fact trying to calm down.
He definitely wasn’t the biggest guy on physical touch as a love language. Physical intimacy wasn’t necessarily scary, no- he didn’t fear it. More like, it made him squeamish? To him, it just came so unnaturally. Hence, never getting any proper “practice” for it and hence, never getting properly used to the act. It was just another pointless endeavor the alloromantic did for the sake of it.
You were the only partner he’s ever had. Every first time he had was with you, and it was something. Which might sound bad to anybody else but, for him- it was just hard to consider special. Still though, what made this “goodbye kiss” so different from all the other times to the point he felt like he was going to burst like a supernova?
When he recalls all the other kisses he’s shared with you, they never really felt like that. Small, quick pecks at the lips that really felt more like formality. Though, he guesses it wasn’t always like that. The closest thing he could compare it to was the feeling of anticipation and uncertainty he felt during the early days of your relationship.
When the two of you were still experimenting and approached love with a curious hunger. So, was it the eagerness to comprehend that made this recent one so explosive? The need to prove something with scientific evidence? Senku admits he initially thought of the plan as just another part of finally being a little more conventional with your relationship with him but…
It’d gone so well it would be a shame to boil it down to just that. But why?
Senku closes his eyes. What was it that makes a kiss so tender and explosive that couples did it so regularly despite not having any real purpose? And what had he been doing wrong before that it became something so mundane to the point it was something he avoided?
When did it become something he just disregarded? And how can he ensure that never happened again?
He was going to need another cup of coffee. Thank god he had a few hours to kill.
...
A few weeks have passed and the launch date was getting closer and closer. So close in fact, that it was going to be the day after tomorrow. And for the first time, Senku was dreading it. He did not want to leave.
He was just starting to really enjoy spending more and more of his time with you. Senku wonders when the distance between the two of you actually grew, memories of being peas in a pod during highschool flooding him. Was it when you both entered college and had gone into different majors? Or was it when either one started getting flooded with work- drowning and sinking deeper into more work that was covered up with the excuse of pursuing passion? Or maybe, it was only ever Senku whom had assumed there was even a distance to begin with.
Because now, as he looks at you and your smile, he can’t find any semblance of a distance. He feels closer to you than he had ever before, and greed whispers to him that he wants to be even closer.
In a last-ditch effort to spend his remaining time with you, he had made reservations for the two of you at this fancy place that had recently opened. You had both dressed up for the occasion, ditching the usual comfy clothing for something slightly uncomfortable in exchange for looking better.
And looking better indeed was his partner standing beside him as they waited for their names to be called. Huh, names… The hostess was going to call out a reservation for his last name and yours once there was a table ready.
Senku snaps out of his thoughts when you tap him on the shoulder. “Are you really sure it was okay to not attend the celebration?” You ask.
The celebration for the launch, it was also being held tonight in order to congratulate those who had worked hard on the project. It would be crowded, with journalists and plenty of flashing lights from photographers trying to get the latest gossip.
“I told you already, no one’s even gonna notice I didn’t attend.” Senku assures, his pinky locating his ear out of habit. “It’s just a bad excuse to sip wine and act snotty.”
You purse your lips, “Well, alright.”
A beat passes. “You’re much better company anyways.” He says, refusing to look at you. His cheeks had a light dusting of pink on them.
“And… you look amazing.”
The compliment slips out of Senku before he even realizes it.
You, who was standing beside him, can only laugh. He pouts, he gives a heartfelt compliment and this is what he gets? “Not even a thank you? Just going to laugh at me instead?”
You snort, “It just feels weird hearing you say it.” You laugh lightheartedly, “I guess, I’m just not used to hearing you say stuff like that.”
And Senku leaves it at that but his thoughts don’t. Why was it weird? Why couldn’t it just be the most natural thing in the world?
Senku can admit though, it did feel weird to do all these things. But it wasn’t bad… Yes, it was still unnatural and foreign to him, but at the same time, it felt like something he wanted to continue. Like a new discovery he wanted to keep studying. It felt overwhelming at times, and he found himself wanting to pause time for a few seconds every now and then just so he could recollect himself. Still, he didn’t wish to leave. He wanted to stay, soak in the moment and replay your laughter just to enjoy it, even at the cost of his dignity.
