Part Summary: A horrified comment beneath a furniture-restoration video leads to an unexpected connection with a stranger. What begins as cautious advice about an antique soon becomes late-night calls and the start something neither of you is ready to name. But just as you finally make plans to meet, your stranger mysterious work threatens to keep your relationship confined to the phone.
Warning: Online relationship, hidden identity, Steve being frustratingly secretive, cancelled plans, brief emotional hurt/disappointment, mutual pining, idiots falling in love..
Word Count: 4.9k
A/N: First Sprint of @star-and-shield-collective's writer's relay game in coloration with @indigo-jungle and @salty-tang (Go Team tis 2.3 Timtams)
The first pass of the sander took off more than the finish. You watched in mute horror as it chewed through the thin layer of veneer beneath it, leaving a pale, uneven scar across the bureau’s drop-front.
“Now, don’t be afraid to really get in there,” the man on your screen advised loudly. “People get too precious about old furniture, but if you want a professional finish, you need to strip it right back.”
“No,” you whimpered. “No, no, no- ”
A streak of raw substrate emerged beneath his hands.
You paused the video. Simply stared at the frozen image: At the idiot and the one perfectly salvageable writing bureau.
Rare, generous. 1920, No, 1950’s at best. Restoration.. Lie... He was murdering it.
You had only clicked because three separate customers had sent you the video that week, all asking whether they could use the same method on their own furniture. One had already bought the industrial-strength chemical stripper recommended in the description.
You knew better than to open the comments.
Most were variations of gorgeous transformation, love the white, and can’t believe people throw things like this away. One person wanted to know where he had bought the brass-effect spray paint used on the original handles.
Your eye twitched.
You scrolled past the creator’s pinned list of affiliate links and clicked into the comment box.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC: Before anyone follows this tutorial: please don’t.
You paused, took a breath and attempted to sound like a professional.
The surface being sanded at 4:16 is veneer, not solid timber. Once you sand through it, it can’t be ‘evened out’ later. The existing finish should’ve been identified and tested in an inconspicuous area before either an orbital sander or chemical stripper came anywhere near the piece.
Still professional. You continued.
The hardware appears to be original or, at minimum, considerably older than the creator suggests and removing it so harshly was unnecessary. Please also don’t soak antique timber with a household sprays or use steel wool, or assume every dark mark is damage that needs to be erased.
Mostly professional.
Then you reached the farmhouse-white paint.
If you’ve made it to 12:38 and are considering painting your own bureau, step away from the chalk paint. Make a cup of tea. Reconsider the path that brought you here.
You hit Comment before good judgement could intervene.
It wouldn’t reach everyone. The video had substantial views and your warning would soon disappear beneath another flood of praise and requests for the exact shade of white.
Still, you had tried.
You were closing the tab when the notification appeared.
AuburndaleGrant18 replied to your comment:
Well, aren’t I glad I found this comment now and not ten minutes later. Or I might’ve made a mistake that will have me run out of every serious restoration group on the east coast!
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. At least one innocent piece of furniture might survive the video.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
That depends. What grit?
The reply came almost immediately.
AuburndaleGrant18:
That feels like a trap.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
It’s a risk assessment.
It took longer for the reply to come back this time. Was the user actually going to check?
AuburndaleGrant18:
Eighty?
You sat forward.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Put it down.
AuburndaleGrant18:
It is down and away from the anything it may damage.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
If it’s still on the property, move it farther away before it damages something through proximity.
You smiled knowing you seemed a little ridiculous, but this was the internet. Being extreme was acceptable.
AuburndaleGrant18:
What if I promise not to take it out of the workshop draw? Is that satisfactory?
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
I just watched a man sand through walnut veneer to ‘bringing out the natural grain.’ I’m doing a community service here.
His response appeared a moment later.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Fair. Do you know a lot about bureaus only I do have questions. Bit mines not the same as this one.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
In what way?
AuburndaleGrant18:
Doesn’t look quite like this one.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
I might need a little more than that.
AuburndaleGrant18:
It has drawers.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
An astonishing breakthrough.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Marginally. How old is it?
His answer took longer.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Older than the one in the video. I think.
You glanced at the time, then back at the increasingly useless information appearing beneath your comment.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Do not sand it. Do not strip it. Do not paint it. Take clear photos of the front, back, underside, drawer joints, hardware and any damaged areas.
