I’m ok. I’m gonna be ok. I’m gonna live a beautiful life and I’ll get to know beautiful people. I will create things of beauty and be surrounded by flowers. And I’ll love myself, and I’ll be soft, I’ll be kind. And I’ll be ok.
The vision of the future - Neville Longbotton x reader
Summary: the day before you go with your brother and his friends in search of the horcruxes you leave The Burrow to fulfill your promise. All for love, right?
Words: 3k?
Notes - this was written in an outbreak of inspiration. I think I used the word 'you' a lot, but okay. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. If you have seen any errors please let me know. Many terms change when it comes to translating. Please don't steal my work. She may not be amazing, but she's mine.
GIF IS NOT MINE
Harry wasn't just freaking out. He was going crazy.
It was the day before Fleur and Bill's wedding and his 17th birthday with his twin sister, S/N Potter. For him it was a normal day at The Burrow. He woke up to the sound of Ron snoring and Mrs. Weasley who was already begun preparations to welcome the Delacur family.
Following his routine of every summer vacation he spent with the Weasley family he got up, woke Up Rony, who, as always, just grumbled and went back to sleep, went to the bathroom, began brushing his teeth and soon after heard Molly waking Ron up with her special way of mother. After he went down to meet with the rest of the family, Hermione and mainly his sister to define the last details of his search the horcruxes.
But when he reached the end of the stairs and realized that everyone was quiet something had happened. There was never a moment of silence in the Weasley house. Even with the start of the war, the conversation never stopped at the house. Taking a closer look at the table he realized his sister wasn't there.
-Where's s/n? - Your sister always woke up earlier than he did. Something had happened. Harry felt his hands begin to shake as he squeezed the railing of the lair more.
Everyone at the table looked in between and then directed their gaze at the matriarch. Harry raised his face and found Molly wide-eyed looking at the older twin as a child catches stealing candy.
-Harry, she's fine, she's just-
-Mrs. Weasley, where did she go?
-Harry, I, I can't tell you. - The older woman held on to the edge of the table like a lifeline, afraid she had made a bad decision.
-BUT, but where did she go???- Harry needed to control himself. He didn't want to yell at Mrs. Weasley, the woman who was practically a mother to him.
She kept quiet. The boy looked at Hermione. 'She always has the answers,' he thought, 'she can tell me that.'
-Hermione? - the girl was startled when her name was said. Harry's voice had thickened substantially in seconds because of nervousness and concern.
-I don't know, Harry. I swear! When Ginny and I woke up, she wasn't in her room. Her bed was fixed and all things are still there. - Hermione was afraid that her friend wouldn't believe her, but it was the truth. When she woke up and didn't see the younger Potter her heart went off. And when she went down the stairs and saw Mrs. Weasley preparing breakfast with more nervousness than anything she knew S/N had done something stupid.
Ginny shook his head confirming everything the older girl was talking about. She knew she couldn't open her mouth to talk. She was so nervous about the boy in front of her that she felt like when she was 11 and liked the Elect.
-Harry, I'm so sorry. I can't tell you where she went. But she's coming back! It's okay, she promised to come back before 9:00 p.m! - Mrs. Weasley says walking slowly towards Harry. - I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let her go, but I promise she didn't do anything wrong! She's safe. -
Harry was paralyzed. Where would your sister have gone? She couldn't leave like that! Not to mention where she would go and most of all, abandoning him.
-Why is Harry already yelling? and what's happening to you?- Ron says down the stairs.
You knew it was a stupid idea. you knew when you came back, you wouldn't have to face just your brother's anger. But of the whole Weasley family, hermione and all the aurochs who would arrive the next day. Especially Remus's anger.
But you had to. You had promised him that you would. And even if there was no promise you needed to see him before you went out to kill an old man with no nose.
It was 8 a.m. By that time Harry would have woken up and freaked out. But you'd face the consequences later.
Neville and his grandmother spent most of their time in a small house in London to be more close to Frank and Alice. But with the return of the death eaters Augusta she chose to live in his son's and daughter-in-law old house. The gate key sent you near a cliff. The sea breeze while calming you made you more nervous, bringing back memories of not long ago, when you, your brother and Dumbledore went after one of Tom Riddle's horcruxes.
Shaking the gloomy memory you went towards the house. The whole house and surroundings reminded Nev. The variety of plants calmed his heart. It didn't even seem like that moment could be the last with him.
Upon reaching the end of the hill you saw the boy sitting on the thoughtful porch. He was startled by the sudden movement and he stood up sharply with the wand in his hand, until he realized it was you. Cautiously you approached each other.
-Hi, I, um, what did I say to you after Professor Dumbledore's funeral?- he says remembering that it could be a death eater that had taken a polyjuice potion.
-I don't want to lose you like I lost my parents- - - Neville relaxed the wand and ran to meet you hugging you. Automatically with the contact you relaxed. At that moment it didn't matter at all. That was his safe place, the only place that mattered.
By walking away and giving a better look at your beloved you realized how much the boy had lost weight. His eyes was snare bottoms, probably to spend days without sleep. His hair was large, almost reaching the tip of his nose.
- Hi my love -- - he says sniffing
-Hey, baby. How are you doing? Are you asleep? I can see that. How's your grandma? Is it all right? - you started talking by bombarded the boy while you were holding his face. It didn't feel real.
- I'm fine, my love, even better at seeing you. Grandma's fine, she went to a muggle friend's house a few feet away, soon she'll be back. Let's go inside, shall we?-
As you headed to the cabin he held your hand with tremendous force, without taking the look off your face.
As soon as you came in and closed the door, he kissed you. It was a mixture of despair, love and worry in one kiss. You held on to suchstrength and only parted ways when the need for air presented itself. Touching your faces you couldn't let go.
-Happy birthday Nev . - You managed to let go while still trying to recover from the kiss.
-Thank you my love, let's sit down?- he says as he tries to control the slight flushing on his face.
As you headed into the living room you couldn't help but watch the house. Filled with brown and green tones, everything referred to you for safety, peace. Same peace the Weasleys brought with their red colors. But you knew that feeling in the Longbottons' house was much deeper, something you couldn't even describe for your best friend. It was probably something related to love that you could only understand a few good years later.
As you sat down it looked like you were connected by a permanent spell, nothing could separate you at that moment. Not you-know-who, not even your own brother. Nobody.
You couldn't stop looking at each other. Your hand went against his jaw as your thumb made slight movements on his face. He nestled even more in his hand.
- My beautiful boy. - the word boy itself seemed ridiculous, because no seem like Neville had just turned 17, he seemed like a man already, but you still had the right to enjoy the last hours of your youth before going after something that there would be no turning back.
The war was taking away everyone's lovely and beautiful innocence, your brother was one of them. After Dumbledore's death, everyone changed their features and their hearts.
-My beautiful girl.- He says giving a heavy sigh - how is your brother? What about the Weasleys? Is everyone all right?-
- yes, everybody's fine, just nervous about the wedding tomorrow... probably be more nervous now knowing that I'm not there.-
-Y\N, didn't you tell them where you were going? - despair took over his body as he left his relaxed posture to tense on the couch.
- I, well Nev...
-DIDN'T YOU TELL HIM? GOD YOUR BROTHER WILL KILL ME AND-
- Nev, honey, it's okay. - You say making calming movements on the boy's back-- - I didn't warn Harry because I knew he would react as you just reacted. I just told Molly and she promised not to tell anyone anything. When I get back, I'll explain it to them, it's all right.-
It wasn't all right, you knew. Calming your brother's anger wouldn't be easy, but he'd understand. But with a little convincing he'd understand. He'd do the same if it was Ginny away from him.
With his speech the boy relaxed a little, but still tense knowing what you would have to face when you returned home.
You approached him sticking his face around his neck giving slight kisses trying to calm him down. -Come on, baby, let's enjoy your day together, shall we? Tell me, what do you want to do?-
He took a deep breath, took your warmth out of your neck and said. -I just want you, just you.- And he kissed you, climbing on top of you.
This kiss was much calmer, but still full of passion and love. His hands held your face as your hand lightly pulled the long, thick strands of his hair.
There in his embrace you got lost, stopping only when you heard the back door open and Neville's grandmother calling him. The boy suddenly jumped off you falling off the couch as you sat down and tried to fix your clothes and your hair. Getting up you helped the boy get up while he put up his own clothes trying todisguise the evidence of what you were doing.
-Neville, are you there? Has Y\N arrived yet? -
- Yes, Grandma, we're here, we're going there, wait,- the boy says nervously entering the kitchen with you on his tail.
-Hello Mrs. Longbotton, how are you?- you day heading towards her taking the bags out of her hand to hug her.
You met Mrs. Longbotton two summers ago. You and Neville have always been close at hogwarts. The proximity bringing a great romance. Harry knew we had a relationship at school but he thinks I broke up with him like he did with ginny.
I tried to finish with the intention of protecting him, but when I ended up trying to push him away he made me promise that before I disappear I would spend the day one last time with him. And here I am.
Meanwhile you kept talking to Neville's grandmother while you helped her make lunch.
You ate together talking about anything that wasn't related to you-know-who. Soon after she walked away saying she was going to read a little in the greenhouse, but you could hear her brief whisper talking about 'leaving you young people alone'.
Laughing you started cleaning the kitchen quickly and then went to Neville's room. You came in and Nev closed the door. Not in a moment since you arrived has he let go of your hand. You looked at each other with a brief smile, took off your shoes and lay on the bed. Neville snugged into your chest as you shoved your nose into his hair, trying to keep your scent on your head.
- When all this is over we're going to get married- - He says in an already sleepy voice. Your presence acting like a sleep aid after days of not being able to sleep.
-Is that really, love?-
-Yes, and I will never leave you again my love. -
- That's good, because I don't want to get away from you ever again.-
Less than a minute later you are asleep, bathed in tiredness and the comfort of each other's presence, without any dream.
When you wake up the sun is already setting, slowly raising your arm you look at your watch that it is almost time to return.
You wake Neville up by making light affections on his face, enjoying his relaxed face. He mumbles slightly, bringing your body closer to him.
- Neville, darling, it's almost time- your voice light as a feather calling him like a mermaid whispering softly.
He mumbles a little more and finally wakes up. You spend a few minutes just looking at each other, enjoying the last moments before the wave of confusion that comes around.
He finally nods and gets up. You two try to stretch the farewell as much as possible, slowly putting on your shoes and putting on your coats, never moving away from each other.
Leaving the room you will find Mrs. Longbotton. She gives you a strong hug and a slightly heavy purse.
- It's potions, honey, you're going to need it.-
-But ma'am-
-It's yours and your brother's. Consider it a birthday present, yes? - she gives a slight laugh and getting it would be all of a sudden. - Stay safe ok? You need to come back and take care of this boy.
You smile trying not to cry.- Thank you. For everything, Mrs. Longbotton. Take care of yourself, please. Don't get in any trouble all right?-
The older woman laughs giving you a slight kiss on the head. - Yes, of course, I'll try- she takes a deep breath and says in your ear.- Kill him. Please. -
She walks away looking into her eyes. You can see the anger and the grudge in her eyes. – I Will. -
You wave at each other, knowing that there was one until soon.
Neville guides you to the balcony of the beautiful house, holding your hand hard as you climb the relief toward the Portkey and the last rays of sunshine.
You haven't spent the day talking, but each other's presence only made you realize you didn't need words for him to understand you. Only each other's contact was sufficient and always will be.
You were still 20 minutes away from going, so you sat down and watched the end of the day.
-I have a gift for you-- he says.
-No, Nev. We promised, no presents this year.
-But it's not a gift, honey, it's just something I'd like you to keep around, yes?
- Is that the galleon of Dumbledore's army?
- yes, but I modified it. Only you and I have this one. We can always see if everything's okay with each other and if... Hm-
- If we're alive.
-Yes, i'm sorry.
-I loved it. Thank you, darling.- He comes closer by putting on being neck and giving you a kiss.
- I have something for you too.
- I knew it. - he says with a slight laugh.
-Hey, It's the same kind of gift you gave me. To protect you .
- Here see, - You say the words and show it to him. - it's the hogwarts map. You'll be able to see everyone who's there. So you can take care of yourself. Harry and I won't be needing it anymore. Use it,- you teach him how to use it.
- Thank you, my love. It's about time. He gets up and gives you his hand to help you do the same. You approach the Portkey and look at each other. The tears are already beginning to blur your vision.
-I love you, i love you.´- You start.
-I love you, i love you.- He repeats. You hug as hard as you can and then you kiss so intensely.
-Take care of yourself, please. It won't be easy there, but the map will help you, -to this point the tears are already running down your face.
-You too, please. Control your brother, don't let him have stupid ideas yes? - you have a slight laugh. - Now go, - he says giving one last kiss as you walk away and put your hand in the old sock there.
- See you soon, my love. - he says trying to hide his bare voice, hugging the piece of parchment.
-See you soon. It's going to be all right. - And as soon as you finished the sentence you were pulled falling and another hill much darker with your heart in pain.
Many miles away Neville did the same as he tried to return home and sent a message to you on the coin. 'I love you'.
You feel the coin warm and see the message, replying to the message with a 'I love you too ́.
You take a deep breath getting up trying to calm down, as you're going to have to face a hurricane at The Burrow named Harry and the whole Weasley family. But above all, the feeling of hope that everything will work out is present with you. Neville's visit brought this to you. Everything would work out. That was the only certainty you had, because if it didn't work out you didn't know what you were going to do.
Summary: Marc's mental health takes a turn for the worse when you give him some news. After chasing him to Chicago, you, Steven, and Jake are left to pick up the pieces.
Pairing: Steven Grant x f!Reader, Marc Spector x f!Reader, Jake Lockley x f!Reader
Word Count: ~5.9k
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort with a happy ending, mental health issues, excessive drinking, tense encounter with police, insensitivity (insensitive language) towards mental illness, pregnancy, mentions of past child abuse and trauma, mentions of abortion. If there's anything else please let me know!
A/N: Please read the warnings! Let me know what you think! Happy holidays!
Marc Spector is a disaster.
He’s a walking red flag.
His mind is fucked up, and he’s never known how to deal with it.
There are triggers and tripwires inside him that even he can’t guess at, that he doesn’t want to look at.
His knuckles are bleeding, the palms of his hands scraped raw, and he can’t say whether he was in a fight or if he fell.
Did he stumble and fall?
Why is no one ever there to help him up again?
Something swirls inside him, a voice telling him to stop, but he won’t listen to those voices tonight. He won’t be the guy shouting on a street corner to a person no one else can see, to people no one else can see.
There are, some part of him knows, people to help him up again.
He’s just left them behind, shut them out.
“You’ve gotta go buddy.” The voice is American and gruff. It confuses him because he’s not sure how he got to the States. He glances up and around, vision blurred and doubled and tripled but he manages to make out the logo of the Cubs on the far wall of the bar.
The rough voice is still speaking to him when a hard hand grips his upper arm. He’s dragged upright but he doesn’t remember falling to the floor. There’s a bottle of something in his hand, amber liquid turning around the inside of the glass that feels like shards of a broken mirror in his brain.
Look, look, look, the mirror says. Look what you said you’d never become again.
He jerks away from the hand on his shoulder, memory like draggers, like the shape of a mother’s love and broken promises, twisting deep inside him.
The bottle clatters to the floor. It doesn’t burst, the glass is too thick for that, but the sound of it makes him frantic, reminds him of slamming doors and mistakes long past.
Someone is crying, someone is shouting, someone is hitting him -
No.
His own hands.
A whine lodges in his throat, his face smarts. He manages to still his hands.
The hands on his shoulders are shoving him now. “Get this fucking guy out of here. He’s fucking crazy. Something’s wrong with him-,”
He lands on the street in a heap, and it's cold.