He'd sincerely wished he’d done this sooner and more often. He’ll be sure to make up for lost time.
Eventually, the two of you are seated and handed a menu. It was certainly a nice place. Despite having the capabilities to seat more customers, the restaurant chooses to give plenty of space between tables instead- making it scarce and each party having their privacy.
You were seated just across the table from Senku, the candle at the table illuminating your features. He watches you skim through the menu, as you purse your lips while trying to decide on an entrée. You look up to catch his gaze and smiles, “Sen? Have you already decided what you’re getting?”
The two of you converse easy, helping each other decide what looked good or not. You flag down the server and state what the two of you were having. The server gives the both of you a pleasant smile and claims they’ll be back with your food before finally leaving the two of you alone again.
You catch Senku’s attention, “Psst, Sen.” You smile when his attention lands on you. “Do you think the food will actually be good?”
He raises an amused brow, “Are you having doubts?”
“I mean…” You drag out the last syllable in ponder. “Isn’t it usually a gamble when it comes to a place like this? It’s either the food doesn’t actually taste good or the portion size is abysmal for its price.”
Senku snickers. “If you wanted to go to a greasy fast food place instead, you could’ve just said so. No need to disguise your picky eater trait by placing the blame somewhere else.”
“I am not!” You pout. “If it does end up good then you’ll never hear me complain again. But if it’s bad, then I’ll have told you so.” You stuck up your nose.
“Besides, it’s your money wasted anyways.” You grin.
Senku crosses his arms at the comment. It was true of course, but what fun would there be if he just let it go? “Oho, why do you even have a job then? If you’re just going to be a freeloader.”
You quip, “For fun! What else?”
The two of you continue to banter, not even noticing the time that was passing as it was quickly filled with smiles and laughter. Still, the food had finally arrived.
The entrée wasn’t bad… not bad enough to stop eating. It was the main course that had the two of you in a laughing fit, covering your mouths in an attempt to not disturb the other guests from their behavior. It wasn’t bad, nor was it good.
The food had been terribly mediocre.
They weren’t even quite sure what they were looking at when it was first served to them. How could food look cooked and raw at the same? The food was obviously cooked but from the lack of anything, it had managed to look raw.
You were holding your stomach from the laughter. “I can’t… I just- WHAT is this…” You poke at the food in emphasis. “It looks like they just boiled everything and called it a day! Not a SPECK of seasoning is on it…”
Senku couldn’t even manage a response, too busy trying not to die from laughter. “Senku! Are you even listening… Pft- I mean, just look at it!”
When he does look at it, he ends up letting out a howl of laughter. “O-okay, stop… stop talking…” He wheezed. “I can’t breathe-“
He wipes off some sweat from his forehead in an attempt to calm down. Trying to help, You pass him a glass of water, which he gladly took and downed.
“I wonder if the water was boiled too-“
And that was it. Senku Ishigami had died from laughter.
The server assigned to your table had eventually noticed the commotion and had come over to ask if anything was unsatisfactory. You, not having the heart to be honest just kept quiet as best as you could, placing a hand over your mouth and hoping the shaking of your shoulders didn’t make it obvious you were one push away from bursting out laughing. On the other hand, Senku whom had been tired out from nearly dying of laughter just waved the server away.
Confused but unwilling to ask any more questions, the server leaves them be.
“What do you say we just leave?” Senku suggests, resting his chin on a propped up hand.
“Awe, but what about dessert?” You pout, feigning disappointment.
He flashes you a smile, taking out his wallet and stack of cash that more than covers the cost of the bill and tip. “We can get something from the convenience store on the way home.”
You giggle in satisfaction. “Sounds like a plan.”
Senku stands, extending a hand for you to take. “Now, come. Let’s go before someone notices.”
Senku was pretty disappointed that their dinner hadn’t gone exactly as he planned. Next time, he’ll be sure to read a couple of reviews before settling on a decision.
...
The two of you were at home by now, still clad in fancy attire, sitting at the couch as you both wind down. You were leaning on Senku’s shoulder, humming a soft tune while scrolling through your phone.