Send them here.
You added your work email address before you could question why you were offering a stranger free professional advice at nearly eleven o’clock at night.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Yes, ma’am.
You closed the tab and went about your nightly routine, already half-convinced that was probably the end of it until your work inbox chimed, sharp and unexpected in the quiet.
You hesitated for a moment before opening it.
A new email sat at the top of the screen.
From: Steve Grant
Subject: The bureau you just saved from me
You looked at the number of photographs, then at the clock.
Apparently,Steve did take some instructions seriously.
You opened the first attachment…and forgot all about going to bed.
The first photograph showed the bureau from the front, standing alone against a bare white wall.
The second showed the back panel, slightly uneven in finish but intact.
The third and fourth gave you the left and right sides in turn.
All photos were methodical: the drop-front opened to reveal the interior compartments, the drawers pulled out to show their runners and joints, the underside of the piece, and close-ups of the hardware, lock area, and scattered veneer damage.
You assessed the rest, making small mental notes. There were scratches around the lock, a dark ring on the top and a chip missing from the veneer near the back corner.
It had been worked on before. More than once, and not always by someone who knew what they were doing.
Still, it was solid. The drawer joints looked intact. The drop-front sat slightly crooked but showed no obvious signs of warping. A protected strip of timber beneath one of the drawers offered the faintest glimpse of the warmer finish buried beneath the varnish.
Not rare. Not untouched. Not likely to make anyone rich.
But salvageable.
You returned to the body of Steve’s email.
From: Steve
Subject: The bureau you just saved from me
Attachments: 14
This is what I have.
A friend found it for me, they know I have a thing for old pieces. But I can’t tell you much about where it came from or what was done to it before he bought it.
Another friend told me I could learn how to fix it on YouTube. In his defence, I don’t think he meant that particular video.
-Steve
You enlarged the photograph of the underside, adjusted the brightness and found what might have been the remains of a manufacturer’s mark beneath the later stain. Too faint to read, but useful enough to support the rough date.
You should have sent him a short response telling him to book a proper assessment with someone local.
Instead, you clicked Reply.
From: Second Story Restoration
To: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
Based on the shape, drawer construction and what I can see beneath the newer finish, I’d place it somewhere around the late 1910s to 1920s so old is right if it’s original.
It appears to be a walnut veneer over a less expensive secondary timber. That was common and does not mean the piece was poorly made, but it does mean the veneer is thin and needs to be treated carefully. This is why your eighty-grit sandpaper needs to be kept far away.
The current drawer pulls are replacements. You can see the shadows from the previous hardware around them, and the screws are newer than the rest of the piece. The dark, glossy finish is also unlikely to be original. Someone appears to have refinished it, possibly more than once and there may be an older finish underneath.
The good news is that the structure looks solid. No major warping, the drawer joints look stable and the damaged veneer seems limited to a few small areas.
The less exciting news is that the replaced hardware, previous refinishing and veneer damage will affect its resale value. I don’t think you’ve accidentally acquired a priceless antique. Even properly restored, it probably won’t be worth a great deal in purely financial terms.
You stopped there, rereading the final paragraph.
People often came to you convinced that age automatically meant value.
But Steve hadn’t asked what it was worth.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth restoring.
Before I tell you where to begin, I need to know what you want from it. Are you hoping to improve it for resale, make it functional, return it as closely as possible to its original appearance, or preserve it as it is? Those would all require different decisions. Why is doing work on it important to you?
You hesitated before sending it.
The question felt more personal than the rest of your assessment. But restoration was personal. Anyone who pretended otherwise had never watched someone run their fingers over a scratch in an old table knowing the story. Or held something older then their own grandparents and wonder whose lives it had touched.
You pressed Send.
You went back to looking at the piece, wondering what journey it had been on before Steve, how many homes had it lived in? And now you were playing a part in putting it back into the world.
You were almost so lost in your own thoughts you didn’t hear the ping of your own inbox.
From: Steve
To: Second Story Restoration
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
My mother had one like it.
Hers might have been a little wider, and the compartments inside were laid out differently. I’ve only got my memory to compare it to.
When I was little, I used to sit beside her and draw on whatever scraps of paper she could spare while wrote letters. One of the drawers always stuck in damp weather.
My friend knew I’d been looking for something similar. He found this one and thought it was close enough that I might be able to make it feel like hers.