It’s winter and it’s cold and there are Christmas decorations on this street. Winter decorations, the city of Chicago would probably say. White lights that twinkle overhead when he lands in the gutter, that spin and smash into each other before separating and diving away.
His hands are still smarting and the hard press of iced over snow and slush only makes it worse.
“Hey,” there’s a voice, feminine and kind, “What’s your name? Are you okay?” He can’t focus on the face that swims in front of him.
“Marc,” he manages.
He wants to go home. He wants to go home, he wants this person to call-
“Get away from him, lady! He’s fucking crazy. Someone call the cops, he’s gonna freeze out here-,”
“Marc,” he manages to meet her eyes. She’s older, eyes familiar.
“It’s gonna be okay, Marc," she says.
Marc doesn’t move, but he nods.
He blinks and blinks and blinks, until his eyes stay closed and the woman is tugged away. “Let them handle it. Cops’ll be here soon enough-,”
“Cops are going to-,”
The voices fade away, he stops listening.
His shirt is wet, his jeans too, and he doesn’t have a coat anymore.
He thinks about his mother and how he doesn’t want to be like her but it seems like it's inevitable that he will be. He thinks about how he’s shoved Jake and Steven so far away he hasn’t heard their voices in days.
Last, he thinks about you. About the tears slipping down your cheeks when he left, about the way his throat had been scraped raw with the blunt nails of his voice. The things he’d said to you, the fear in the pit of his belly, that poisoned seed long ago planted that spread blackened vines over his body.
Blue and red lights flash, and he finally hears one of his alters. Steven, panicked and worried, and Marc, what have you done now-
He’s answering, the voice in his throat choked, like there’s something wrapped around his lungs and heart. “Fuck off, Steven!” His voice explodes out of him, and the guy from the bar that dumped him on the ground jumps. “I didn’t do anything! I did what I had to-,”
He’d left you, he’d said horrible things to you, when you said-
Marc, I’m pregnant.
It should have been okay.
That should have been okay.
He should have been okay, should have been able to talk it out and over with you.
But it wasn’t, he isn’t.
Another bender.
He thought he was past this. He hasn’t done this in…eighteen months? Longer? Since he decided to be better for you. Since he decided he couldn’t keep doing that to you - disappearing and getting fucked up and not calling and coming home to you crying.
How many days has he been gone? Are you okay? What if something happened to you while he was out here fucking wallowing and screaming inside his own mind -
There’s nothing about you that he understands. He’s never understood how you could bear it. How could you bear it? When he does this, when you have to pick up the pieces, when Steven has to clean them up and Jake has to smooth things over with you?
But it's been more than a year, of reconciling his identity, of learning to live with Steven and Jake and not shove them down, of getting help and letting you help support him.
And now, this.
Pregnant.
One word had undone months of work.
For no reason.
He wants to go home to you, apologize, work it out with you.
But he’s drunk and he can’t move.
The blue and red lights flash behind his eyelids, rough hands again grip his shoulders, sick rolling up from his gut at the feeling of hands against his skin. Hard hands, rough hands.
Marc doesn’t want to be touched.
“Stop-,”
“He’s drunk.”
“Don’t touch me-,”
“Hasn’t been violent yet but he’s talking to himself. Something’s fuckin’ wrong with him but we didn’t want him to freeze to death. Some lady said his name is Marc.”
“Stop, stop-,”
“Okay. We’ll throw him in the drunk tank, let him dry out.”
“Stop touching me,” he manages not to slur, to speak clearly.
Still-
“What was that, pal?”
It’s too much.
Marc throws the hands off, stumbles away from the touch that burns like coal. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want-
He’s knocked into the snow, handcuffs cold around his wrists, so cold they’re hot. He’s trapped and something is burning him and -
~
“-fucking kidding me?” Your voice is incensed. It comes to him warbled, like he’s hearing it through a tunnel. “His skin is raw. He’s fucking bleeding. He’s bruised.”
“It was for his own protection. He assaulted an officer and tried to hurt himself.” The voice that responds is feminine and surprisingly calm. “We didn’t have anywhere to put him besides the drunk tank. Couldn’t have him causing problems.”
Marc shifts, pushing himself upright. His hands are still behind his back, cuffs digging into his skin. His cheek hurts from being squished against the metal bench he’d been slumped on.
There’s a long silence before you take a breath and sigh. “Okay.”
A buzzer sounds and then a door slams. “You’re lucky,” another voice says, much harsher than the first. “If that lawyer hadn’t called he’d be facing charges right now. He should be facing charges right now.”
You let out a humorless laugh as Marc stands, shuffling past the other drunks, most of them sleeping, to the door of the holding cell. He tries to peer down the hall, tries to catch a glimpse of you.
“Right. Lucky he’s bleeding and bruised and near hypothermic because of the negligence of this department.”
“You’re lucky he’s not dead in a fucking gutter,” the harsh voice says, male and aggressive. It raises Marc’s hackles, because no one should be speaking to you like that. Not his brave girl, standing up for him in a police department like that wasn’t completely fucking dangerous. “Word of advice, sweetheart? Drop him. He’s not worth it. Guy doesn’t even know his own fucking name. He’s batshit crazy. He should be institutionalized.”
A door bangs shut again, the receptionist’s voice returns now, much gentler, “He needs help, honey. Serious help.”
“He’s not-,” you sound broken and raw. “He’s not crazy. We don’t use that word. He’s fine, usually. There was just - something happened that triggered him.”
“He talks to himself,” the receptionist says, not unkindly. Marc leans into the bars of the holding cell, the metal cold under his skin, against his cheek. There’s a heavy pause, the sound of a tissue being pulled out of a box. “My son was diagnosed with schizophrenia and-,”
You blow your nose and Marc misses the rest of the sentence. “He’s not schizophrenic,” you say. “Thank you, though.” Paper being folded, shoved into the interior pocket of a coat. “Can I take him home now?”
Hesitation. “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else? To help you at least? He was fairly agitated earlier.”
The meaning of her words are clear, and shame wells deep inside him, threatening to swallow him whole.
“He would never hurt me,” you reply immediately and vehemently. “He knows me. He would never.”
“If you’re sure-,”
“I am,” you answer without hesitation. “Can you - Do you know who asked you to call me? If it wasn’t Marc-,”
Marc closes his eyes, presses his face harder into the metal, eyes clenched shut. “He - uh - introduced himself as Steven. Sounded British, I guess.” A pause, and then, “Multiple personalities then, not schizophrenic. How many personalities does he have? Are you sure none of them are dangerous?”
Your voice is tightly controlled, a nugget of familiar embarrassment digging into his gut. “Sorry, I’m - I’m not comfortable talking about that. I would just say - just in case you ever deal with someone else like Marc - they’re alters, not personalities. That’s important. It’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Your correction is gentle and Marc isn’t sure why he feels like crying. “And no. None of them are violent. It’s a terrible stereotype.”
The receptionist doesn’t respond, but he imagines her nodding. “Of course,” she says eventually. “And the others know you too?”
“Yes,” you sniffle. “They work together really well, usually.”
“Of course,” the receptionist says, clearly placating now, clearly beginning to believe you were delusional about the truth of your situation.
“Okay. Let me see him now,” you say, voice thick. Marc knows you hear it too, the sympathy and empathy that was rapidly drying up.
And a moment later you’re moving down the hall. You’re there and meeting his eyes, and the look in them is flush with relief. “Marc,” you say, his name safe in your mouth.
The cell is unlocked by an officer, a different one to the aggressive, angry one. The cuffs are taken off his wrists only slightly roughly, and then your arms are coiled around him, squeezing tightly.
“You’re so cold,” you’re saying in his ear, a ringing in his ears that makes it hard to hear you. “Honey, you’re so cold. C’mon. Let’s go home.”
He follows you down the hall, through the buzz of a door and into the lobby.
Home.
Home, where?
“Merry Christmas,” the receptionist calls after you. “Hope everything works out.”
“Thanks,” you say, hand around Marc’s, even though neither of you celebrate Christmas and he isn’t sure there’s anything to work out between you anymore.
~
The car is a rental.
It smells new and the seats are still warm.
You reach into the backseat and hand him a coat.
He pulls it on, lets you fuss over his bruised wrists, the scrapes and cuts and blood that coats his skin.
You’re pissed, but he can’t tell at who or what.
“Marc,” you murmur and tug his hands to the air vents. Your voice is sweet, like a balm to him. His hands are cold, like icicles, and he hadn’t even realized. “Keep your hands here ‘til they’re warm,” you say before releasing his fingers and reaching to shift the car into drive.
Chicago is grim in the daylight, gray and flat, a winter that will last too long. Snowmelt drips from overhead, and the streets are all black slush.
He’s still not sure when, or how, he got to Chicago.
His hands start to feel warm again and so he sits back in his seat, not saying anything, not for a long time, not until you pull the car into the hotel’s parking garage and you’re opening the door.
“They’re right, y’know.”
You settle back in the driver’s seat, one foot on the ground, one leg in the icy cold. “What? Who?”
“I need serious help. You’re better off without me.”
You just stare at him, one tear trailing down your cheek that you flick away with an irritated hand. “C’mon,” you prod. “Let’s go.” You get out of the car, you shut the door and wait.
But you don’t deny it. You don’t say it's not true.
Marc watches you for a moment, fists shaking in his lap. “Marc,” Jake says, his eyes watching him in the rearview mirror, the first time he’s heard his voice in days. “Let go, hermano. You can rest now.”
He shakes his head, closes his eyes, tries to shove Jake down.
But he’s there, he’s not going anywhere.
“Don’t be so fuckin’ hardheaded, Marc. You need to rest. We need to take care of the body. You’re going to upset -,”
“I won’t,” he snarls, catching the way you jump at the outburst, even through glass and metal you hear him. He’s exhausted, close to burn out, already in the middle of a never ending melt down. He won’t upset you again. He won’t. “I won’t upset her. I will not,” he enunciates and shoves the door open.
You hold out a hand to him and Marc takes it, letting you guide him through the hotel lobby to the bank of elevators. He knows as soon as he steps inside that he’s made a mistake. The elevator is mirrored and when he meets his reflection’s gaze-
~
“Querida,” Jake says, tucking you into his side, nose against your temple. He inhales the icy scent of your skin. You smell like cold, like Marc’s soap. “I’m sorry. We tried to get him to go home. We tried to call you but Marc-,”
“Where is Marc?” Your eyes are wide and wet and Jake feels something inside him sink. “Why did he leave?”
Jake doesn’t know what to say - he only remembers bits and pieces of the last few days, he remembers almost nothing of the conversation that had sent Marc into a self-destructive spiral. Jake settles for what he knows to be the truth, “He needs to rest. He’s exhausted. I need to take care of the body.”
You nod and the elevator stops.
He follows you to the room you’d checked into. It’s small but nice. Clean. The bathroom has a bathtub. A big one with claw feet, the way you said you’d always like to have in a house someday.
“Can I help?”
Jake turns, finds you in the doorway to the bathroom. “I want to help you clean up. I missed you.”
Jake nods.
He feels sick, hungover and groggy. He feels dirty. He looks dirty and tired when he meets his eyes in the mirror over the sink. There are circles beneath his eyes and his cheeks look hollowed out, like someone has dug a spoon into the meat of him.
“Yeah, if you want,” he concedes.
Jake doesn’t want you to see them like this but you already have and so he might as well accept your kindness, your warm touch. He doesn’t know what Marc’s done, and so it might be the last time.
You run a bath, you settle Jake in the water, you sit on the edge of the tub and wash his hair. The scratch of your hands against his scalp is nice, soothing. The smell of the shampoo bothers him a little but not enough to say anything. You dig your hands into his hair, into the muscle at the base of his neck until he relaxes into your touch.
When he’s clean and you’re cupping his chin, running a razor over his jaw and cheek, you ask, “Do you remember what happened?”
“No. Wasn’t aware until we were here and it felt like Marc’s heart was going to-,”
Jake had come to in the cemetery at the foot of Randall’s grave. Wendy would be to his left, but Jake didn’t dare look that way.
“No. No, I don’t remember, hermosa.”
You nod and touch his cheek. “Can I tell you? Is Steven listening?”
Jake nods, touches your hand. “It’s just us. Me and you.”
“Jake,” you say. “I told Marc that I’m pregnant.” You swallow and continue before he can answer you. An odd feeling lodges in his chest, hot with something unknowable. “I should have told him in a different way but-,”
Jake remembers now, flashes of Marc’s despair, the worry gnawing at his gut. The panic and the memories and the fear. It was too sudden, too much-
You.
Pregnant.
With his child.
Marc hadn’t known how to handle it, his mother’s face swimming before his eyes. All the damage he’d be able to wreck on a tiny little life.
We aren’t ready.
I know, that’s why we’re talking about it.
So, what, you want to get rid of it?
I didn’t say that. I just wanted you to know so we could-
It’s okay. I know I’d be a terrible fucking parent. Just get rid of it. I don’t know why you even told me.
You’d shrunk away from Marc at that. Marc, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I’m trying to say.
He’d scoffed, hadn’t looked at you. You think I’d be parent of the year or something?
No, I’m-
So you don’t want it.
No! Marc, stop putting words in my mouth!
Things had only escalated from there, egging you on until you’d burst, poking at you, demanding you say something hurtful, to push him away before he could damage you further. You or the -
“Pregnant?” Jake asks, interrupting you and his racing thoughts, thinking that this is the kind of thing that Grant is much more skilled at handling.
“Right,” you say, relaxing a little. And he supposes his reaction hasn’t been to antagonize you or run away and so it’s an improved one. “I just…needed to tell him. I needed to tell one of you. I felt so alone and-”
Jake takes your hand, his skin wet against yours. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“‘Course you aren’t,” he soothes. “‘Course not. How am I lookin’?” He swipes a hand over his face, and you nod to indicate you’re done shaving him. “Lemme get us dressed. Marc wasn’t eating. We can go for pizza.”
Your face crumples and you nod, standing and shifting away from him. Something like grief flashes over your face but he can’t decipher why. “Okay,” you rasp, trying to clear your voice but it just cracks more. “Okay.”
“Hey,” he tugs you back by your hand. “Te amo. Siento lo que pasó.”
You nod again, but don’t comment, tugging yourself gently away.
~
Steven glances up from a red and white checkered tablecloth. There’s a half eaten deep dish pizza on the table. The plate directly in front of him is streaked with red sauce and his belly is full.
He’s alone at the table and there’s classic rock playing over the radio and when he looks out the window it’s snowing.
He’s confused. The last he remembers are police and pain and -
“Steven?” You’re suddenly there, sounding relieved, your voice like a spear of light into the darkness of his world.
“Love,” he meets your eyes as you sit down across from him. “What happened?”
“Jake…is he alright? I was only in the bathroom for a minute.”
Steven nods and takes your hand across the table. “He’s fine.” Steven looks you over, the tautness in your features, the sallow tinge of your skin. Marc’s put you through hell the last few days and he feels irritation spike inside him.
How could Marc do this to you? Again?
They - Marc hasn’t done this in ages.
“I already told Jake,” you say quickly. “What set Marc off. I’m guessing you don’t know either. He - I told him I’m pregnant and he didn’t take it well. I shouldn’t have sprung it on him-,”
“Pregnant?” Steven asks, suddenly realizing why Jake had walked out of the body so abruptly. You’ve just come back from the loo, and it’s clear you were just sick. It’s morning sickness and Jake doesn’t know how to handle that. But - “Pregnant? With - with ours?” When you nod, an unexpected elation curls up his spine. Pregnant. With their, with his, baby. “Oh, dear, that’s -,”
No wonder Marc had a bit of a breakdown then.
He stands, rips the napkin that’s tucked into the collar of his shirt out and sweeps Jake’s flat cap off his head, before he rounds the table to you. He tugs you into a hug when he sits next to you, curling his arms around you.