He clears his throat, catching your attention. “Listen, sorry it didn’t work out tonight…” He frowns, voice getting quieter at the end. Scratch that, he wasn’t just pretty disappointed, he was massively disappointed. He had hoped that things would end well tonight as it was essentially their last before Senku had to leave. A disappointing, heavy error that weighed his heart down.
You break away, sitting up straight. “No… it wasn’t even your fault.” You chuckle as a brief memory of what happened flashes in your mind.
You falter for a second before continuing. “Actually, I should be the one to apologize.”
Senku eyes you, confused. “Remember when you had brought it up? About how I shouldn’t have accepted being second on your list?” He winces for a second at the reminder but lets you continue anyways. “Well…”
“Yeah.” You smile gently, looking at him in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Sen.”
“I was just… I always want to be your biggest supporter, and if it turned out that I was ever getting in between you and your passion- it would’ve broken my heart. I want you to reach all the dreams you have, so I let myself come second, I insisted. That’s why when you came to me, suddenly proposing the idea of prioritizing me… I got scared. What if I caused you to slow down?”
Senku mutters your name, brows furrowed. You shake your head, and it makes his heart ache. “And, I always knew that conventional romance wasn’t your thing. That was another thing I would never want to pressure you into. But I guess I was so tunnel visioned on that I ended up brushing it off when you wanted things to change.”
You press your forehead to Senku’s, “And look at you. You’ve proven me so wrong. You’ve treated me so well these last few weeks…”
“It’s been barely anything…” He whispers, emotions welling up at his throat.
You pull away, looking at him. “You should give yourself more credit, Dr. Ishigami.”
Senku’s hand twitches, the urge to cup your cheeks and kiss you silly was strong. But his stomach had other plans, growling from neglect. “Pft-“
“Tsk, seriously?” He deadpans, scratching his neck in disbelief.
You calm yourself down from giggling, “To be fair… I’m also hungry. We barely touched our food earlier.” You stand up, heading for the kitchen. “No worries, I’ll whip us up something deserving of 3 michelin stars!”
He sighs, leaning back to the couch in defeat. “If it has salt- I’m sure it’ll already be ten billion percent better than what we had earlier.”
He almost dozed off while waiting for whatever his partner was preparing in the kitchen, but the moment the aroma hit his nose, he was completely awake. He stands and makes his way to where you were only to find you stirring in the seasoning pack to two cups of instant ramen- ah, a delicacy indeed.
“Wow. Well that definitely has sodium in it.” He remarks dryly.
His partner chuckles, “Oh I’m about to undo all the training they had you do with some bad, bad diet.” You pass him his cup, still steaming, alongside a pair of chopsticks.
He smiles; heart filled with warmth. All those trials and specially tonight’s error had been well worth it. There was no greater reward than slurping instant ramen in the kitchen while dressed in a well-tailored suit with his partner.
It just made the fact that he had to leave all the more bitter. Ironic, considering a few weeks ago he hadn’t given staying at home an inkling of thought.
No, a few weeks ago, all Senku saw was intricate, delicate wirings and calculations of numbers that exceeded him more than he’d like to admit. Now, he bathed in the warm kitchen light, heated from the inside by comfort food and sharing laughter with the person who’s been with him through it all- the same person he now has to separate from.
Yes, it was his decision. One that Senku was allowed to regret but also wouldn’t take back. He looks at you, seeing the same person he would share unhealthy instant ramen back when you were suffering through long nights in your respective majors. You who wanted nothing more but to support him.
It tore him apart. Because now, he just wanted to slow down for once and walk by her side instead of leaving for a vast, empty space. Sure, there were sights out there that no human has ever even seen yet but where was he going to find your bright smile and red cheeks in the endless stars if not right here at home, beside him?
Maybe that was the importance of asking your partner first.
...
Senku left early the next morning. He hadn’t woken you up when he did. He felt bad, you had both stayed up relatively late last night and he had to leave after only a few hours of sleep already. So, he let you rest instead.