I don’t want to sell it. I’m not worried about making it look new, either. I just want to take care of it and make it usable again. Maybe draw at it.
The apartment I’m in now doesn’t feel much like mine yet. I thought this might help.
What should I do first?
-Steve
The image of a small boy drawing beside his mother. It was such an ordinary memory, offered without embellishment, that you could almost see the worn scraps of paper and the stubborn drawer.
From: Second Story Restoration
To: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
Well, let's get you somewhere to draw.
Before we remove anything, we need to work out what is actually on the surface and whether the older finish beneath it can be preserved.
Start with:
nitrile gloves;
white cotton cloths and cotton swabs;
a soft natural-bristle brush;
a small bottle of mineral spirits;
methylated spirit or denatured alcohol;
painter’s tape;
Work somewhere well ventilated, keep both solvents away from heat or flame, and do not mix them.
You went on to outline steps, how to clean things off just by dusting, how to pick a test area, how to start with the mineral spirits, what to look for, was it only dirty or to the finish shift to tacky or cloudy? Did it transfer to the swap, then he’d need to swap with denatured alcohol and what to look for when he did that..
Photograph both areas before testing, immediately afterward and again once they are dry. Send me the pictures with a description of anything you felt or noticed.
Most importantly you out line all the DO NOTs
Once I know how the tests react, I’ll be able to give you better guidance.
You read through the instructions again, added a warning that the cloths needed to be left flat to dry somewhere safe rather than screwed into a ball, then sent it, given the hour you doubted he was still up at this time and headed off into bed. You had barely set your phone on the nightstand when it lit up once more.
From: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
So, just to be clear, the sandpaper is still forbidden?
You smiled despite yourself, your fingers already moving across the screen.
From: Second Story Restoration
To: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
If you keep mentioning it, the sandpaper will be used as evidence in an ongoing investigation.
Unless I tell you otherwise, sandpaper does not touch it.
You sent the email, switched off the lamp and settled beneath the covers.
That should have been the end of it. You had given him a preliminary assessment, a cautious first step and enough warnings to keep the bureau safe until morning. Whatever Steve decided to do next was his responsibility.
Still, as you placed your phone facedown beside the bed, a small, warm buzz settled low in your stomach the familiar anticipation of a new project beginning to take shape.
And this time, it wasn’t even a piece you were working on.
Steve’s test photographs arrived three days later.
The first six were as carefully framed as the original set. The seventh contained half his thumb.
From: Steve
Subject: Results
The mineral spirits lifted dirt, didn’t make the finish tacky, but the alcohol did.
There was an amber colour on the swab, so I stopped immediately. I’ve attached photos from before, after and once everything dried.
The drawer also made a noise when I removed it. I don’t know how to describe it without sounding like I’m asking you to diagnose furniture over email.
Would it be easier if we got on a call?
That didn't seem like such a bad idea. You told yourself it was a professional consultation and sent him your number.
He called less than a minute later.
“Hi.”
His voice was deeper than you expected: warm, cautious and distinctly Brooklyn. It made something inside you prick up.
“Hi.”
Silence stretched between you.
You could hear him breathe. Somewhere in his apartment, timber gave a faint, complaining creak.
“So,” Steve said finally, “this is less awkward in writing.”
A laugh slipped out of you. “Really?" You felt awkward.
“Well this seemed more efficient." That you could agree on.
“So you said the drawer?” Your voice sounded a little flaky but at least you'd get back onto firmer ground with the furniture talk
"Yes, right, drawer." You could hear him walking "I'm going to put you down near the, just hold on." Steve held the phone near the runners while he carefully moved the drawer. You listened to the soft scrape, asked him to check the lower edge.
"Should I be worried?" His voice came back on the line
"Doesn't sound too bad but maybe try and get the drawer all the way out so you can see what's catching there, but do it in the morning so you can see with better light."
The consultation should have ended there.
Instead, Steve asked, half amused and half genuinely curious, “Are you some kind of furniture whisperer, or can you really tell things just by sound?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “If there was a snag in the runners, it would sound more like a scrape...sharp, uneven. What you have is a groan. Like it’s rubbing, not catching.
“Right,” Steve said slowly.
“When you’ve been around this stuff long enough,” you added, “you learn to notice what means what.”