The breath you take is shaky against his chest, a hiccup in your voice. “Oh, Steven,” you whisper, hands curling into his shirt, one of Jake’s button-ups. You must have brought some clothes for all of them, had the presence of mind to remember Jake’s stupid cap he can’t live without. “I missed you,” your voice is numb and raw and filled with longing. “I love you so fucking much. I love you.”
“I love you too,” he chirps. “Very much. I’m sorry Marc-,”
Steven stops.
He’s sorry Marc - what? Ran off, relapsed into old coping mechanisms, worried you, left you utterly alone? All of the above?
“I’m just sorry,” he murmurs into the corner of your jaw. “So sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby,” you say, fingers digging into his hair, the palm of your hand cupping the back of his neck. “Nothing.”
He pulls back, tugs your hand into his, the warmth of it comforting. “Were you sick? Just then?” He asks, just to confirm. You nod. “Pregnant. Really?”
“You’re taking it better than Marc or Jake.”
“Was Jake-,”
“He was putting on a brave face. But I think it thoroughly freaked him out.” You nuzzle his hand when he cups your jaw, tilts your head back so he can see your face. You don’t meet his eyes, gaze downcast.
Steven nods and releases your chin, let’s you curl into him. “Right. I think they just need a bit of time.”
“Not sure that’s the case. Marc literally ran to another country to get away from me,” you say miserably. “Jake doesn’t know what to do or say. I think he just wants it to go away. And the really terrible thing is, that was what I wanted to talk to each of you about. What we’d do. I don’t know what to do or how to feel.”
“You mean-,” Steven snaps his mouth shut. The last thing you needed was him dumping his own feelings onto yours, especially after Marc and Jake have made you feel unwanted and weird respectively. “Never mind that. I’m bloody thrilled. And if - if you don’t want to have a baby, then I’m here for you. I’m here for you no matter what.”
You pull back and meet his eyes, brows pulling together as you search his gaze.
For a moment, he thinks he’s made a terrible miscalculation as your lip wobbles dangerously but then your arms are circling his neck and you’re breathing out hard. “You’re amazing. Have I ever said before? You’re amazing.”
“If anyone is, it's you, love,” he says, holding you close, feeling the beat of your heart against his. “Chasing Marc halfway across the world. I-I’m really not sure what we’ve done to deserve that.”
You pull back and stare at him, your gaze guarded. “‘Course I came. You told the police to call me. I’d already figured out he was in Chicago when they called. I was on a layover in New York. But I had no idea where to go once I got here. The police were so fucking horrible. They-,” you stop and clutch him harder, like you mean to shield him from whatever happened. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what they were saying. Marc is lucky Murdock likes Jake so much and that he had another lawyer friend in Chicago he could call.”
“You knew exactly what to do. We’re so lucky to have you.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry Marc left you like that. I’m sorry he gave you such a fright.”
You shift, so your head is against his shoulder, and for the first time you relax a little. “No. It’s, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. He’s been doing so well for so long, and I just said it. I know how he is about -,” you force yourself to stop talking again. “Really, it was unfair of me. And then he had to hear the horrible things the police said, after everything he’d already been through.”
“You defended us though, yeah? It’s alright.” Steven wasn’t there, but the moments come in glimpses, Marc’s shame and embarrassment, the way you’d spoken up for them, corrected the receptionist, done everything to help them.
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s not okay, what happened.” You shake your head, vehement in your disgust. “They shouldn’t treat people like that. I know things could have been much worse but it doesn’t make it okay.”
“‘Course not. One problem at a time though, love. Nothing came of it. Okay?”
It takes you a moment to respond, but eventually you nod back, swallowing hard. “Okay. Okay, Steven. Are you hungry? Jake said Marc wasn’t-wasn’t eating.” Your voice warbles. “Wasn’t eating, just drinking himself sick.”
“No, I feel alright now. Maybe a bit hungover but fine. Just tired, really.”
You nod and pull away, yanking your bag into your lap and searching for some money to leave on the table. “Do I make him that afraid?” You whisper, not looking up. “Have I misread everything so badly? That he’d hurt himself like that?”
Steven shakes his head, “Not everything is about you, love. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, or himself, really.”
You nod, but you don’t look like you believe him.
“He’s going to leave me, and take you and Jake with him.”
“No,” Steven says, picking up Jake’s cap to stuff in his pocket as you both stand. “Never,” he cups your face between his palms. “We’ll never let that happen, dear heart. We can’t be kept away from you.”
~
It’s dark outside when Marc wakes, wrapped in the sheets of an unfamiliar bed.
He feels better.
Clean and fed and rested, at least a little.
He’s only wearing a pair of briefs, the comforter a heavy weight on his chest.
You’re sitting up next to him in bed, your eyes glassy where they’re glued to the flickering TV.
He says your name and you look at him, immediately sliding down next to him, fingers digging into his shoulder as you bury your nose in his neck.
“Marc, I’m so sorry-,”
He’s shaking his head but he can’t get the words out. Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault.
It’s him. It’s always him.
It was bad already, but the police station only made it worse, reminding you surely of why he’s not good for you, why you deserve better.
“Don’t,” he says, voice harsher than he intends it to be. You go quiet, lips pressed together in a tight line. “It’s not your fault. It’s me. It’s always fucking me.”
You stroke his cheek. “You’re wrong, you know.”
He huffs out a laugh, cycling through everything he’s ever been wrong about. “Yeah.”
“Marc,” you tilt his face into yours, so close that the air he breathes is your breath. You smell like his soap, like minty toothpaste. He inhales, holds the breath of you inside, sure this is the moment you tell him to fuck off. “You’re wrong about being bad for me. I’m not better off without you, that’s exactly why I followed you here. The shit they said -,”
He dares to tuck you closer.
His head is clear now, and he can feel Jake and Steven close at hand, watching and waiting, making sure he doesn’t fuck this up again.
But the body has slept and his belly is full and he’s not drunk or hungover or standing at the foot of his little brother’s grave.
He’s okay. He’s good.
“This isn’t about that.”
“Like hell it’s not.” Your voice is gentle. “You believe that shit.”
“No,” he sits up and pulls away from you, paces the length of the hotel room even though he’s freezing. “No.”
But it didn’t make it any better. Reminds him of what his kid would go through with him as a father.
Unstable. Crazy. Whatever you want to call it.
“Marc,” you say his name again.
Safe. He’s safe with you, always. Even when you disagreed, even when you were mad at each other. “Honey, look at me.”
He does.
You look vulnerable, swathed in the comforting mountain of sheets that aren’t yours. “Let me say what I need to.” You wait for him to nod before you continue. “I should have approached you about it in a different way. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you ended up in that police station because of it.” He opens his mouth but you give him a look that dries the words on his tongue. “I’m pregnant. We did that together. We make the decision about what comes next together. All of us.”
He gives a short nod, panic welling in him again at the thought.
Everything about it, about having a kid and being a father, reminds him of the sharp smell of booze, the clack of belt loops, the fear of death, rising tidewaters.
But you’d be there.
You’d never be that kind of mother, that kind of partner.
“Even if I don’t - even if I’m not her,” he finds himself saying, the words unbidden and sagging with grief. “You’re right. The police station has everything to do with it. Even if I’m not her, I’m still this. I’m still what she made me. I’m still what people think of me.”
Shame, he hates to admit that he still feels it, even with you. Sometimes he hates that you know, that he has to be reminded you know what happened to him, that you know Jake and Steven and might like them better than him.
You hold a hand out to him, and Marc steps readily towards you. You pull him under the blankets, fingers digging into his skin, fussing and fidgeting with the necklace looped around his throat. “Marc,” you whisper, hands curling into his hair.
He loves the way you say his name, how often you say it.
But his skin prickles with unease. “No kid needs to deal with all my shit. I’m never gonna be good for them, because of what happened to me.”
You fold him close to you, cocoon him in your scent and the shape of your arms. “Or,” you nudge your nose against his. “You’ll be good because of it. I’m not afraid of you being a parent. I’m afraid of losing you.”
Marc scoffs, “You don’t have a single fucking concern-,”
“None. Not one. But we’re - we don’t have enough space. And I don’t know how a kid will fit into our life and our plans. We wanted to travel. I’m getting a promotion soon.” You touch his cheek. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If it’s the right time.”
Normal concerns, he realizes. Totally banal concerns, that is what has been plaguing you.
“You get so afraid that you aren’t enough, that someone is going to leave you behind, that you self-destruct before anyone has the chance to explain what’s going on.” You lean your forehead into his. “You ran before I could explain.”
“You’re mad.”
“Yes,” you agree. It’s straightforward, it’s easy to understand and digest. “I’m mad. But not forever. And I’m not going anywhere.” You lace your fingers with his, kiss the backs of his knuckles. “You’ve gotten and are getting help. You try to be better every single day. We, me and you and Jake and Steven, we have a system that works for all of us. We have a way of making things work. Shit happens. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s just something that happened.”
It’s hard to internalize, hard to reconcile. He’s broken and he hears the words that echo through years. It’s all your fault.
“It’s always me-,”
“No. It’s not. And either way, we’re here to help. Don’t shut us out.”
He swallows, can’t think about himself anymore, or his mother, or his past, or the police station. You though, he can always think about you.
A memory swirls up, staring at a picture Steven had taken of you at the park last spring. Back when benders were so common for Marc, but you were determined to see him to the end of the tunnel, the light at the end. He’d been drunk already, eyes wet, when the old lady next to him on the plane leaned over and said, “Beautiful.”
Nothing more. Only that.
“Pregnant. You’re pregnant,” he lets his voice lilt into a question.
“Yes. I’m not sure how, we’re so good about condoms and birth control.”
“Shit happens though, right?” He echos your words. “It’s just something that happened. We’ll deal.”
“Together?” You venture.
He nods, firm now. You believe in him, whether he’s crazy or not, fucked up or not, worthy or not, you believe in him. “Together.”
Marc pauses, curls his arm around your shoulders. “And I’m sorry. Even if you don’t want me to be. I’m sorry about the last few days. I think - I can’t help but think about her. I don’t wanna be like her.”
“Marc,” your voice is firm. “You won’t be. But if you can’t trust yourself, trust me. I would not let what happened to you, happen to my baby.”
And that -
Shocks Marc.
He shouldn't have had to rely on his own mind to create protectors.
He should have already been protected. His father, his father should never have let it happen.
Marc looks at you, the fierce look in your eyes. No, you’d never let that happen. You’d never become his father.
And somewhere inside him, he knows he’ll never be his mother. Not with Steven and Jake and you to guide him home. “Nothing is wrong with you,” you reiterate. “Nothing. This isn’t a question of whether you’d be a good parent, if you’d fuck up. This is about us, and what we need. All the rest will come as it may.”
Your hands are on his again, gentle over the bruises and cuts he doesn't remember getting.
"Okay."
Between the four of you, things would be okay.
"I'm not going anywhere, either," he says. "Not again. You won't lose me."
summary: it's book swap day, which means you and steve are going to trade books to annotate for each other, and you're going to fall even more for the guy who's just your friend when you read another book that he loves. but you're just friends, and while that's something you've resigned yourself too, it seems like steve is going to use your book to his advantage...
pairing: steve harrington x gn!reader
warning(s): spoilers for pride & prejudice by jane austen and anne of green gables by l.m. montgomery
word count: 5.9k
notes: hi hiii!! i'm so, so sorry for the time it took to get this out, but i am very excited for this, and hopefully i can get on a more regular posting schedule soon! i made an entire friends-to-lovers playlist for stevie here that i listened to on loop while writing this. this fic is dedicated to the lovely emma, who deserves the world!
...
It’s the first Friday of the month, which means it’s Book Swap day. And you always love Book Swap day.
It’s something you and Steve started doing together not long after you’d graduated high school the previous year; you’d accidentally left your copy of Interview With the Vampire in Scoop’s Ahoy when you’d gone in one day, and when you’d come back the next day to see if anyone had returned it, you saw Steve sitting in a corner booth, feet propped up on the table and the spine bent in his hands as he flipped through the pages.
He’d looked up as you came in, making a beeline straight for him and your book, and he’d smiled that smile you’d heard about from all the girls at school before telling you that your choice in books was weird and how could anyone like this Lestat dude, anyway? You’d sat down across from him, and the of you spent close to an hour going back and forth about it until Robin Buckley had started yelling at Steve for slacking off and how he could flirt on his own time, thank you very much, since these little monster children need to be fed their daily sugar intake (Though Steve vehemently denied that he was flirting, and you had really hoped that it hadn’t looked like you had been flirting, because Steve Harrington? Not your type. At the time).
That was nearly a year ago, now, and the beginning of a friendship you’d come to cherish very much. Every other month without fail you and Steve had brought each other a book, ones you either liked yourselves or thought the other would like, to swap and annotate for each other, and then you’d each read the annotated copies when you’d finished. While Steve wasn’t a huge reader, as you’d come to learn, and it took him longer than he’d like to admit to finish most of the books you two talked about, he always seemed to enjoy the ones you’d given him.
You feel as though you’d gotten to know Steve through the books he’s given you; you’ve known each other, and of each other, for most of your lives as is wont to happen when you live in a town like Hawkins. Everyone knows everyone else and all of their business, so you’ve always been very much aware of who Steve Harrington is and a lot of what he’s done. Or, well, what people think he’s done.
But the image of Steve you’d had in school is more than a little different to the Steve you’ve gotten to know. It’d started out as just swapping books, but it led to grabbing coffee together to talk about those books, and then each other. You’d come visit him at work sometimes, first at Scoop’s Ahoy, and then Family Video when he and Robin switched jobs. Sometimes he’d surprise you at work, with a baked treat or your favourite drink.
Then he introduced you to the kids he babysits—though most of them are old enough to look after themselves—who idolize him in every way, and show it by teasing the hell out of him. You see how Steve is with them, warm and open and not at all the magnanimous dickhead you’d thought he was in school. Well, that you’d heard he was, anyway.
You’re glad he’s nothing like any of those rumours, that he’s your friend Steve—though the word friend has long since started causing a bit of an ache in your chest and a twist in your stomach, because the Steve who pressed The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe into your hands with a pink flush on his face while telling you he loved that book the most as a kid and even now; the Steve who read Jane Eyre and left the most hilarious comments about Mr Rochester in the margins along with some very questionable doodles—well, that Steve has taken over a rather large part of your life and your heart. Much more than that of a friend, but you’ll never admit that. Out loud to him, anyway.
You’d slowly fallen in love with Steve with each piece of his heart he’s shared with you through the books you’ve both read and discussed together. He has your heart completely, though he doesn’t know that—you’re friends, and that friendship is precious to you. You’re not going to risk that, not in case he doesn’t feel the same and you lose him forever. And as far as you know, he doesn’t feel the same way—he was just as friendly with you as he was with Robin, and you know he’d go to any lengths for the people he cares about. You’d love to be able to read more into the way he’ll answer your calls no matter the time, and the way he’s always standing so close to you, the way he hugs you… it’s completely platonic. So, you resigned yourself to friendship, to loving him silently through the books you shared together.
You walk into Family Video today, bag slung over your shoulder as the bell over the door rings. Robin is messing with one of the displays, a stack of tapes near her feet as she waves to you. Steve is at the front counter, and he immediately looks up from the computer. As soon as he sees that it’s you as you approach him, his face splits into a wide grin and he completely abandons his work to lean against the counter.
“If it isn’t my favourite customer,” he says, and you do your best to ignore the way his smile causes your chest to flutter and a smile to stretch across your own face.
“And if it isn’t my favourite video store employee,” you say, “oh, and you too, Steve.” He jaw drops for a second while Robin cackles. You lean forward on the counter as well.