The launch wasn’t until tomorrow’s dawn, but everyone involved had to be at the site for all the preparations and precautions that needed to be taken. It wasn’t Senku’s first rodeo. He had already managed to be a part of multiple projects like this one in the past, with his impressive genius of course.
Despite the rest of the city still in slumber, there were already plenty of people at the site running around with work to do. At least, that’s what Senku would assume. Considering there was a party thrown last night, it was also highly possible that a good majority of the team was still recovering from hangover.
See, Senku had made a detour. He figured; it wasn’t like the site was going to go up in flames if he was an hour late and, in his defense, it’s not like he did it on purpose. Not totally anyways. But this antique store had caught his eye on the way, it was the only thing that was open and had its lights on in the desolate streets. And like moth to a flame, Senku had stopped his commute to take a look.
The warm lights that the store used was perfectly highlighting the stock they kept, painting each item in a golden hue. It carried a scent that was comforting and nostalgic, of old books with a hint of dust. Soft music played from, what Senku would guess, a jukebox. It didn’t sound familiar, something that probably would never play in radios nowadays, but not a popular classic either that anyone would’ve known- it was most likely just an obscure song that the owner loved during their youth.
He really should just leave now. There wasn’t really anything here that was worth getting an earful for. Still, his feet remained planted for just a second longer, admiring all kinds of trinkets that the store carried.
It wasn’t until he was about to leave that something had caught his eye. Just a few steps away from the door, there was a shelf he had missed when he first entered. It was relatively empty compared to the rest of the shelves, housing only a few items. One of which was a jewelry box.
The box itself was rather big, holding all kinds of accessories. Though it was an antique store, the other items were well maintained, except for this one. Senku guesses it had been there for a long time now, untouched, the untrained eye probably dismissing it. And he couldn’t blame them, from the first look, most of the jewelry was rusted or in bad condition. Unless people were specifically looking for worn out jewelry or hoping to repurpose the metal, there really weren’t going to be any customer buying anything from it.
Senku exited the antique store, fidgeting with something as small as a coin in his hand. He tried to pay for it at first, but when he brought it to the counter, the old man tending to it just waved him off. It was most likely because the item had been too small or dirty, perhaps feeling a little too bad to charge anything for it.
Senku doesn’t dwell too much on it, just playing with the item as he continued on his way.
...
One would probably think that it gets busy when you’re outside of the Earth’s atmosphere, and it does, but not enough to occupy all the hours. Once the routine of monitoring, maintaining and reporting was done, Senku had just enough time on his hands to wallow in his thoughts.
Senku had spent a good portion of his life looking at the moon, wondering what mysteries it held and the vastness of space beyond it. But now, he finds that he’s always looking back at Earth, relishing its familiarity instead of the unknown that the rest of the universe around him held.
Science had advanced far enough that communication between those in Earth and those outside of it was no longer impossible, but it was still kept limited for various of reasons. Resource management, the occasional delay, risks of interferences and such held him back from talking to you like he would if he was just a few miles away from you.
So instead of risking the chances of getting a scolding for wasting resource and causing delays, he spends his time fidgeting with his new antique when the urge to mindlessly talk with you sprouts. It had a considerable amount of tarnish and built-up dirt that covered its true color.
The spacecraft thankfully had stuff he could use to return it to its full glory. A simple salt bath in aluminum foil had already done wonders for the tarnish, and a bit of elbow grease to get rid of the stubborn dirt stuck in the nook and cranny had it sparkling in what he assumes had been years.
Senku wonders whose hand it had belonged to before him. Perhaps the old man that was attending the antique store he got it from? Or perhaps someone had surrendered it there a long time ago. Did it always belong in that jewelry box or was it just eventually placed there when there was no space anywhere else?
Well, no matter, it was his to give now.
...
The rest of the month that was spent in that spacecraft was unworthy to Senku. After all, the revelations that would come after was what they were going for anyways. Him and the rest of the crew were only there so that once the spacecraft would be fine on its own, everything would go well.
So once word got to them that they were being prepared for return had reached Senku’s ears, he was basically buzzing with anticipation. It was time to go home.