“How long have you been around things like this?” Steve asked one night, voice softer than usual.
You made a heavy noise.
“Forever,” yous started getting honest, “my whole life.”
He didn’t interrupt.
You leaned back in your chair, staring at nothing in particular as you spoke, letting the words come.
“My grandparents restored things. Furniture, frames, anything people thought was too far gone. My aunts were always into antiques too’” you added. “So I just… grew up around it. Looking at people’s treasures. Seemed right I'd go into the business, and why I spend my nights trying to save amateur from YouTube disasters."
Steve didn’t speak for a moment, and in the silence you could hear the faintest shift of him on the other end of the line, like he was turning the thought over carefully.
“I should let you sleep,” Steve said, though he sounded no more eager to hang up than you felt.
“You should send more photos of drawer tomorrow."
“So you do want to hear from me again?"
“For the bureau’s sake.” You added, biting into your own lip
“Of course.” His smile was audible.
After that, emails became messages. Messages became voice notes.
At first, the bureau remained threaded through everything.
Steve sent progress photographs. You talked him through cleaning one small section at a time and stopping whenever the surface behaved unexpectedly. He began sketching replacement drawer pulls based on the pale impressions left by the originals, his pencil studies far better than you had anticipated.
You: You really are good at drawing aren't you.
Steve: It's a way I like to spend my time
You: Any other skills you have that I might like to know about?
Steve: I’m very good at folding fitted sheets too.
You: Now I know you’re lying.
Soon, he began sending questions that required no professional guidance whatsoever.
A photograph arrived from an antique shop: an ornate chair upholstered in violently orange velvet.
Steve: Saw this and knew you'd hate it
The chair was awful, and a reproduction too. But what got your attention was the shop’s name, you knew that, and where it was. Brooklyn.
It was the first time you had an idea where he lived, though he had probably worked out you were in New York from the address beneath your business signature weeks ago. You hadn't quiet thought much about where Steve lived. How close he actually was.
You began sending him the worst restoration videos you encountered; not because he needed warning, but because indignation was more satisfying when shared.
He retaliated with photographs of peculiar antiques and increasingly implausible questions about whether they could be saved.
Calls slipped into the spaces around your lives. He spoke to you while you closed the workshop; you listened as he cooked, occasionally interrupted by a smoke alarm he insisted was overly sensitive. You learned he worked as a government consultant, although every question about what that meant earned a vague answer and a swift change of subject.
You heard names without context: Bucky demanding he hurry up, Sam laughing somewhere nearby, Peter apparently responsible for the original YouTube suggestion, and Nat telling Steve he was hopeless at something he refused to explain.
Weeks passed.
One night, long after the conversation had wandered away from furniture, Steve stopped answering.
“Steve?”
A low, even breath sounded through the speaker.
You smiled into the darkness.
“Goodnight, then.”
You should have ended the call.
Instead, you placed the phone beside your pillow and closed your eyes, letting the quiet proof of him fill the room.
For the first time, it occurred to you that the bureau might no longer be the reason you kept answering.
#~#~#~#~#~#
By the time Steve sent you a photograph of the bureau with a sketchbook open across its drop-front, it finally looked lived in not just a project.
The finish while glossy, allowed the grain to show through, the drawers sat properly in their runners and the replacement pulls no longer looked quite so out of place even though the dark ring on the top remained.
“Do you think we should try to take it out?” Steve asked that evening.
You studied the close-up on your screen phone still pressed to your ear.
“We could probably lessen it,” you started. “But I like it, I’d leave. You’ve already stripped enough.” You enlarged the photograph, following the pale edge of the mark. “You don’t want to erase what it was before you.”
Steve stayed quiet and you didn’t try to press to hard, letting him sit with it. Knowing while you were looking at the pictures he was looking at the piece itself.
“I used it today,” His voice coming over softer, reaching across time to you. “Sat down and drew for a while. It’s strange.” You heard his fingers brush over the timber. “The apartment feels different with it here. I think I feel different with it here” L“And more like home?”
“Getting there. Like this place feels less like somewhere I’m staying just staying and somewhere I’m putting down roots.”
“Roots are good. Objects hold proof that people were here” You liked that about what you did, giving anchors in time. Steve was quiet again.
“I wish you could see it in person.”
The words sat between you…heavier than they should have been after months of calls from opposite sides of the same city.