“Why do you have to hurt me like that?” he asks, and you shrug while Robin keeps laughing.
“So… ready for Book Swap day?” you ask. You reach into your bag to grab your book. Steve, showing off his pretty pink lips as he smiles, reaches around to his back pocket, pulling out a small, worn green paperback with a redhead in a straw hat on the cover. Anne of Green Gables, it reads, as he slides the book over to you across the counter. You recognize it, and pick it up in one hand. You place your copy of Pride and Prejudice down in front of you with the other, sliding it in Steve’s direction.
You love that book; you had to read it for eleventh grade English, and it was one of those books that just stuck with you. You’d bought your own copy after you’d been made to return your copy to the school, and it’s held a special place on your bookshelf ever since. You’ve been waiting for the right time to swap it with Steve, and, well, no time like the present, right?
“What’s this?” he asks, picking it up and turning the book over in his hands. He scans the back, and you can see the way he catches his lip with his teeth as he takes in the description on the back before turning it back over to take in the cover illustration. “Pride and Prejudice, huh? Sounds familiar. Did we have to read that in school?”
“I did!” Robin interjects, trying to take the book from Steve’s hands. He holds it up over his head, trying to keep it out of her reach. She jumps twice to get it, before huffing and shoving the stack of VHS tapes she was working on in his direction. He sticks his tongue out at her, and she returns the favour with her middle finger resting on one of her cheeks before she heads off towards the back of the store.
“I’m going on break! Don’t spend all your time flirting, dingus!” she calls, and you see Steve roll his eyes as he sticks your book under the counter. It stings, just a little, but you swallow that down as far as you. You deposit his book into your bag, careful to mind the pages and make sure you don’t cause any damage. You both choose to ignore Robin’s comment.
“Anne of Green Gables? That’s a good choice,” you tell him, patting the outside of your bag. The smile from earlier comes back, though a bit smaller. That’s when the bell above the door chimes, signalling that someone has come into the store, and you turn to see old Mrs Powell making her way towards Steve with a smile on her face and Gone With the Wind clutched in her hand. You smile politely at her before winking at Steve and excusing yourself. Getting caught up with Mrs Powell is an hour you don’t want to spend, so you’re going to leave before you get trapped here, too.
“Call you tonight!” Steve calls, and you raise a hand in acknowledgement as you leave the store.
…
The first thing you notice when you sit down on your bed and open the book is Steve’s blocky handwriting on the cover page, stating ‘This book belongs to Steve Harrington! Hands off!’ and your heart warms at the sight.
You can imagine Steve, curled up in bed with a flashlight under his covers, reading this book to himself. Or, maybe on a rainy Sunday afternoon, hanging off the edge of his bed to read with his arms stretched out in front of him, mouthing the words as he reads them. You’d seen him do that before, both at work and when reading things when you’ve been out together, and you think it’s an endearing trait. Sometimes he’ll even whisper what he’s reading under his breath, which you pretend you don’t hear—you don’t want to give him any reason to stop doing it around you.
With that, you turn the pages and start reading the book.
You have an entire system worked out: one colour for quotes, another one for notes, and even these cute little puffy stickers and sticky tabs to mark the pages. You’ve got everything you need scattered across your bed as you read, so you can reach for anything as you mark up the book. Which you do, quite liberally, as you read about Anne Shirley and how she comes to live in Avonlea.
The further you get in the book, the more you can see why Steve loves it. The pure, childlike innocence and joy, the saccharine sweetness of the trials and tribulations that Anne faces at home and at school and in the community at large. Anne is so passionate and so full of drive and joy, and the way she sees the world, so bright and romantic and full of adventure, and she doesn’t lose that as she grows and matures; you can see how Steve would be drawn to that, drawn to this story, and it makes your heart ache in a wonderfully bittersweet way for him, knowing what he’s been through with his family, with love, with the people he’d called friends before the kids and Robin—and you—had come into his life.
You also completely understand where Gilbert Blythe is coming from, loving someone like Anne Shirley. Though he’s a little more obvious with it than you hope you are. You understand what it’s like to love someone like Anne, someone who wears their heart on their sleeve, who hates so much about themselves but still manages to see the beauty in the world and in others, and holding this book in your hands, this small, worn, dogeared and well-loved paperback, you feel as though you’re holding a piece of Steve’s heart that few others have gotten to see. He’s trusted you with this, and you only hope you can keep that piece of him with you in any way you can, for as long as you can.
You take your time annotating the book—you want to make sure you give it the attention it deserves, and to let Steve know exactly what you think. It takes you a few days to finish, but you’re happy with the end result.
You even make sure to place a little gold star sticker next to your favourite quote: "Well, that is another hope gone. ‘My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.’ That's a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it over to comfort myself whenever I'm disappointed in anything."
You flip back to the cover page, where Steve’s name is still written proclaiming ownership of the book. Before you can think better of it and chicken out, you scrawl, ‘Lovingly annotated by’ under where Steve has signed his name, and write your own name in your favourite colour of pen. You also add a small heart next to it before you shut the book.
…
You call Steve the next morning, letting him know you’ve finished Anne of Green Gables; he’s still only halfway through Pride and Prejudice, so you wait another week, as patiently as you can, until he calls you and tells you he’s finished, too. Though he calls you at nearly ten at night when you’re already in your pyjamas, so you agree to swap back the next day.
So that leads you to bring Anne of Green Gables with you to Family Video just after noon; it’s just Steve today, no Robin in sight as you push the door open and he greets you from behind the counter. The store looks pretty empty as well. Steve is playing with a slinky on the counter, having stacked video tapes up like stairs to push it down.
“Keith’s in the office pretending to do paperwork,” he tells you by way of greeting, pushing the silver metal with a long finger. That doesn’t surprise you, from what you know about Keith. You’re glad the cheesy-fingered guy isn’t out here right now. You take Anne of Green Gables out of your bag and place it next to the VHS stairs, and Steve reaches under the counter to grab Pride and Prejudice and put it on the counter.
“So… what did you think?” you ask, and Steve shakes his head. His hair flops down onto his forehead, which is a little unusual for him, but the sight makes your stomach tingle at how cute it is and how well it suits him before he’s pushing it back into place.
“Nope, you gotta read it! I’m not spoiling anything.” It’s something the two of you do every time when you swap your books back, and it’s worth it to hear him laugh. Though his laugh today was just a little more hollow than usual, and his shoulders are up near his ears. There’s tension in his body that isn’t normally there, not around you. “Just… read it all the way through before we talk about it, okay? And really think about it. Take all the time you need.”
“Okay… did you hate it? Is that what’s going on?” You scan his face, trying to pick out any details that might show that he didn’t like your choice. Which you wouldn’t be mad about—not everyone loves every book, even the classics, but you really hope you didn’t make him feel like he was forced to read something he completely hated.
“What? No!” Steve is very quick to insist that, and you fix him with a stare. He sighs, bringing a hand up to run through his messy brown hair once again, before he starts fiddling with the slinky. “I mean, no, I didn’t hate it. I just… had a lot more to say than I thought.” He pauses for a moment. “Actually, you know what,” he reaches for the book in front of him, fidgeting slightly where he’s standing, “I think I need to edit my notes, lemme see that.”
“Nope!” You quickly snatch the book up off the counter before he can grab it, holding it tight against your chest and moving away from the counter. “No take backs!” He makes a half-hearted attempt to take it from you, his warm, calloused fingertips scraping over the skin of your hand, before you’re dropping the book into your bag.
“Don’t hate me for what I said. Promise?” You can’t imagine ever hating Steve Harrington. You don’t think it’s possible, looking into his deep brown eyes that somehow still twinkle under the fluorescent lights. You don’t even hate the horrid green polyester vest he’s wearing; somehow, Steve always manages to look good, even in terrible lighting in a polo that clashes with his vest, even with a crease between his eyebrows and his soft pink lips turned down slightly, and it sends adoration thrumming through your body and down your spine.
“Steve, I could never hate you, I promise,” you say. Not when I love you as much as I do. The words dance on the tip of your tongue as his eyes search your face for any hint of a lie. He must find none, because he grabs his book and shoves it into his back pocket. He almost looks as if he’s about to say something else, his mouth opening slightly—
—and then the bell above the door rings, signalling customers have arrived, and you call out your goodbyes before you turn around and hightail it out of the store.
…
You want to crack open your book as soon as you get home, and you put the book on your bed so you can do so, but then you notice that your closet needs to be straightened out, and then there’s some laundry that needs doing, and oh, just how many cups have you let pile up in your room? So you take those into the kitchen and then get busy doing the dishes and before you know it, it’s already dark out and you still haven’t started reading.
But you can’t put it off any longer, so you finally curl up in your bed to crack open your book.
Steve doesn’t disappoint; he usually always has a lot to say in the margins of the books he annotates for you, and that remains true with Pride and Prejudice. You can’t help but grin to yourself as you read through what he has to say.
‘Wait… so she got herself sick JUST so Bingley could take care of her? Wow, that still worked even back then. Jane is playing to win. Gotta remember that.’ He’s even drawn a little winky face next to this comment.
Almost as soon as Mr Wickham is introduced, Steve is commenting on him. ‘Man, this Wickham guy is suspicious… I don’t like him.’ Steve is perceptive (in most aspects, at least in things not relating to the heart), and it makes you happy that he caught on that early that Wickham is trouble.
‘Charlotte deserves better. First Mr Collins proposes to her best friend and then he settles for her? I don’t like him.’ That is definitely something you agree with. You continue reading through, scanning the text and paying attention to Steve’s comments, making note of any questions he asks. That is, until you get to the point where Mr Darcy first confesses to Elizabeth.
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
The quote is underlined in red pen, quite heavy handed, but there’s no notes next to it in the margins. Which is odd for Steve; normally he’s got a lot to say, and he’ll usually take notes or write any questions he has for you so you can answer them when you meet up after having finished reviewing your annotated books. You’re a little caught off guard, but you continue reading.
A little further along in the book, you can see the amount of exclamation points increase as Steve is proven right not only by Mr Darcy’s letter, but also with what happens with the elopement. ‘The scandal! The outrage! How could Lydia have run away with Wickham? Dude’s a real jag off. I totally called it, go back and check!!’
And it goes back to normal from there. There are even some doodles of Mr Darcy slapping Wickham in the margins whenever Wickham is mentioned after that, which are definitely something you’d frame if you could. What Steve lacks in artistic talent he makes up for in enthusiasm.
But then it happens again. The red pen comes back twice near the very end of the book, when Mr Darcy and Elizabeth are discussing their feelings for one another both before and after getting engaged. Two quotes from Mr Darcy are once again underlined, several times, with no other comments.
“My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”
And then,
“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”
Your heart starts beating a little faster in your chest as you read and re-read the words. Maybe he just loves those quotes. Maybe he’s going to steal them to say to the girls he asks out; the thought isn’t something you’d like to think about, but it’s entirely possible. They’re also the last parts that have been annotated, at least until the very end of the book.
“That was better than I thought it’d be, but don’t tell Robin,” Steve’s handwriting is scrawled underneath the final paragraph of the book. It’s written in red pen, the same shade as the quotes he’d underlined with no notes. “She’ll never let me live it down. But thank you for sharing this with me. I can see why you love it. And, well… hopefully now you can see how I feel about you.”
Your breath catches in your throat as you read and re-read the words ‘hopefully now you can see how I feel about you’ because… are you imagining things? You and Steve are just friends, no matter how you might feel… but he wrote this note in that same red pen. You’re imagining things. You have to be. You flip back to the quotes that stuck out to you, the ones with no notes next to them, and then back to Steve’s note. And it feels like something clicks.
Oh.
You drop the book in your hands. You look over at your nightstand, seeing your alarm clock and that it’s currently just past midnight. You grab the phone that sits on your nightstand, picking it up and dialling Steve’s number before bringing the receiver up to your ear. You don’t know if Steve’s parents are home and if you could be waking them up. But you have to know.
It takes an almost agonizing three rings before someone on the other end picks up, and you’re really hoping it’s not Mr Harrington because that’s not a conversation you really want to have right now.
“Hello?” Thankfully it’s Steve who answers, his voice a little raspy, and it crosses your mind briefly that he might have been sleeping. That’s something you’ll worry about later, though, because you need to know.
“Is it true?” you ask, and there’s silence on the line for a few seconds. Steve doesn’t ask what you’re talking about.
“You finally finished it, huh? You’re slower at reading than me, and that’s saying something,” he says, and while you can tell he’s trying to keep his tone light, the words come out strained, almost forced. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for something to drop, for you to say some magic words you haven’t quite worked out in your mind. But all you can think of is what he wrote in the book sitting in front of you, and how it’s causing a bubble to grow in your chest, filling you with hope and fear and just a bit of dread, while your heart hammers into it from the other side, wanting to hit your ribs with how hard it’s beating.
“Steve.” Your tone silences any other comments he might have had, and you can feel the bubble threatening to burst in your chest, to bring you up or knock you down. You have to know. You have to ask. “Is it true?”
It’s silent for a beat. Then another. Then another. And then you hear Steve take a breath. “Will you hate me if I say yes?”
Your heart stutters in your chest and the bubble is getting bigger and tighter as hope replaces the fear, but maybe you’ll worry about any medical problems you might be developing later because that’s dangerously close to a confession.
“Only if you don’t tell me to my face.” You’re mostly joking when you say that, but you hear the jingling of keys on the other end, and the loud thump of his footsteps as he moves into the hardwood hallway from the carpet in his room.
“Wait for me?” he asks, though there’s more than just those three words hanging between you. There’s so much that you want to say. That you’ve been waiting for an achingly long time, that you would wait forever and a day if it meant being with him. That he’s always going to be worth waiting for. You’ll tell him that when he’s sitting in front of you.
“Trellis on the left side is still broken,” you warn, and you hear his laugh. It eases the pressure in your chest, even if just a little.
“Be there soon,” he promises, and you believe him. You say your goodbyes, hanging up the phone. You sit for a second, taking in the sight of your room, before deciding that Steve has been in your room many times, you still need to straighten up a bit. You need to do something that you can focus on until he gets here.
You’re not completely convinced this isn’t just an extremely vivid dream, even when you trip and stumble forward getting off the bed. It feels like a dream, like one you never want to wake up from, thinking that Steve could return your feelings. That he could be in love with you, too, and that this could work.
True to his word, you can hear Steve’s car pulling up on the driveway in record time, tires crunching and headlights flashing momentarily through the curtains you hadn’t closed yet. You have just enough time to smooth out the blankets on your bed before there’s a tapping at your window. You move over to unlock and open it, sliding it up and seeing Steve sitting on the other side.
“Hi,” he greets, and you move to the side so he can climb in. He makes it almost all the way in, enough that you think he might actually stick the landing, when one of his shoes gets caught on the window sill and he tumbles face first onto the floor. He’s quick to spring up, though, shaking it off and doing his best to grin at you. You do your best to smile back, though you’re pretty sure it doesn’t look quite right at how quickly Steve’s own smile drops. “I guess, uh… I guess we need to talk, huh?”
“We do,” you confirm. You can understand Steve’s apparent apprehension; this is going to cross a line that you know can never be uncrossed. Once you fall over the precipice, you don’t know how far you’ll fall or where you’ll land, and it’s always something you’ve tried to avoid. But maybe you don’t need to avoid that anymore. Maybe you don’t need to be afraid as Steve extends his hand to gently, hesitantly, take one of yours. It’s not the first time you’ve held hands, but you’re noticing just how calloused his hand is, how it’s just a little clammy and he’s got a few scars that you can brush your thumb over.