The camera flashes that were getting in between him and getting home was thoroughly irking him, still he tried to not show it too much, good media meant more budget after all. But the exhaustion of landing back on Earth was really weighing him down, figuratively and literally. Gravity felt heavy.
It was important they received an immediate check-up after landing, so while Senku wanted to just insist he was fine so that he can go lay down at home, he gritted his teeth and let the medical team do their work.
Thankfully, someone had finally come to escort them out of the scene, ushering the media away so a path could form. Him and the crew were then brought to a more secluded area, seated in wheelchairs to avoid any accidents in case a disorientation spell was to happen.
Senku just quietly let everything happen, just hoping all of it would go faster. He spots Xeno and other familiar faces monitoring and helping the process go smoothly. Obediently answering all the questions the stationed doctors were asking him while they helped him out of the heavy spacesuit, careful not to shock the body.
Eventually, he’s assisted to a private room where they helped him lay down on a bed. After a more intensive interview about his state, they finally leave him be.
He lets himself close his eyes for a second.
The peace however, does not last long as it’s interrupted by a series of knocks. The door opens and he tilts his head to see who it was.
There you were, carrying a bouquet of flowers in your arm. “Hey, Sen.” You called, softly. “You’re back.”
His eyes widen, certainly not expecting the sudden appearance. He doesn’t let it show for long though, a curious expression quickly replacing it. “And who let you in here?” He snickered.
“I’ll have you know it was Dr. Xeno who invited me here.” You quip, laying the flowers at the bedside table. “What? Not happy to see me?”
The opposite. Senku had such a big smile painted on his face, the expression was one he couldn’t suppress. “I was just about to get some shut eye, you know? Way to ruin my beauty sleep.” But he tries and hide it anyways, relying on his sarcasm as his usual line of defense.
A line of defense that easily crumbles as you flash a smile of your own. “Yeah, well, I think you’re plenty beautiful even with dark circles.”
“Though, the jet lag must be insane. From all the way outside of Earth’s atmosphere to here.” You jest.
Senku lets out an amused chuckle. “Not quite, not like there’s any day or night out there anyways.” He lets out a groan, sitting up.
“Oh… Are you really sure you should be sitting like that?” You worriedly ask.
“You act as if it’s my first time.” He smirks, smugness evident on his face.
You can’t help but laugh in amusement. “Ok genius, we get it.”
Senku was glad that the medical team hadn’t bothered to link him up to a heart monitor, because good god his heart was beating fast now. The weight in his pocket was reminding him of the existence of a certain object. All of a sudden, he felt sick and on the verge of hurling. If it does happen, at least he had the excuse of blaming gravity. It doesn’t slip by your keen eyes though, try as he might to pretend that he was feeling fine. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.”
The scientist prided himself in being able to plan ahead. It was necessary after all, in his field of work, an error could mean death so it was only natural that there had to be extensive planning throughout the whole thing.
However, he was still human. He had impulses.
During the month he had spent floating in space, Senku had plenty of time planning out scenarios on how he would ask the question. Each with its own elaborate details and scripted lines. But now, desperation was clawing at him, specifically his pocket, screaming at him to just man up and do it already.
Worried from not receiving an answer, you offer to call someone in. “I’ll go get a doctor, okay?”
Before you can get far, Senku grabs a hold of your wrist, effectively not letting you get far. Because yes, after spending a month away from you with minimum communication- even just leaving the room felt too far from him.
“No, I don’t need a doctor.” He manages to croak out; his throat filled with anxiety.
He knows it’s sudden, after all this was not the plan. Not even close to it. Plans of waiting for a few months, plans to establish a more stable foundation before even entertaining the idea had been all thrown out the window now.
With a weak push, Senku stands up for a second.
“S-sen! I don’t think you should be doing that- sit back down-“ You panic, holding him by his shoulders in case he toppled over.
Kneeling down was even harder but he eventually manages to get down on one knee, taking all of his strength. Though it did get easier to manage once he found his balance. You shakily take your hands off him, stepping one foot back.
“Senku?” You call out, voice audibly shaky.
His heart almost backflips out of his throat when he couldn’t feel the item on his pocket for a second, letting out a sigh of relief when he finally finds it. His hands were not only incredibly sweaty but trembling too.