“You could let me. I mean the whats a train right?” You weren’t sure when you said it the world falling out. He was close. It wouldn’t be hard to just give in to that feeling in your stomach. Surely he’d worked it out that you probably lived close.
Then he exhaled. “Are you free Friday?”
You sat straighter. “This Friday?”
“Seven o’clock. There’s a little Italian place about halfway between us. Sam says it’s good.” So, he had been looking.
By the sounds of it he’d been thinking a lot more than you had.
“Does Sam know asking out stranger from the internet?”
“He knows you’ve spent months preventing me from destroying furniture.” You snorted so hard the noise made your brain vibrate from your noise.
“I’m free Friday.”
A booking confirmation arrived while he spoke: Friday, seven o’clock, table for two. You stared at it, suddenly aware of your heartbeat, a little studded.
“This will finally prove you exist,” you hadn’t realised you’d said the words out loud
“Friday. Seven o’clock. After you can come conduct a full inspection.”
“Friday..” You repeated sounding a little lost in it all, the booking, the reality you’d finally be meeting Steve.
Neither of you had called it a date.
Neither of you needed to.
#~#~#~#~#~#
By Wednesday, you had changed your mind about what to wear four times.
Not that you were thinking about it.
You were merely standing in front of your wardrobe, holding two nearly identical shirts against yourself while considering which one looked more like something you might casually wear to inspect a piece of furniture over dinner. It was a matter of being prepared.
The bureau had become a useful excuse for several things neither of you wanted to name. You’d gathered two other options for some hardware that he could swap out, both sets were period-appropriate, something that might bring this bureau a little closer to the one his mother had used. You wrapped them carefully and placed them beside your bag.
Steve seemed nervous too.
His messages became more frequent but less substantial, as if he kept finding reasons to confirm you were both still moving toward Friday.
Steve: How are you going to know it’s me?
You: You’ll be the man waiting outside an Italian restaurant looking like he regrets agreeing to meet someone from the internet.
Steve: That might not narrow it down.
You: Did you want to let me know what you might be wearing, would that help?
Had he never been on an online date before? Steve seemed woefully unsure of the whole process.
Steve: Blue coat?
At least that was something, you had some marker at least to look for now
You: Can you say my name before I accidentally leave with the wrong anxious stranger.
Steve: You don't have to worry, I’ll be there.
You read those three words more times than you intended.
I’ll be there
The following evening, your phone rang while you were cleaning the workshop.
You smiled when Steve’s name appeared.
“Calling to confirm you still exist?”
“Hey.” The sound of his voice had the smile fall from your face, while your hands went cold.
It was wrong. Tighter than usual, with noise and movement behind it; doors opening, footsteps, someone speaking too quietly for you to make out the words.
“What happened?” you just wanted to believe he was having a bad day, the grip on your phone getting tighter.
“I have to leave.” Your stomach dropped
“Leave where?” Your voice cracked before you could stop it
“I can’t tell you.” His sounded stressed as someone called for him in the distance. Of course he couldn’t.
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Something came up with work, and I have to go now.”
“Now?” You’d never asked about his work, and now you wish you had. Maybe then it would make you feel easier about this
“In about twenty minutes.” No time…. You looked toward your bag at the surprise you’d planed for him.
“And tomorrow? ”
“I’m sorry.” You could hear it in his voice; this was not his choice but that didn't make it any easier for you. The disappointment came sharp and immediate, but you pushed it down.
“It’s fine. It isn’t your fault if work-”
“It isn’t fine.”
“No,” you admitted. “It isn’t. But we can choose another night when you get back.”
Steve went quiet.
That soft silence you had learned to recognise was gone. This one was guarded, its edges closed tightly around whatever he still wasn’t telling you.
“Steve?”
“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Then when you know.” You kept your tone light, open..
“I don’t want to promise something else and disappoint you again.” His was so defeated, certain,
Again. He was rethinking all of it. As though this were not one cancelled dinner, but confirmation of something he had expected all along.
“You didn’t disappoint me by having to work.” you tried to sound less hurt, like it wasn’t as crushing as it felt.
“I made you a promise I couldn’t keep.”
“So make another one.” God- You didn't know why you were pleading.
“I can’t.” The answer came too quickly.
You lowered yourself onto the stool behind the workbench. Weeks of unanswered questions seemed to gather around that single denial; the government work he never explained, the conversations he redirected and the life you only heard in fragments through the phone.