He slips his shoes off and leaves them under your window, and the two of you walk towards your bed. He sits cross legged and you mirror him. He seems to realize he’s still holding your hand because he lets it go, and you mourn the loss of warmth and the feeling of his skin under yours while he gathers his thoughts. You can almost see the gears turning in his head, turning his feelings into thoughts and those thoughts into words and sentences and sentiments that he can share with you. You give him the space to do so, because even though you’re dying to know what he’s feeling and to confirm that he meant what you thought he meant, you know that sometimes it can take him a bit longer than you to verbalize and express what he means, and that’s totally okay.
“I can’t stop thinking about you. No matter how hard I try, you’re always on my mind,” he says. He shifts, fidgeting slightly, as he gestures with his hands while he speaks. You watch them for a moment before your eyes make their way back to his own. “And I thought it was just, y’know, as a friend. And I was happy thinking that way for a while, but the more we’ve hung out and the better I’ve gotten to know you, the more I realized that it’s not just as a friend.” He sighs, bringing his hands down to start picking at the blanket on your bed. “Robin’s been on my ass about it for ages, which has been kind of annoying, but I didn’t want to ruin what we have. What if you didn’t feel the same way? What if… what if I say something and we can’t go back to what we have now?”
It’s as if he’s got a direct line tapped into your own thoughts, like he’s plucked a cassette tape from your brain and popped it in your boom box to start playing your thoughts, your feelings, and your fears for him. You’re not sure you’ve been breathing this entire time; while Steve has left you breathless on occasion, this is a little different. Because this is Steve admitting that he feels the same way you do, with his big brown eyes shining in the soft orange light your lamp is emitting.
“But I realized I don’t really want to go back. I want this. I want you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” The words come out quickly, as if they’re stumbling over his tongue and his lips to race out to you. The bubble in your chest finally pops, warmth spreading through your chest, up to warm your necks and your cheeks, and down to warm your fingers and your toes. Steve feels the same way you do. He wants you. “And when you gave me that book, which was actually much better than I was expecting it to be, I knew that was how I wanted to tell you. Darcy just happened to word it much better than I could, so I just kinda piggybacked off him so I could tell you how I feel and hope you don’t hate me for it.”
“I could never hate you, Steve.” You’re very quick to try and reassure him (though you’re also sure you’re reassuring yourself that this is real as well), your hands finding his to stop them picking at your comforter. It’s your turn to talk now, and you focus on how warm Steve’s hands are held in your own to keep you grounded in this moment. “God, I’ve been so scared because I feel the same way, and I didn’t want to lose you, but I didn’t think you’d ever feel like that about me.” Steve’s face immediately lights up, any and all creases and frown lines being smoothed away to make room for joy that radiates like your own personal sun. And his joy is infectious because you can feel yourself smiling, too.
“You really… you feel the same way about me?” he asks, and you nod. Because the more he says it, the more you two talk about it, the easier it comes out. Yes, you’re so in love with Steve, and now you know he’s in love with you. Steve shuffles closer to you on the bed, close enough that you can feel his warm breath fanning across your already warm cheeks.
“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. You voice aloud your consent, and then he’s leaning forward and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. His lips are slightly chapped, and you can taste the bite of spearmint on his tongue—you didn’t think he had time to brush his teeth before leaving his house with how quickly he got there, so he most likely had some Tic Tacs that you know he keeps in his glove compartment before he got here. The idea of Steve eating some mints before climbing up the side of your house is so endearing to you, because of course he would, and you smile against his lips as your hands squeeze his own.
This kiss is nothing like you’d imagined; there’s no huge bursting of fireworks, there’s no burning desire to jump each other (on your end, at least), but there is a sense of comfort and familiarity. This is Steve, your Steve, whose nose bumps against yours a little awkwardly but whose lips fit with your own like they were always meant to be there. And boy, did you hope they would always fit with yours from now on.
However, the need for air soon has the two of you breaking apart, though Steve presses his forehead to yours and brings one of your hands up to press small kisses to your knuckles.
“That was… wow,” he says, a breathy laugh tumbling out of his mouth. “How come we waited so long to do this?”
“Because we were both too worried about being a good friend to let ourselves be happy.” That gets a real chuckle out of Steve, which quickly turns into a wonderful, full laugh from the both of you. You sit in silence for a moment once the laughter subsides, and Steve presses a kiss to your forehead before he lets go of your hands.
“I’m gonna take you on a real date,” he promises, crossing his hand over his heart. “Dinner, a movie, anything you want! You name it and we’ll do it. It’ll be the best first date you’ve ever been on.”
“As long as it’s with you, there’s no way it won’t be.” You see the way his cheeks flush at those words, and it fills you with a sense of pride to know that you have that effect on him—and that you get to see this, just you, with the guy you’re in love with. Wow, you don’t know if you’ll ever get tired of thinking that.
(Steve leaves out your bedroom window not long after, but promises he’ll call you in the morning; you watch him nearly fall down the trellis on the right, which you think might be broken now too, and see Steve dust himself off and get back in his car to drive home. Once his headlights have long since vanished into the distance, you head back to bed and pick up your new favourite book, one that you’ll read from time and time again when you want to remind yourself of how loved you are by Steve Harrington.)
Angst/Smut (Eventual Filthy Smut in Part 2) (18+ MDNI)
Summary: Steve is confused. They say when you love someone, you should never let ‘em go. But when he does it, it’s called “kidnapping”. Huh, weird.
A/N: loving me some Steve lately. It’s just something about that man 🥵😍 I’ve been writing dark characters lately and it’s been so fun to explore. In this fic, Steve will be unhinged but all he wants is love. Everything in italics and bold (like this) is Steve thoughts. Think of it like Netflix’s You inspired dialogue. Enjoy!
Word Count: 5.8k+
TW/Warnings: non con/dub con elements, kidnapping, false imprisonment, stockholm syndrome, blood, reader’s husband is a jackass, some violence, a dog gets harmed in this but makes it out okay, horror elements, tension, touchstarved!steve, mentions of steve’s breeding kink and wanting 6 little Harringtons, sexual content, graphic language, divorce, mentions of cheating, primal play kink, dry humping, overstimulation, premature ejaculation, cum eating (sorta), crying, anxiety, kissing, finger sucking, age gap Steve (23) Reader (30)
“Hey, Steve. There’s that hot housewife you like.” Robin whispers, nudging his side.
He looks in your direction and he’s spellbound. Every time he saw you, you affected him this way. He’d always looked forward to your visits to Family Video. He’d even memorize the days and what time you usually stop by.
———————
*Steve’s Thoughts *
Mondays and Fridays, sometimes Wednesdays if you didn’t have a busy schedule. You usually came around 3 or 4 pm because it was rush hour and you were hoping that being around a crowd of people could help you make new friends. You’re new to this town along with your family. Two boys, ages 7 and 8, and a cocksucker of husband.
While you’re busy giving it your all to your boys, the cocksucker goes out of town to cheat. You hardly have time to yourself. You can’t make friends because of it. Family Video is like your escape. You come here as a ploy, pretending to shop for kids movies when in reality you just want to know some moment’s peace.
You liked to linger in the cassette section. It’s your favorite spot. Sometimes, you’d rent a cassette to listen to at home.
You puzzle me, Y/N. You could have gone to any cassette store. They’d have plenty more options than the select few in this store. Yet, you’re here.
Could it mean that you’re as attracted to me as I am of you? Was this a cry for help to get you out of your situation? You needed saving. I know you do. You’ve needed rescuing since you’d moved here and I’ve ignored you. All because I couldn’t believe you’d love me back. But you do, I can tell by the way you smiled at me when I rang you up at the register today. You’ve never smiled that brightly for anyone other than me.
I’ll be seeing you soon…Y/N.
—————
It was a heavy storm outside and business was slow. Steve worked the overnight shift. He was the only employee working and the only one in the store in general. Figuring that no one would come to a Video store during what looked almost like a hurricane, Steve planned to lock up for closing.
Then, it was as if God had heard his prayers, the objection of his affection was waiting right outside the door, drenched by the rain. Your boys were also by your side, holding each hand. You don’t usually step by at this time but miracles do come true.
Steve unlocks the door letting you and the boys. You voice your appreciation.
“Hi, thank you so so very much,” You voice your appreciation. “I don’t mean to come in just as your about to close. As an ex-retail worker, I know the pain. My boys are looking for a late night movie and they’ll be very quick.” You raise an eyebrow at them and they sprint into action through the kids movie section.
“No running,” You called out after them before shaking your head and turning your attention Steve. “Boys.”
Steve laughs. “I was once one.”
You give a small smile and the conversation died out. Steve racks himself in the brain for being so lame. He wish he could’ve sounded more witty but whenever he’s around you all he could say was stupid shit.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like to get for yourself?” Steve says, starting up the conversation again. “I could show you to the cassette section. We’ve got some real classics.”
“I do love cassettes. Sometimes, at home, I’d like to throw on my headphones when chaos ensues in my home. Listen to Bach while your sons play sword warriors is pretty entertaining.” You laugh, turning your back to him to rummage through the tapes.
God, you’re so funny. You’re so beautiful, too. Being this close to you is not helping with my restraint. I could smell your perfume. If I leaned in a little more, I could smell your scented sham—
“What are you doing?” You break his thoughts.
Steve hadn’t realize that he’d actually leaned that close into you and very obviously sniffed you, too. Steve stammers, trying to find the right words.
“I’m sorry, Y/N. I-I…”
“Wait,” You back away slowly from him. “How do you know my name?”
“Uh, well, I…”
“I have to go.” You try to leave but Steve grips your arm tight.
“Please don’t go,” Steve’s eyes widened when he notices your mouth widen to shout for her boys. He pulls you to him, your back against his chest as his hand clasps over your mouth. Your screams are muffled. “Please, Y/N. Don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you or your boys.”
You stiffen at the mention of your children. You whimper and sobbed against his hand.
“Shhh,shhhh, it’s okay,” Steve strokes your hair with his free hand. “If I let go of your mouth, you won’t scream, right?”
You nod, dramatic enough so that he notice your nodding as a response.
“Okay, I’ll let go now.” He slowly removes his hands from your mouth. Once again you tried to scream, only for him to put a hand over your mouth.
“You said, you wouldn’t scream. That’s strike one. If you disobey me again, it won’t be pretty,” He threatens in your ear. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I will close up shop. You and the boys come with me and I can show you how real man takes care of his woman.”
You wriggled in his grasp, trying to break free. He squeezes tighter around you. “No one has to get hurt, Y/N. We can be happy family. I can show you how you can be loved properly. I won’t even force you to have sex with me or anything. All I want is for you to come with me.”
You knew you didn’t have a choice. You were at the mercy of a man who could very well overpower you and your boys.
“I’ll take of my hand again. Be on your best behavior, babygirl.”
Babygirl? You were at least 6-7 years older.
He removes his hands and you get down on your hands and knees, crying and begging. You look up him, still kneeling. “Don’t hurt my boys.”
“What’d I say? I wouldn’t hurt you or them. You’re my family.” He puts his hands on your arms, helping you lift off the ground.
“Go on and tell your boys to pick whatever they like. The movie’s on me.” He kisses your forehead and your dazed. It felt as if you were in a fever dream. This is just to unreal. You never knew this guy outside of this place but he’s got some impression that he’s in love with you? What the fuck is going on?
You go over to your boys, trying to remain as calm as possible.
“Mommy, why are your eyes red?” Hayden says.
“Just a little irritated, sweetie.” You lowered yourself to meet their gaze. “We’re taking a trip, boys.”
“Now?!” King asks, excitedly.
“Yes.” You answered.
The boys jumped up in excitement, cheering. In the corner of you eye, you could see Steve leaning against the door frame and smiling as if it was the darnedest sight.
“Where are we going? Where are we going?” The boys say in unison.
You swallowed hard before looking back at Steve then at your boys again. “I don’t know.”
—————
Steve brought you all to a larger and fancy log cabin in the woods. A vacation home that his parents own. You and your children blinded the whole way there. You’d told the boys they were being blindfolded for a surprise. It made you feel so disgusting having to lie to them when the situation could be dangerous enough for them to get hurt or worse.
The blindfolds were removed. Steve standing with his arms wide in front of the log cabin. “Well, not too shabby, right?”
You roll your eyes, pushing passed him into the home. The boys running alongside you.
So, this would take sometime for you to adjust to. I know it’s not easy. But I only did what was best for you. For Hayden and King. This will be good for all of us. You’ll see.
“So, I know you’re all wondering about clothes and other stuff. Don’t worry about that. Tomorrow, I planned a whole shopping spree so that we can get you the clothes you need. Your bedrooms are set up though, kiddos,” Steve says lowering to them. “Go check it out.”
The boys were excited as always, clueless to the eminent danger. They run upstairs. You were going to get your boys out of this and that shopping spree will be the perfect opportunity to escape. All you had to do now was play along and earn his trust.
Noticing that the boys would be gone for sometime, you take the initiative to step forward to Steve who’d been busy setting up dinner.
“So, you know my name. What’s yours?”
“Steve.” He says, while chopping up a tomato on the cutting board.
“That your real name?”
“Why? Is it that bad?” He chuckles.
“No, I just want to make sure you’re not giving me a alias.”
“I couldn’t lie to you.” He smiles up at you before , resuming.
“Okay, first off, your chopping those tomatoes all wrong. Give me that knife.”
“Not sure I’m comfortable doing that.” He says nervously.
“Oh, come on, I wouldn’t murder you or anything. Just wanna teach you how to do it right or we’ll be having some sad tasting food.”
He’s hesitant but he slowly, hands over the knife to you. You work your magic show him how to cut a tomato and he looks at you with so much awe.
Your heart flutters a bit. You quickly shut it down. You hand the knife to him, feeling grossed out for allowing yourself that moment of attraction.
“Thanks. Ya learn something everyday.”
————-
At dinner, the boys went on about their room and the cool toys they found in their rooms. You were not only shocked that he’d known so much about you to plan rooms for your boys but the fact that he’d spent so much money decorating their rooms had really unsettled you.
“I’m glad you’re having fun, boys.” You said
“Yeah, but when’s dad coming? We want to show him our cool new friend, Steve.” Kings says.
Steve looks up at you. “You wanna tell them or should I?”
“Tell them what? What are you talking about?” You questioned.
“Guess, I’ll be the bearer of the bad news.” He says.
“Steve, what do you mean by that?” You asked only to be ignored.
Steve clears his throat. “Boys, your mother has left your father. He doesn’t treat her right and when a man doesn’t treat his girl right, he loses her.”
The boys begin to cry and you shoot an angry look at Steve before rushing to their side. “Let’s go to your rooms. I’ll tuck you in at night and explain everything tomorrow.”
I couldn’t help but linger on that last sentence. “Explain everything tomorrow”. Why tomorrow exactly? Was it because of the shopping spree? She’s trying to escape? No. no. Y/N wouldn’t betray me like that, not after our bonding. It wouldn’t hurt to test the waters though and see if she’d actually try to run.
—————
You took the boys in and headed to the master bedroom, noticing Steve laying in bed.
“I thought you said this was my bedroom.” You crossed your arms over your chest.
“I said, it’s our bedroom.”
“No, you didn’t. You tricked me.”
“Husband and wives share beds and”
“You’re not my husband.”
“Maybe not now but I’ve forged your signature and sent in those divorce papers that your husband has tried serving you for so long,” Steve yawns. “Good riddance to him.”
You never felt so violated. You were shaking in anger, anxiety, complete despair. You broke down. Bursting into tears, the hot streams running down your face. Steve quickly tries comfort you but you yelled him off causing him to jump back.
“You don’t get to control my life! I’ve had that enough. Leave me alone in this bedroom. Now!” You don’t even look to watch him go.
He sighs, “Okay.” Then he’d gone.
—————
The next morning, you woke up to the smell of pancakes. Blinking your eyes, you checked your surroundings. So this hadn’t been a dream. You were still in this shit show.