Senku wishes he could be one of those people who manages to voice out a whole speech, vocalizing their feelings without any difficulty, but he just did not have it in him. “You already know right?” He lets out a weak laugh as if it’ll mask the fear he was feeling.
Before all of this, he couldn’t even ask you what your thoughts was on him leaving and now, he was asking you to stay with him forever.
He wills himself to stop shaking when he holds out the ring. The same ring he had found a day before leaving, the same ring he had painstakingly cleaned and took care of when he should’ve been writing reports.
Senku could see your tears welling up in your bright eyes, he should apologize afterwards for all the heart attacks he’s been causing to you lately. But not until after this latest one.
“I’m sure this is sudden for you but I had plenty of time to think about it, way up there in space.” He smiles. “And it’s not exactly a space rock but…”
“I do hope you’ll say yes.” He calls your name. “Will you marry me?”
You don’t let him entertain the idea that you’ll ever say no, quickly nodding your head. You whisper out a yes through your tears, crouching down at his level to wrap your arms around his neck.
Relief had washed over him, wrapping his own arms around you.
Unfortunately, gravity was still heavier than what he was used to. He quickly lost balance and the both of you end up on the floor. “Ugh, okay. I might actually need a doctor now. I think I hit my head.” He deadpans.
You let out a laugh, smiling through your tears. “I can’t believe you. I’ll get mad if I find out they’ve actually replaced you with a different Senku…”
He can only huff in disbelief. “The ring is not on your finger yet. I could take it all back if I wanted to.”
You shake your head. “No, no. I didn’t say anything.” You quickly take back your comment. “Give me!”
You wave your left hand in front of him, not minding the fact that the two of you were still very much on the floor. Senku can only laugh at you, sliding the ring on your finger anyways and placing a tender kiss on your cheek. “Here, you better not lose it.”
No errors here. It had gone completely successful, and despite all the trouble he had to go through, Senku would’ve done it all the same. No elaborate plan or scheme would’ve beaten the euphoria he was feeling. He’ll gladly endure tomorrow’s back pain for laying on the floor if it meant holding his future spouse for many more years to come.
synopsis: short scenarios, in different point of views, of the kingdom of science questioning just who are you to senku.
content: dr stone spoilers, set before ryusui, sfw, fluff, smidge of angst, small skinship, childhood friends, ambiguous relationship, gender neutral reader, y/n is not used, improper use of school lab equipment.
a/n: if you can figure out what song the title is from the you get 10 billion points >:) in my mind for this fic, reader is sort of specialised in linguistics, i.e languages, theatre, poetry, basically a certified yap master 💀💀
word count: 2k
“I don’t have a sliver of doubt that you’re with Senku right now. After all, what are you two without each other, amiright?”
The Ishigami village goes oddly quiet, another companion before the stone world, perhaps? Senku had mentioned Taiju and Yuzuriha in passing quite a few times, but on the other hand, what made you so different that the founder had said your name specifically?
While the descendants ruminate in their own wonder and curiosity, there’s a heavy ache thumping against Senku’s chest, despite the laughter coming from his father.
Sorrow and grief line his veins, loneliness pumps his heart, and the burden of humanity rests upon his brittle shoulders.
(“To be drowning in loneliness despite being surrounded by others is quite the unfortunate fate, no?” You were sat atop a table, swinging your feet while watching Senku mix some chemicals that you’ve forgotten the names of. “I can’t imagine you being able to function without my ever so benevolent company.”)
As if that wasn’t enough, just to top all of it off, he has yet to find your petrified body.
Trust him when he says that he’s tried and tried, tirelessly in fact, in between the breaks he gave himself during the first months of post-petrification solitude and the rare moments away from the Ishigami village.
As lack of luck would have it, you were just nowhere to be found.
(Senku hands you a beaker, a quiet gesture to drink whatever’s in it, and you take a sip without hesitation. While onlookers that aren’t from the science club would assume he handed you an unknown concoction to drink, it’s just tea that he brewed with his equipment. You claim that he makes it best.)
With how much you occupy his mind, he can hear your voice going into a spiel about nothing but nonsense of the current situation that somehow turns poetic.