“Steve..” you started so carefully unsure why you felt the need to keep things going, you didn't know him.. But you did, you wanted to, wanted to know about the man who had kept your night filled, who had made you smile just by calling, “I don’t need another date right now,” you said carefully. “I need to know whether this is ever going to exist anywhere other than my phone.” It was unfair to ask right now but if he wasn’t going to really be in this with you what was the point.
“It will.” You felt something in you give into hope “Just, when- that’s hard.” he kept going, You both stayed quiet for a moment while you tired n
“Were you really going to come tomorrow?”
“Yes.” His answer was immediate. “I wanted to meet you. I still do.” Someone called his name in the background. “I have to go,” Steve voice came torn.
You pressed your lips together, refusing to ask him to stay when he had made it clear he couldn’t.
“All right.” You closed your eyes holding your phone tight to your ear.,
“I’m sorry.” He did sound it, you had to trust he wasn't a liar.
“I know.” You didn't blame him, if what he said was true, this was beyond him,
Neither of you spoke. Usually, one of you would stretch the ending out; one last joke, one more question, some small excuse not to disconnect.
This time, Steve said goodbye.
You said it back, the line going silent. You sat still on your still holding your phone, feeling more crestfallen then you had real right to be.
Three days passed without a word from Steve.
You told yourself that was expected. He was working, whatever it was it had been urgent enough to pull him away short notice.
By Sunday evening, the disappointment had settled into something quieter. You were no longer replaying the promise he couldn’t make. You were thinking about the strain in his voice, the noise behind him and how defeated he had sounded when he said goodbye.
Your call when straight to voicemail.
“Hey, Steve.” You paused, unsure how to say everything without making it heavier than it needed to be.
“I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay” Your fingers tightened around the phone. “I’ve been thinking about our call. I don’t want you out there thinking you’ve ruined this because you couldn’t promise me another night.”
You glanced at the hardware you kept wrapped near your bag. Waiting. “You don’t have to make another promise right now either. Just call me when you get back.”
A breath caught softly in your throat.
“I’m here, Steve. And when you’re ready to see me…whenever that might be..I’d still really like to see you too.” You hesitated. “So come back safe, okay?”
Then you ended the message and set your phone on the workbench.
There was nothing more you could do except trust that, wherever Steve was, he would eventually find his way back to you.
”Steven.” It’s with folded arms and a tone that challenges him to think twice about how he just fucked up.
“Steven.” It’s the name you use when he’s in trouble. And it’s usually accompanied by the rest of his name… Grant Rogers.
“Steven.” It was prefixed by the title “Mr.” when you didn’t know him well— a time in life he didn’t like to think about because it was a time in life that you did not love him.
“Steven.” No one called him that. Maybe it unnerved him a bit, the way you’d call him by a name that only you used. Maybe it was because it reminded him not to take you for granted. Maybe because it felt like you were pushing him away, like he was a stranger instead of “love,” “babe,” or husband. Maybe it was because it made him feel like you saw right through him in ways others didn’t.
“Steven.” Is the way you’d let out his name in a breathy moan as your nails raked down his back. Steve relished the pain if it meant you were holding on as tight to him as he was internally holding onto you.
“Steven.” Is the name you’d scream when he slammed himself into you over and over, asking who was making you feel this good.
“Steven!” You’d gasped his name out between your fingers. Your eyes were shining like stars and wavering in disbelief. Steve had dropped to his knees during date night, holding a sparkly ring. And all you could do is tremble and stare at it. Finally he had to just get up and put the ring on your finger without an answer from you because all you could manage to say in your overwhelming happiness was—
“Steven.” The name you’d proudly whispered while pledging your vows. The name you’d cursed a dozen times while giving birth. The name you’d said in a million different ways worh a million different emotions during a million different memories, till he began to associate it with the lifetime he spent with you.
Steve hated when you used his full name. But he loved it at the same time.
There are many people who don’t share this sentiment, but I have an appreciation for when a fanfic is so separated from canon that it could’ve easily been its own original novel, and yet the author was only ever going to put that much energy into it if their favourite characters got to be there
I think there’s a difference between “the author stripped the media of everything it had to replace it with something easy” and “the author thought up a concept they really really like and are bestowing it upon the character like a medal”