You groaned, getting up to freshen up. When you’d gotten downstairs. You saw the boys wearing chef hats, helping Steve making pancakes. They were flipping them in the air and when one would fall, they’d break out into a fit of laughter.
“Hi, mommy.” Hayden is the first to notice you.
“Hi, baby. How are ya feeling?”
Hayden shrugs. “Good.”
“And you, King?”
“Super!” King says, flipping another pancake.
“I think we’ve had enough flipping, boys. Go one and grab some flapjacks.”
Hayden giggles. “Flapjack?”
“It’s another word for pancake.” Steve says, ruffling his hair before letting him sit at the table with his breakfast.
Steve looks up at you. “Hey.”
“Hi.” You say.
“I’m sorry about the divorce papers fiasco. It was extremely inappropriate. I just figured you needed to let him go. The guy doesn’t appreciate you. He cheats on you constantly.”
“It was my decision to make regardless.”
“You’re right.” He nods.
“How do you even know so much about me? You stalked me?”
Yes. Well kind of. But I couldn’t tell you that. Then, you’d just think I’m some kind of psychopath.
“It’s a small town. The people talk especially when you’re new to town so it was easy getting information about you. The rest I learned from divorce papers.”
“I find that extremely hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s not like it matters. You’re here now. You could be happy once you learn to love me.”
“You wish.” You walked away, heading over to tend to your children.
After breakfast, it was finally the moment of truth. You were all finally going in that shopping spree. You were glad you’d worn sneakers. Steve had been acting strange all morning before you arrived to the mall. It was almost suspicious but being so desperate to escape you didn’t care what happened.
While Steve was busy eyeing a shirt, you ran around dragging your boys by their arms. “Somebody help! Help us!” A couple people ran towards your direction and just as you were about to go on a rant about how Steve kidnapped you. The group rushes passed you to tend to a dog who was having a seizure right behind you.
Steve smirks, slowly coming up behind you. You stare in the distance, mouth agape. “That’s strike two, sweetheart.”
The boys were busy petting at the dog and crying for its safety. He’d poisoned someone’s dog as a distraction from your plea for help. The man was diabolical.
He whispers in your ear. “Do that again and they’ll be some serious trouble. Now…let’s finish this shopping spree and we can go back home. Have some family time.”
You turn to look at him, enraged. “There’s evidence of my kidnapping in your video store’s footage.”
“I already erased that footage. No one ever looks at those cameras anyway.” Fuck, he was always 10 steps ahead.
“Well, maybe so but police’ll come looking for me. Especially my husband. He’ll want to know where his sons are.”
“Except he won’t. He’s out vacationing with some blonde bimbo.”
“How do you know?!” You groaned out in frustration.
“Because I have stalked you.” He whisper-yells.
“I knew it. You’re fucking insane.” You scoffed.
“I only do these things because I’m in love you. I’d do anything for you.”
“You’re not in love with me. You’re in love with the idea of me. You don’t even know who I really am aside from the surface level shit.”
Your boys ran back to you and Steve and you put on an act for your kids, smiling brightly.
“Is the dog okay?” You asked them.
“Yeah, he’s fine. He just went back to normal.” King says.
“You mean, without any cpr or medical assistance.”
“Nope.” Hayden says.
You look at Steve who just had a blank expression on his face probably from you dropping that nugget of truth on him. Maybe he’d reflect back enough to let you go. You doubt he’s ever be that considerate, though.
————
It was now a week into your imprisonment and you’ve noticed the boys getting deeply attached to Steve sometimes spending more time with him than yourself.
Steve even planned to take the boys out to a park, feeling like it was much needed for the summer vacation. While they were out, you actually got to stay home. But of course phone lines didn’t work and there was home security all around the house so is I teied setting foot outside he’d be alerted.
What fucks you up about this was nobody had made the effort to search for you or your sons. You were beginning to lose out on hope.
Steve gets back home and the boys are happier than ever having had their day. You were still so sad. He didn’t want that for you.
“Hey. Umm, I was thinking maybe you and I could have a picnic under the stars or something.”
You nod, not caring anymore for anything. It was all hopeless. He’s surprised by your acceptance but feels slightly hurt that it was nonchalant.
Once you’d tucked the boys in bed, you went down to meet Steve outside. It’s a red checkered blanket laid out on the grass with woven picnic basket, wine flute glasses, and a bottle of red wine. He donned a nice dress shirt with jeans and some flowers in hand. You just simply came in with the dress you’d worn all morning.
“You look amazing. This is for you.” He hands you your flowers.
“Gee, thanks.” You say, sarcastically.
He gestures for you to sit and you do. “Ya know, I thought a lot about what you said. That I don’t know you. You’re right about that. But that’s why I want to get to know you. I’m hoping you open up so I’m allowed the chance to see who is the women I love. I think that sets me apart from your husband. I’m patient to love you.”
“Steve, you’re very sweet. And I’m flattered that a man as handsome as you would like me. But you’re young. You’re throwing your life away for a married mother of 2. This isn’t worth it. Let me leave and I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“Couldn’t I just get one more day? All I need is one more day to show you that I can be the man you love. I’m glad that you’re a mother. I love your boys. I’d happily take them as my own. Someday, I would like like for us to move out of Hawkins maybe have a few kids if our own. At least 6 little nuggets.”
“6? Steve. You and I couldn’t possibly…” You looked at his pleading face and suddenly the urge to touch him overwhelmed you so badly that you needed to get away. You ran for the forest ahead of you.
Steve running right after you. “Y/N, what are you doing?”
You figured that because he wouldn’t hurt the kids that they should be safe. You need to get to police station and lead them to this house somehow. You weren’t sure how far or near you were from the town or which direction you ran, so you ran all around.
Steve ran right behind. You can hear him calling your name but you continued to gun it. You feel your throb between your leg, the need for him so intense you needed to stop running. By now, he caught up to you.
“You sure gave me a run for my money.” He pants. “That’s strike 3 by the—-”
You didn’t wait to find out what strike 3 meant because your lips crashed onto his, forcing him against a tree. He’s really surprised at first but then your tongues began to mingle. You were incredibly horny. You hadn’t had sex in 3 months. Your husband had shot it down each time. The primal nature of being chased mixed with the sexual frustration was a dangerous cocktail. Now 3 months of pent up tension, came down flooding on Steve. You moaned into the kiss, sucking on his tongue for taste of his saliva.
“Take me.” You begged against his lips.
“Do you mean that?” He asks, looking into your eyes.
“Yes. I want you so badly, I’m aching.” You bite his bottom lip, sucking on it. When you pull away with a pop, his lip is swelled just a little.
“Shit. Okay, um, I honestly wasn’t expecting this to happen so soon or at all.” He laughs nervously.
So you had finally give in. I get to have you in m arms tonight. But why did I feel like this is just some act to get me vulnerable? As much excited as I am, I still have my doubts about you, Y/N.
You hadn’t expected this to happen either. You should be repulsed at the very touch of him. Yet, all you wanted to do was touch him. Your hands were everywhere. In his hair, on his chest, gripping his arm. You were heavily drunk off his touch in an instance.
Once you’d gathered up enough the picnic as best as you could in your horny states, you went inside the home, kissing your way up the stairs until you finally reached the master bedroom. The bed you’d refused to share, now you were begging to be fucked in it.
Pushing him onto the bed on his back, you straddle him. You take his hands placing soft kisses on them. Steve’s eyes flutter shut enjoying your soft lips on his hands. You move his index finger into your mouth, sucking into your mouth, rolling your hips over his hard erection.
“Y/N…I think I might cum.” He groans.
“You’re extremely touch-starved. Go on. I want you to cum.”
You ground onto his clothed cock over and over. You wanted it inside you and you would definitely get that wish but for now you enjoyed watching him squirm from barely any touches.
He cums with a silent scream, face contorted by his euphoric release. You still rode him hard, riding his orgasm out even passes the point of sensitivity.
“Oh fuck, please,” He whimpers. His warm cum seeps through his pants to the front of your panties. “I think I’m spent tonight.” He’s breathing heavy with a goofy smile of his face.
“I know you can give me some more.” You comment, unbuckling his belt and licking at the wet patch in front of his pants as you did so.
“You’re so needy.” He caresses your cheek with his thumb and you suck and bite on it.
There’s a knock on the door causing you two to jolt apart. This is the first time you’d found yourself frustrated being pulled away from Steve’s attention. Steve heads into the bathroom to get decent, not wanting your boys to see him in this state.
You open the door to both boys. “Hey, kiddos. Something wrong?”
“I had a bad dream.” King says.
“Me too.” Hayden chimes in.
You knew whenever that happened it meant that they’d want to lay in bed with you. You allow them in and they immediately take their spots. You follow after them tucking them in.
“Mommy, is Steve daddy now?” King asks.
Your face grew hot. You were so embarrassed. You couldn’t believe you let your guard down. Meanwhile, your boys had their worries that leaked into their nightmares.
“No. Your father is your father. Nothing will change that.”
“What if I wanted him to be? Would you be mad?”
You were genuinely shocked. “I wouldn’t be mad. But your father would probably be hurt if he heard you say something like that.”
“It’s just that…Steve hangs out with us. I never get to see, Daddy. Only sometimes but he ignores me and Hayden.”
You soothe through his hair. “Some people have a weird way of showing love. Your father loves you and although he shows in a strange way, he means well. He just needs to learn how to give you that love and attention in the way you deserve. But that’s why mommy’s here, she helps daddy learn to love better.”
King nods, nuzzling into your side. Steve exists the bathroom and the boys turned to look at him, smiling.
“Hi, Steve!” They say in unison.
“Hey.” He waves, smiling sweetly. “I see you boys will be crashing here with your mother tonight. I should make my way to downstairs for bed but you all have a goodnight.” Steve looks at you one last time before walking away.
After a couple hours passed, something told you to make your move now. You’d woken up your boys, helping them put on their shoes.
“Where are we going, mommy?” Hayden yawns, rubbing his eyes.
“We’re going on a little late night trip just the 3 of us.” You whisper, helping him into his coat.
“What about Steve?” King asks.
“Steve will be very busy tomorrow so he won’t be able to come.” You dart your eyes between their faces. “When we go downstairs, you’ll have to be very quiet and very careful not to make any sound. We don’t want to disturb him when he needs plenty of rest.”
They nod at you. Taking there hand, you quietly creeped down the stairs with them. The stairs were slightly creaky so you made an effort to shift your weight on your feet so that it wouldn’t be too loud to alert him.
You made it to the bottom of the stairs, when you stepped on a plush toy that made a noise when you squeeze it. Trying to remove your foot slowly off the toy, it made a small drawn out squeak. You look over to Steve on the couch watching him toss around a little before stilling.
You practically rushed for the front door as quietly as you could and your instincts had been right. The front door had not been closed properly. Steve had gotten so distracted by your heated passion that he had secured the house. That also meant that no alarms would go off. You were finally free, grabbing the keys of the side table. You and your boys head out the door.
Once you got to the car, you buckled up your boys as fast as you could worried that your luck would run out. You hopped into the car and put the key ignition. When you heard the roar of the engine, a wide smile spread across your face. Your smile quickly dropped when you notice Steve come outside standing on the porch.
You immediately step on the gas, reversing out of the driveway and hearing him call out. You’d finally sped off but not before getting a good look at him through the rearview mirror. You should be smiling but when you’d noticed the heart shattering expression on his face, you couldn’t help but hurt for him.
But you were free.
—————
You weren’t sure how you found your way out but you did and you’d finally made it back home. Your husband’s car was in the driveway which meant he was home.
You unlocked the door and the boys ran inside seemingly happy to be back home. Their father comes down from the bedroom and they immediately rushed him for hugs.
“Whoa, hey, boys,” He laughs before his eyes fall on you. “Y/N…”
You were fuming. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
He stops hugging the boys. “Why don’t you boys go upstairs? It’s past your bedtime. I’ll see you in the morning.”
They nod then head up to their room. Your husband focuses his attention on you, sighing. “What do you mean?”
You give a dry laugh. “I have been gone nearly a week and some days and you…you didn’t even come looking for us!”
“Because I thought you were on vacation.”
“Fuck you, James! I was literally kidnapped. Our boys could have been seriously hurt or in danger and you don’t even care!”
“I do care! I just didn’t think you were hurt. You seem fine. The boys look well fed. You look healthy as well. Was it really a kidnapping if you all made it safe?”
You slapped him, the sound echoing around the room. “I’m going to the police tomorrow. I’ll tell them everything.”
“What? Is it really that necessary?” He still holds his cheek where you slapped him. “You’re here now.”
“He’s still out there. He could try to kidnap me again. He knows where we live. I’m going to the police station tomorrow.”
“Well, maybe think this through. For now, your acting a bit hysterical. Let’s get you to bed.” He attempts to take your arm and you jump away from his reach.
“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight. I don’t even want to look at you.” You left for the bedroom. You’re shaking in your bed. How could he be so careless? So cruel? Something was off.
—————
The next day, your husband had decided to take the kids to the fair. He insisted that you should come instead of going to the police station but you refused. The boys were visibly missing Steve but they were still overjoyed to finally spend some time with their father.
While they were gone, you’d done some snooping through your husband’s things. He just seemed to cool over this situation. Then, you checked under the bed and found a shoebox. Taking it, you opened the box and your mouth dropped. It was every call log and interaction with…Steve.
Your husband had known and spoken with him the whole time. He’d even got the divorce papers with your forged signature. He absolutely had this planned the entire time.
Furious, you found yourself pacing back and forth in your bedroom. You needed answers. The only one that could give you those answers was Steve. You groaned, knowing this meant you’d have to see him again when you’d only just yesterday escaped. Nonetheless, you hopped into the car and drove to the Family Video store.
When you’d arrived, he wasn’t there. You’d asked a female employee about him who seemed to be a close friend but she specified she hadn’t heard from him either and she’d even went by his home.
This meant that either he was on the run or that he was still at the log cabin. You tried to rack your brain figuring out the turns you made by memory. It was dark when you’d escape so obviously remembering the road was a challenge in the day time but after 45 minutes of searching, you’d finally found it. The front door was opened.
You hopped out of the car and briskly made your way up the steps to the entrance. When you got inside, everything was a mess. Glass shattered on the floor, pillow stuffing removed from its place…blood. Blood!
You follow the blood stains which led to the downstairs bathroom. You hesitantly moved the door to the side peering down at the body curled into a ball in front of you.
“Oh my god, Steve!” You rushed to his side, flipping him onto his back. He was still conscious and breathing but his hands were bloodied and bruised. His mouth had some blood coming out. His nose bled, as well, slightly crooked from force trauma. “Who did this to you?”
“Me.” He croaks.
You looked at him in absolute bewilderment.
—————
“Why the fuck would you punch a wall and break your nose?” You questioned while tending to his wounds.
“Because I lost you. I thought we’d had something special. But then you kept trying to leave me again and again. When you finally succeeded, you smiled. You smiled for the first time in so long. I couldn’t make you happy the way I wished to.”
You felt kind of bad for him. He didn’t deserve your sympathy but you had a soft spot for him. He was only 23. You figured maybe he didn’t get the kind of love he needed from his parents. Yet, he was handsome enough to get any girl. Why do something this insane for one person?
You’d gone insane, too. You were back in the lion’s den. Who’s to say he’d let you escape this time? You should’ve called the cops when you had the chance. You told yourself that you didn’t want to go to the police because you wanted to get some information out of Steve but police could have done that job. So why were you here?
“Why didn’t you tell me that my husband set me up to be kidnapped by you? Is that why you brought up leaving Hawkins the night of the picnic? It was just him trying to get rid of me and my boys.” You asked.