Byakuya says your name again with a chuckle. “Keep him on his toes, okay? Wouldn’t want a wild Senku roaming around the world without you!”
(“Heh, I would relish in the peace and quiet if it means i’m away from you.” He says while adding more sugar to your beaker with a lab spatula with careful precision and mixes it for you.)
Senku does not believe in wishing, but just this once, he hopes that when this war is over, that he’ll be able to let you listen to Byakuya’s last message and laugh at the old man with you again.
Just where are you hiding?
(You smile knowingly, as if you could read his mind. “To borrow a phrase from someone I know quite well, you would ten billion percent miss me.”)
“When we win this war, Taiju and I have a surprise to show you, Senku! A very belated Birthday present.”
Before the aforementioned scientist could protest, probably to say he doesn’t need or want a gift, Taiju cuts in.
“Senku! We found them!!”
There’s your name again, Gen thinks while he takes a side glance at Senku, whose grip on the microphone shifts into one with more attentiveness, more interest.
The atmosphere around Senku feels different, too.
Not suffocating or cold, but not necessarily warm, either. More odd, if anything. Relieved? Skeptical, curious. Anticipation?
Senku is stationary and silent. Definitely thinking.
“Taiju, it’s not a surprise anymore if we tell him what it is…”
“Ah, I just got so excited! Sorry, Senku! But i’m sure you’re excited to see them now, I bet you miss them a ton!!”
Ever since that record of Byakuya, Senku has been offhandedly mentioning you every so often in conversation. Even entertaining questions about you from the village, though only when he isn’t busy with, y’know, war prep against the Empire, and if they’ve caught him in a sharing mood.
It’s as if he finally deems it safe to reveal your existence to this new world; an environment and community that would not harm you.
Defensive. Cautious.
A relative?
Definitely not. Senku has mentioned being an only child and only having Byakuya.
A friend?
While it’s closer to the mark, it’s also not quite there at the same time.
Gen can see that Taiju and Yuzuriha mean a lot to Senku, but they don’t implore the same type of look or tone of voice that Senku presents when you’re mentioned.
You’re close to Senku, but seemingly much closer than just a long-time childhood companion.
Perhaps… a lover?
…
No, Senku isn’t one to indulge himself in customs as flimsy or as pitiful as love. The scientist even said so himself, multiple times: love is illogical, a waste of time, or plain simply, not even a millimetre interested in it.
Another thing about Senku is that he isn’t one to go back on his word unless it benefits his goals, and Gen can’t see any benefit from lying about love of all things.
“Oi, what’s got you looking so constipated, Mentalist?”
“Nothing in particular, Dearest Senku~”
Then that begs the question, just who are you?
“What does ‘muse’ mean when you use it to describe Senku? I’m not too sure what the word itself means either, but it sounds too intimate of a nickname for two people that claim not to be lovers.”
(A few from the Kingdom of Science had accompanied Senku, Yuzuriha, and Taiju in locating your statue, curious as to what you looked like. And just a few moments ago, they had found, dressed, and poured the revival fluid on you, standing back as the phenomenon of breaking out of the stone begins.
“Well, if it isn’t my dearest muse! How have you been faring these past few centuries?” There’s a twinkle in your eyes that nobody that didn’t know you has quite seen before, it’s almost enchanting, as if you were unconsciously beckoning people to pay attention to you.
Before anybody could hear their resident scientist’s response, Taiju and Yuzuriha unexpectedly pushes the group away from the reunion.
“Hey, what gives! I wanna hear what Senku has to say so I can make fun of him later!” Ginro doesn’t back down without a fight, but with Taiju’s sheer willpower, it was like watching a baby try to push down a brick wall.
“Ahaha, it’s best to leave those two alone for now.” Yuzuriha gently beckons Suika and Kohaku towards the camp. She looks back for a moment, but doesn’t stop walking. “They will come back with Senku to introduce themselves soon enough, trust me when I say they’ll make quite the entrance.”
The group may be far from the clearing from where you are with Senku, but with her eyesight, Kohaku can see an embrace of two people.
With your back turned towards her, she can see Senku’s grip on your clothing, holding tightly, trembling.