He nods, shamefully. “Yeah, he’d told me that night he’s sent you off to the video store and said ‘do what you want’. He’d always noticed me staring at you when you’d come by the store. Thought it was the perfect opportunity to get rid of you. Even said he wouldn’t call the police and told everyone you went vacationing with the boys, so there were no suspicions. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you hurt by this. But everything else is genuine. I truly love you.”
You shook your head, trying to process everything. “That man is out there with my boys now. I have to go get them. He could be shipping them off to who knows where.” You tried to leave, he grips your forearm.
Oh no. Was he trying to hold you hostage again?
“I’ll come with you. If you go back alone, he might hurt you.”
You still didn’t trust him but you could use the extra muscle. You had a gun you owned that you brought with you, in case, Steve did try to keep you. You hadn’t intended on using it but if it came down to it, you knew you had to use it to defend yourself. You were sure that you’d need in this case in order to save your boys from your ex husband.
“Fine. You can come with. But I call the shots.” You addressed.
summary you're a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen. queue smiley face oatmeal, grossly misused power tools, desserts on the living room floor, a haircut, and an abundance of nerd metaphors [15k]
warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie's birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie ends up being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning etc, tw for not having much money, general loneliness, mentions of a shitty/traumatic pregnancy, general mom struggles :(, slowburn friends to lovers, you wash eddie's hair!!!! this was low-key requested by anon
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Eddie opens the door and finds a little girl on the steps of his house. Little girl feels generous – she's barely more than a baby. In a set of tiny matching pajamas and white socks stained green from the morning grass, she looks up at him with wide, sad eyes.
"Hey," he says carefully. "Hey, sweetheart."
"Good morning," she says, though it comes out blurry.
"Good morning," he repeats with a breathless laugh, instantly endeared.
He curls his hand around the railing and squats down. She really is very cute and obviously well looked after, although he realises upon closer inspection that she's been crying.
"Where's your mommy?" Eddie feels silly as he asks, but what else do you say when you find kids by themselves?
He's not really expecting her to know the answer. She pouts her small mouth and Eddie freezes up.
"Mommy.” Her breath quivers.
"Don't cry," he says very gently.
It doesn't work, obviously, and she starts whimpering in a way that turns Eddie's heart entirely.
"Let's find mommy, okay? Do you wanna do that? Wanna come and find mommy with me?"
"Yes," she says, though it quickly draws up into a sharp cry.
Eddie treks down the stairs and turns back, waiting. The little girl looks down at the steps and her eyebrows furrow as she places one foot after the other, looking like her socks are stuck to a fly trap.
He holds his hand out. "You got it," he says encouragingly, wiggling his fingers.
Her relief is palpable. Her brows smooth as she takes his hand, so small he can cover her entire palm with the meat of his thumb. She wobbles down the steps and then hesitates at the damp ground awaiting.
Eddie drops his gaze to her wet feet.
She looks up at him. Eddie doesn't think she means to but her eyes are pleading,and he's already moving to pick her up when she lifts her arms into the air.
She's heavier than he anticipates. He quickly gets used to the weight, shifting her against his side with his arm under her butt, her damp foot digging into his abdomen. She rests one hand on his shoulder and the other reaches for his hair. He can't help smiling at her as she pets the dark mess, hand clumsy but well-intentioned.
He walks down past the van and onto dark asphalt, looking up and down the road to see if anyone's around. He figures she has to be a trailer park kid – she can't have walked very far, and she'd been waiting outside. She must've gotten mixed up and thought his trailer was her own, which hopefully means her mom lives close.
The steps up into his trailer are on the right side. Eddie guesses she's come from the right. It's not a great assumption — he's grasping at straws.
"What's your name?" he asks.
She's taken a lock of his hair into her hands. Eddie worries for a second that she's going to try eating it but she only waves it around, looking pleased.
"I'm Eddie."
"Dee," she says.
"Almost. Eh-dee," he spells out, again not actually expecting her to understand what he's saying. He's unsure about kids her age – he's unsure what age she even is.
She babbles something unintelligible and Eddie hikes her higher up his chest. He strides out of the cool shadow and blinks, shielding his eyes against the yellow-white glare of sunshine. The little girl hides her face in his hair.
He hasn't walked very far when he sees you behind the trailer three doors down, pinning clothes that look the same size as the girl's pajamas to a clothesline with unhurried hands. The front door is wide open.
"Your poor mommy," he murmurs as he approaches, "out here doing the laundry by herself and you're halfway to Indianapolis. Musta got turned around, huh?"
You drop a small light blue dress on the floor and cuss just loud enough for Eddie to hear it. You pick it up fast and brush it down, looking over the fabric worriedly.
Eddie cuts over soft grass, giving the baby's waist a pat and holding her ears away from his mouth as he raises his voice. "Hey, is this your kid?" he asks.
You flinch toward him and your eyes go wide – wide, your lips parting and your brows jumping down like you might start yelling.
You're really fucking pretty.
Eddie’s quick to placate you. "She was sitting on my front steps."
You still don't look very happy though your suspicion melds to confusion and then a stab of too-late worry. You rush towards them and Eddie turns his body to encourage the girl's gaze to you. His chest warms when she perks up.
She wriggles in his arms impatiently and Eddie's surprised by how quickly she starts to cry, reaching out for you with insistent grabbing hands as he passes her over.
"It's okay," you say softly, tucking her into your chest.
The difference in body language is unmissable. Where she'd been restless (though more than pleasant) in Eddie's arms, she completely melts into yours. Her little face presses into your neck and her legs curl up. You pat her butt soothingly. "It's okay, baby. Where have you been?" You look up at him for an answer with concern lining your pretty features.
"I'm only three down," he says.
"Oh… Thank you," you say roughly.
Your gratitude is unnecessary. "That's okay. She's real sweet. I opened the door and the first thing she said was, 'good morning,'" he recalls with an easy smile.
Joy lightens your entire face. He feels his breath catch in his throat.
"She did? She said that?"
"Yeah, she did.” He tries not to sound as confused as he feels.
Your eyes close with the force of your smile. You encourages your toddler’s face back and drop your chin to plant kisses all over her tiny cheeks. Eddie feels something foreign yawning in his chest as she starts to laugh, a tinkling sound that's sugar sweet.
He scratches his neck and pretends to look over his shoulder, tamping his smile back into a neutral expression.
"She's having trouble talking," you say, lifting your head as the baby's giggles taper off. "She can talk, she says 'mommy' all the time, but she's s'posed to be saying more 'cos she's almost two and I know she can do it, she's so smart, but-" You cut yourself off and laugh all breathless and sheepish. "Sugar, I'm sorry. I mean- Sorry. Thank you," it almost bursts from you, "for bringing her back. I don't know…"
"You just moved in, right?" You nod. "The lock on the front door- they're all exactly the same, you just gotta shake it and it unlocks. Even someone small as her can could get it open with enough determination."
"She can be very determined," you say ruefully, voice hushed. You're still patting her butt, swaying her from side to side. Eddie's in awe at how quickly she's settled, her button features crumpled by a big yawn. "Always gets what she wants."
"I bet she does, she's a total heartbreaker."
You take a step towards him, your beat up sneakers half a foot from his converse. "She can't help it, she was born this pretty," you say. He loves how braggy you sound.
"I can see where she gets it."
As soon as he says it he wishes he could take it back. Not because he doesn't think it's true – you're really something else – but because he doesn't want to creep you out.
Luckily, he's rewarded for his bravery by another beaming smile, your words warm as you tell him, "They said she was the prettiest baby they'd seen in twenty years up in Eskenazi general."
The name pricks his ears. "You're from Indianapolis?"
"Kind of." You tilt your head to the side. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
"Eddie." He could applaud himself on how normal he sounds and how not normal he feels.
"Eddie, I'm Y/N. D'you wanna come in for coffee? Or I can make you some breakfast? To say thank you for taking care of my Junie."
"Junie," he repeats, surprised.
You shift from foot to foot. "She's a June baby. And she's getting kind of heavy these days, so. Breakfast?"
He follows you up the steps and through the back door.
"You can leave it open," you say over your shoulder.
He catches an eyeful of your bathroom, an organised chaos that smells intoxicating, the rich scent of jasmine heavy in the humidity chased by something softer. Talcum powder, he thinks.
You murmur something to Junie too quiet to hear and she rouses from her dozing, grizzling weakly.
"It's breakfast time! Is that what you tried to come and find me for, some breakfast? So impatient," you scold her lightly, smiling all the while as you set her into a bright blue high chair with a big yellow duck with orange flippers printed on the cushioning.
You squeeze one of her feet and frown. "Your socks are wet. Did you go swimming in the grass?"
Eddie leans against the doorway leading into the kitchen. He doesn't have any experience with kids. You make it look easy, pulling off her stained socks while she wiggles her protest and tickling the soles of her feet with the tip of your finger until she's happy again.
You turn back to him, socks clutched in your hand. "I'm gonna make oatmeal. Is that something you…"
"I'm an oatmeal fiend."
You grin and do a lap to close the front door. "Sit down. I'll get you some coffee? I got milk and brown sugar."
He throws himself into the seat next to the high chair with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Brown sugar? Sweetness, you're spoiling me."
Junie laughs. Eddie pulls himself up into a proper sitting position and gawps at her exaggeratedly. "What's funny, little lady?"
She giggles some more. Eddie leans his elbow on the tray of the high chair and pretends to glare at her. "I can already tell you're trouble."
"She likes you."
"Yeah?" he asks, looking at you over his shoulder.
You're half obscured by cabinets as you poke your head out, an open sack of rolled oats in one hand and a small pan in the other. You nod happily and move to the sink. He can hear the sound of the faucet and the burner clicking on, the saucepan sliding over the stovetop.
"I like you," he says to Junie quietly, rapping his knuckles on the tray. "But don't tell anyone, okay? I have a reputation."
"So, uh, how long have you lived here?" you call, almost smothered by the rushing sound of oats tipping into hot water.
Junie makes a funny face like she might sneeze. Eddie watches. "Since I was a kid." He's smiling as he talks, amazed when Junie starts to smile back. He nods his head gently up and down to encourage her. "Too long. Not that it's not nice here."
Junie looks like she agrees.
"For sure, but.. not always where you picture yourself," you say tentatively.
He hums his agreement. "Whatever though, right? A roof is a roof. Even when the roof is made of cardboard and corrugated metal. I mean, all things considered, this is a well kept vessel."
He's not just trying to make you feel better – you really are making a go of it. There's not nearly as much clutter or decoration as his own home but it's twice as clean and every surface brags a clear affection – you fucking love your daughter. There's a framed photo of her as she looks now at the mantle without a single fingerprint on the glass, baby photos in smaller frames hang on the wall.
Smallest of all, a photo of the two of you together. Your hands on her shoulders, your lips and nose pressed to her forehead. You're not looking at the camera, but Junie is, and she's exuberant.
Toys, though few, are arranged neatly under the TV. It's really the type of clean that takes hours. He wonders how you'd ever make time for it.
"You got a job?"
"Yeah, I'm waitressing at Benny's?" You say it like a question. "The burger place?"
"Yeah, I know the one. Randolph Lane, near the laundromat. Does Junie go with you?" he asks. He cooes Junie's name and feels very happy when the girl in question smiles some more, reaching out with her hands. Eddie offers up the same palm she'd taken before and lets her squeeze his fingers in a surprisingly tight grip. "She looks like a working girl."
"Benny said I could bring her with me until she starts daycare next week, so she really is a working girl." You giggle madly and Junie loves the sound, her chubby cheeks rounding as she smiles.
"I knew it," Eddie whispers conspiringly. "You have the face for it."
Junie laughs like something is truly hysterical and Eddie can't believe it, squeezing the small girl's smaller fingers in his and waving their joined hands together.
"She really likes you," you say, closer now.
You set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He pulls his hand from Junie's and moves the hot mug away from the high chair though she'd never be able to reach it as you set your own mug and a pint of milk half-full across from him, the brown sugar you'd promised in a pink and orange ceramic dish with a lid that clinks as he pulls it off.
You double back into the kitchen. This time you bring a baby bottle full of what he guesses is diluted juice and two teaspoons, handing him one with a quiet, "For you."
"Why thank you," he drawls.
He spoons a generous hill of crumbly brown sugar into his cup and swirls.
"The oatmeal needs to soften. Is there anything you want with it? I've got lots of options," you tell him, pouring milk into your own mug. When you're done you and Eddie swap.
He thinks maybe you sound a little nervous and wonders if he's the first neighbour you've met. Or maybe you're still freaked out about Junie.
He raises his eyebrows but doesn't look at you as he splashes milk into the dark recesses of his coffee, watching as it bursts back up to the surface and turns the drink a more acceptable brown. "What do you usually have?"
"Junie gets peanut butter and blueberries."
He tilts his head toward his shoulder just slightly and plants his elbows on the table, the rim of his mug held in tenuous fingertips.
"What do you get?" he asks, thinking that if the baby gets such a sweet treat you must get something equally impressive. He thinks of raspberries and chia seeds, flakey sea salt and bitter dark chocolate.
You blink. "What?"
"What do you have, on your oatmeal?" He punctuates his question with a sip.
"Salt. Sometimes raisins."
You make a nice cup of coffee. Eddie holds it in both hands and leans into the table. "That's it?"
You shrug. Junie starts to whimper about something Eddie doesn't understand. You reach out to hold her hand. "She loves blueberries. Don't you, Junie?"
"Blue," Junie says.
You're smiling as you take another small spoonful of brown sugar. You lick the tip of your finger and dip it into the well of the spoon until a few grains are sticking to you and hold it up to Junie's lips. "She loves sugar, too, but toddlers aren't s'posed to have it. Or so they say." You smile as she sucks the sugar off before wiping your spit wet finger in your pants.
Daughter appeased for a moment, you hold your chin in your palm and turn your attention to him. "Where do you work?"
He imagines this is how a plant feels when the sun comes out. "The Hideout, for now. I'm a very essential and irreplaceable bus boy." He nods very seriously.
"What's after?"
"Music."
Your lips curl into an interested smile. "Music? You a singer?"
"I have a great set of windpipes," he says agreeably, grinning. "But I'm a guitarist."
"And you're in a band?"
"I- I was. Yeah, we were good, too, but everybody graduated and our drummer skipped town. I just sub rhythm guitar for whoever wants me to."
"At the Hideout?"
"At the Hideout." He decides on his next words carefully. You could come see me play. Weak. You're welcome to come see it for yourself. Too strong? You're welcome to come by one night. Bring Junie.
He's not asking you on a date; he's a new acquaintance extending an invitation for you to get out and see a new place. That's all it is.
He opens his mouth to try and suddenly there's a loud clattering. Eddie flinches, blinks, finds that Junie has thrown her bottle of juice across the room.
Eddie waits for you to maybe tell her off like some of the mom's he's seen at Bradley's. A glare, a hissing remark to be good.
You reach over and your shirt rides up your back. Eddie averts his gaze guiltily.
You put the bottle back on the tray, giving him an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, Junie has recently discovered that every time she drops something I'll pick it up for her."
"Smart Junie."
The bottle falls to the floor again. "She's a genius." You don’t sound entirely pleased, picking the bottle up again and holding it just out of Junie's reach. You shake it up and down. "S'juice. You like juice," you try to reason with her.
Junie reaches for it. You purse your lips. "Be good," you say softly.
Junie takes the bottle and shakes it.
It's a small victory and still softens every feature. Your eyes squint, your bottom lip juts out a touch, your nostrils flare with a pleased inhale.
"Thanks, junebug."
"Tanks," Junie says.
"Thanks," you repeat, bubbly baby talk. "Thanks. Say thanks, Junie."
Eddie watches you encourage her over his coffee. It's quiet, peaceful here in a way nowhere else in his life has ever been besides quiet Sunday mornings with his Uncle. There's only the sound of the gas stovetop burning and your happy, patient voice.