She decides to keep this to herself, for now.)
Kohaku is blunt in asking you the question that’s been itching her brain for a few weeks now.
You were revived only around a month ago, and have already contributed plenty to the Kingdom of Science, especially with the morale of the labourers: performing quick theatre skits, or maybe occasional performance acts with Gen to help manipulate encourage the workers to do their job faster.
Kohaku also decides that if Senku isn’t going to address whatever is between the two of you, she’ll surely get the answers out of you!
“Hm, the best way I can explain is to just look at him.”
She feels her brow twitch. Kohaku guesses that you’re a dead end too and groans into her hands.
You chuckle but do not look up from your work on the blueprints infront of you.
Kohaku glances at the scientist, not far from your personal work bench - he’s giggling to himself while tinkering with who knows what - and raises a brow, typical Senku behaviour at work there.
“What about him?” She asks, unimpressed.
“Isn’t he the most interesting thing you’ve ever laid eyes on?” From Kohaku’s angle, she notices a soft smile and an adoring glimmer in your irises.
Interesting is one word to put it, Kohaku thinks and doesn’t comment further.
But she also thinks she understands just the tiniest bit more than before; you and Senku are both those kinds of people that just know rather than say.
On the other hand, the child that adorns a watermelon head sat to the right of you, unknowing of the underlining meaning of your words, is oblivious and lost.
“But Senku’s just in his element at the moment, building new gadgets and inventions Suika has never ever seen before, so he looks like regular old Senku to me!“
“Exactly.”
You put your pencil down, roll up the finished blueprint, and hand it to Kohaku to give to Senku.
Seeing Suika’s eyes swirl in confusion through her lenses, you offer her a small apology and a head pat. She hands you another large sheet of paper for the next room plan.
Suika feels like there’s now even more questions than answers.
“Sorry, Suika. Despite my rather expansive vocabulary, and ability to wax on about nonsense for hours on end, I don’t think I could simplify the reason more than that.”
And it’s true, what you say.
Because then you would be forced to start off by telling her about the old world, dull and monotone, filled with unambitious nobodies that were afraid of originality and the trueness of their own character.
You would have to reveal to her the circumstances in which you first met the light that now guides you, the colour that paints your vision, and the muse to your art, Ishigami Senku.
Even after that, how do you begin explaining to a child, born into a world as primitive as this one, the complexities of something that’s been non-verbally established centuries ago, something that was instinctual rather than described.
She simply would not understand, no matter how prettily you dress your words.
Perhaps you’ll tell her when she’s grown older, a tale for another day, when she’s lived her own experiences rather than learning about yours.
For now, you will close the script that writes your story. Who doesn’t like a bit of mystery?
[ Extra - Opening Act ]
“Hmm, a unique but befitting opening line to introduce a new supporting character into a seemingly already ragtag cast…”
“Ragtag?!” Gen exclaims.
“Ragtag…” Ukyo sighs, exceedingly exasperated.
“Ragtag?” Suika questions, not hearing the word before.
Senku chuckles beside you and crosses his arms. “I suggest you let them finish, or else they’ll make it everyone else’s problem later if their flare of inspiration is cut short.”
You continue on as if you didn’t hear them, chin pinched between your thumb and the knuckle of your pointer finger.
“How about…”
You hum and mumble for a few more seconds before your eyes light up with mirth. Right hand to your heart, your left arm is outstretched to your front, palm up, a gesture similar to that as if you were reaching for something.
“After centuries confined within a prison of the mind, not a soul to keep them company bar their own, thou hast finally freed thyself! One’s solitude gnawed at thy skin and mystery shrouded thy thoughts. No more are the shackles that bind them yap yap yap yap…”
To Gen, all of your words blend together as he loses even more sense as to what kind of person you are. What he does know is that you’re exactly like Senku in a way, it’s endearing, almost.
“I see we’ve revived yet another eccentric…” Gen whispers to the archer next to him. Ukyo can only laugh sparingly.
When the mentalist turns back to you, you’re wrapping up your rather flamboyant display. “Onwards, the travesty we call life shall commence once again, so get excited!”
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