Junie says "Tanks," a couple more times. You don't give up. When she finally says something that sounds almost like a "Thanks," you whip your gaze to his.
"Did you hear that?" you ask. Your pride is evident.
He puts down his half empty mug. "She said it."
"She said it," you repeat, your shoulders moving in the tiniest happy dance he's ever seen. You stand up and take her face into delicate hands. "She's my smarty pants. Aren't you, baby?"
You dot a kiss over her head and head back into the kitchenette.
"Tanks," Junie says animatedly, running on an affection high. She accidentally knocks her bottle over.
"Thanks, Junie," Eddie corrects, righting it.
He finds it easier to baby talk than he imagined. Being nice to little kids – that's easy. Especially as he gets older. When they hit the pre-teen mark is when he starts to steer clear, but even then he can't help doting on them sometimes. Like his club – idiots, annoying idiots, but his annoying idiots. He doesn't hold back with them. He doesn't feel like he's holding back now, either, it's just different.
Baby's want love. Care and affection.
And to pull Eddie's hair, apparently.
Junie's reaching over the gap with a fierce look on her face. Eddie pulls his chair closer and decides to let her try it out. She hadn't given him any reason to worry before, and she doesn't now as she takes a chunk of his hair into her hand. She pulls very gently, likely more that her fingers have gotten caught in his messy curls than any maliciousness.
"What's your fascination with my hair?" he asks her.
In her own home Junie's very noisy. When he'd found her outside she hadn't done much besides whimper weakly. Now, she's a riot of gurgling and humming.
"Are you a singer, Junie?" he asks.
"She sings all the time! She loves the Muppet Babies on TV, but I- uh, I haven't been able to actually get cable, yet. But when I get paid next week…" You come back into view with two bowls in hand. "She'll be in her oils."
Eddie says thanks as you put a bowl down in front of him. There's a smiley face there made up of berries with banana slices for eyes. He feels something crawling up his throat and has no idea what it is, and then something completely different when he sees your own bowl, a stretch of plain oatmeal with no delicious adornment.
You leave and quickly return with a smaller bowl, a baby spoon and a jar of peanut butter.
"Do you want some?" you ask, opening the jar to push the baby spoon inside. "I would've just put it in anyway but then I worried you were allergic."
You hand it off to Junie and she licks at it happily.
"Sure, I'll have some. Where's your smiley face?" he asks.
Your eyes widen slightly. Eddie's not academically inclined but he's never been stupid, and he sees it for what it is, something he's seen in himself and in every other poor kid who didn't bring lunch to school.
"I don't really like bananas," you say.
Whether you're lying or not isn't something he needs to know.
"Well, you're gonna have to share the blueberries with me, I can't eat this much fruit. I got a hearty diet of chips and microwave oven dinners to uphold."
Eddie shovels half of the smile into your bowl. You clutch your spoon in your hand like you want to protest, but no way is he gonna watch you miss out on nice things in your own home.
You smile and don't say anything for a while, rubbing the edge of the bowl with your spoon, your thoughts somewhere else.
Junie's food sits billowing steam in the middle of the table, which annoys the poor girl endlessly. She wiggles and murmurs and sucks at her empty spoon with a growing line between her brows.
Eddie eats and feels much better when you finally start to eat your own meal, leaning back in his chair heavily to loll his head towards Junie. "Your mom makes amazing oatmeal. You're really missing out."
You choke on a laugh and grab her spoon to load up with another small heap of peanut butter. "That is so cruel to lord over her,” you say. “I can't give it to her yet! It's scorching. She has a fragile mouth."
"I'm sure."
He picks one of his blueberries out of the bowl and offers it to Junie, who takes it slowly despite her previously rabid hunger
More oatmeal eating. Eddie ends up giving the rest of his fruit to Junie, your generous dollops of peanut butter more than enough to enjoy the oatmeal. He might argue it doesn't need any adornment at all.
You stir peanut butter into Junie's bowl and wrestle the baby spoon out of her tight grip.
It's a process to watch. You scoop up oatmeal, blow on it until you're sure it's cool, and push it into Junie's mouth efficiently. There's a method to it, the way you lift the handle of the spoon so oatmeal doesn't drip straight back out of her mouth. When it does you scrape the lip gently against her chin to catch it before it ruins her shirt.
It starts to rain. Hard not to notice, a light drizzle opens and sprays down against the windows and for a moment there's no reaction. Then, gasping, you drop Junie's bowl back onto the table in stress.
"Shit, the laundry. Are you okay to watch her please? Sorry. I'll be five seconds," you say, already heading for the back door.
"Sure.” He sounds about as startled as he feels.
The back door shushes open and your feet dip down the steps. Junie is not very pleased with her breakfast getting put on pause, her face growing as unpleasant as the weather outside.
"Mommy," she says, unhappy and loud.
Eddie doesn't think about it as he picks up her bowl. It's more a pulse of feeling than a thought. Feed her and she won't cry.
He blows on a spoonful of oatmeal with likely too much vigour.
Junie's still complaining as he holds it in front of her face. If she's surprised to be fed by somebody who isn't her mom she doesn't show it, her sticky face growing suddenly slack as she realises her oatmeal is back in play. Her lips part.
He feeds her oatmeal, does a very bad job, and tries to gather what's escaped with the spoon as Junie waves her hands around and pokes at spilled food on the white tray in front of her. By the time you come back damp and breathless with the cold chasing your heels he's successfully managed to feed her what was left of her breakfast. He's embarrassed to be caught but tries not to show it.
"You okay?" he asks, looking you up and down amicably.
"S'only a little rain." You push the laundry basket onto the sofa and smile sheepishly. "You didn't have to do that."
"And have the precious little lady starve?"
"Starve!" you repeat, a feigned incredulousness to your tone.
"She was giving me the puppy dog's," he says, shrugging as he takes the spoon out of Junie's wet fingers.
She whines for a second at his robbery but seems to realise she's full, picking her juice back up to shake some more.
You exhale through an open-mouthed smile.
"Thank you. She's gonna love you now, she loves anyone who gives her food. She's a real cadge at the diner. Never seen so much free cherry pie in my life," you remark, turning to what looks like your diaper station. You wade through a mess of things he doesn't recognise and pull out a packet of baby wipes.
"And her mom? Is her affection so easily garnered?"
"Takes more than a cherry pie to win me over," you joke, sitting down in your chair in front of the high chair with a soft sigh. You pull out one of the wipes and take Junie's wrists into your hand, wiping her fingers clean methodically. "I need at least a squirt of whipped cream on top before I consider any fondness."
He chuckles and you laugh too. It's short-lived, your lips pursed as you wipe Junie's face clean. She hates every second of it, writhing in her chair like she's being tortured as you clean a mess of brown and blue from her round chin.
"Sorry, I'm sorry. Done, done," you say, holding your hands up in surrender.
She pouts.
"Don't be like that," you scold her mildly. "Look how lovely and clean you are now! Eddie can see how pretty you look again."
You slide your hands under her armpits and pull her out of the highchair, groaning.
"Oh, there you go. Where's Mr. Bear gone, baby? You can play sticky bricks with him so I can get ready for work."
Work. Work. Where Eddie was going. Where Eddie is very likely supposed to be. He checks the time and his eyes flare, standing up abruptly. You turn toward him with Junie anchored on your hip, both wearing matching expressions of curiosity.
"Sh-“ Don’t swear around babies. “I'm sorry, I got somewhere to be that I totally spaced on."
You blink. "That's okay."
"It was sick to meet you," he says.
You blink some more and walk to the front door, pulling it open as an understanding smile curls your lips. "Super 'sick,'" you say, bemused. "Thank you so much for bringing Junie back. Really, I mean, if anything ever happened to her." You don't finish because it's obvious, your bright tone underlain with a burning fear.
He walks sideways out of the door and down one step, knowing he's super fucking late but not caring too much as he says, "Listen, I can bring you a deadbolt."
"You could?"
"Sure thing. Make sure this little lady," and he says it chidingly, directing his gaze at Junie who goes all shy and smiley from the attention, "doesn't go on anymore morning adventures. Especially without her shoes."
"That would be… that would be awesome, Eddie. Thank you."
He waves his hand and descends the last of the steps. "I'll come around tomorrow?"
It's a Saturday today. He's not surprised that you're both working the weekend, but he is surprised that you're working Sunday too when you say, "Would after five be okay?"
"That's more than okay. Bye, trouble," he says to Junie, bringing a hand up to shield his hair from the drizzling rain.
You look lovely on the stoop, fresh-faced and in your lounge clothes. You tug Junie up your chest and take her hand into yours. "Say 'bye', Junie," you tell her, waving her hand. "Bye! Bye-bye, Eddie."
"Bye Junie!" he calls, waving at the little girl with great fervour.
"Bye!" Junie calls back.
You both grin.
-
You're super tired from work and exhausted from an upset daughter. Even now Junie fusses. She hasn't been getting her naps because you can't set her down anywhere that isn't the wooden high chair in Benny's restaurant, which is months of a routine disrupted.
You're not mad at her – the opposite, you feel awful to mess her up like this, awful that she's so upset. Trying your very best to calm her down, you're swaying her from side to side in the middle of your messy living room with your hand patting a steady rhythm into the narrow breadth of her back.
"I know, baby, I know. I'm sorry. You'll get your nap tomorrow, I promise," you say, trying for softness and missing, desperation eating at your tone.
You try not to have a heart attack at the thought of her first day at the new daycare. I can't think about it, you tell yourself, moving your thoughts onto the Sunday checklist.
Junie's been fed. Unfortunately, she's the kind of wound up where the only solution you can think of is to get her in bed. If you can get her down soon she'll sleep until maybe 4AM. Not ideal; you'd prefer she slept later tonight and woke up at a healthier 6AM with you. When she does wake, no matter the time, you'll have her eat something substantial for breakfast and take a much needed bath.
Laundry, bills, cleaning, it all runs through your head. Junie's hair, her snacks for daycare, her clothes. Does she have clean socks for the week? Does she have a vest top for tomorrow?
Her crying grows loud and you can't think of anything except how overwhelmed you feel.
"It's okay, baby, just go to sleep." You shush her softly.
Somebody knocks the door.
You and Junie are similarly nonplussed. Her crying ceases for a second and her head turns in tandem with yours.
"Oh. Oh, you know who that is, huh?" you ask her, making for the door while her cries are still on pause. "That's our new friend Eddie. You remember Eddie?"
You pull open the door. There he is on the porch with a bag and a plastic case, wearing a shirt with short sleeves. You realise for the first time that he has tattoos.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi. Hi, Junie," he adds, looking at her tear-stained face. "Have I come at a bad time?"
"No, you're good. You're great, thank you for doing this." You lean back against the door and Eddie skirts past you. That close, you can smell the heavy sage and sandalwood of his cologne and see the beauty mark under his ear, dark hair tucked behind the shell.
He stops in the middle of the room and puts down the plastic case. "I'm gonna try to do it. Try being the essential word, and I make absolutely no promises." He makes a small cross with his hands leading out and the bag falls from the crook of his elbow to his wrist.
It sounds like more than a deadbolt. Eddie sees your gaze and jumps into theatrics that hook Junie's attention straight away, ruffling through the bag. He pulls out a VHS tape and then a second, one old and one newer.
"For your consideration." He presents them grandly against his check, his eyes flitting from your daughter to the tapes in wait of her reaction.
Junie has no clue what a VHS is. She thinks the TV is magic.
You swoop in and gasp loudly for Junie's sake, having identified his proffered tapes immediately.
"You know what that is?" you ask her, pointing at the slipcover. "Muppet Babies! There's Kermit and Fozzy and Rowlf and Gonzo." You touch your finger to each puppet in turn as you reel off their names.
Junie looks up at you like maybe she remembers, so you start to sing the theme tune for her. "Muppet Babies, they make their dreams come true. Muppet Babies, they'll do the same for you!"
The song jogs her memory. She starts her nonsense singing in a valiant but juvenile effort to recreate the music, dancing in your arms.
You sing it again for her as you lower her to the floor. She doesn't whine to be picked back up, a great sign that her mood has turned, instead walking to the TV, a small silver combi with a bubble screen. She raises her arms up high and starts hitting the TV stand with her palms flat.
Eddie looks to you as if he's checking that it's alright before crossing the small space and turning on the TV, your relieved smile more than enough encouragement. He's careful not to step on Junie's feet, surprised when she walks into his leg. She grabs onto his jeans and looks up at him with wide eyes.
Eddie visibly softens.
It's kind of crazy to see him, this metalhead dude covered in dark tattoos and wearing safety pinned jeans looking down at a toddler with nothing but patience in his eyes.
He drops his hand very lightly to her tiny back and pushes in the tape. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," Junie says.
She doesn't let him touch her for very long, falling to her knees to pull out the bin of stickle bricks hiding underneath as Eddie fast forwards through the adverts and then turns up the volume until the Muppet Babies theme is echoing against the wood panelled walls..
Junie's eyes dart up the screen, two bricks held in her hands and a great smile on her face.
"Where did you find that?" you ask, in awe.
He steps over her and comes back to your side, crossing his arms over his stomach with a smug smile. "Not telling. Ruins the magic. Got The Bugs Bunny Show for when she gets bored of Miss Piggy."
You smooth down your rumpled black work skirt and smile shyly. "I can pay you back… Next week."
He looks lost for words for a split-second. It clears fast, and he says, "Tell you a secret. I have a friend down at good old Family Video that let me have 'em for nothing."
"Yeah?" you ask, unsure. You worry he's lying to make you feel better.
"Uh-huh. Friends in high places," he brags sarcastically.
You turn to watch Junie smile for the first time in hours and have to scrub your face to hide how shattered you feel. It's been a really long week. Your relief is a physical thing, a hand on your shoulder. You feel yourself deflate.
"You okay?" Eddie asks.
You press the backs of your hands to your cheeks. "Thank you. Really. You saved me."
"Yeah?" he asks, dialling up the drama. He lifts his chin high. "Would you say, oh, I don't know, that I'm your hero?"
It's his clear joking tone that saves him. If you'd detected even a smidge of genuine expectancy from him you likely would've shoved him out the door.
"Mm-hm. My hero," you croon, both of you grinning.
He turns back to the grocery bag and pulls out a bottle of juice. "I was gonna bring coke but I didn't want Junie to feel left out."
You move to the cabinets and can't believe how nice he is. You get a little warning stab, that feeling of if it's too good to be true… and shake it off. Maybe it'll turn out that way and you're not gonna do anything stupid to chance it, but he seems like a normal guy. A good neighbour who wants to be your friend.
You're in dire need of one of those.
"What was wrong with the little lady?"
You pour juice into a glass for him, less into a glass for you, and a half-inch into a clean baby bottle. "I can't get her down for a nap when she's with me at work and it really caught up to her today. She-" You yawn so wide it hurts your cheeks, covering your face with your arm.
Eddie looks up from where he's kneeling in front of the open plastic case he'd brought with him. "Caught up to you too, I think."
"A little." You smile ruefully.
He holds something red and black in the air. "This'll wake you up," he says.
It's a small hand drill. He presses down on the trigger twice in quick succession and Junie lies down on the floor to look backwards at him.
“Woah,” you say.
Junie rolls onto her knees and then stands. She's in that stage of walking where she can mostly do it but has a great tendency to trip over anything that might be in her way, and she stumbles as she approaches. Eddie moves the drill away from her and opens the case wide to show her his array of drill bits.
"How'd you like them, Junie?" he asks. "Pretty cool, huh?"
"What do they all do?" you ask.
"I don't have the foggiest," he says, grinning up at you. "And I really wanted to be cool and pretend that I did. I was going to, but you asked me that and now we're sunk."
Junie pokes at all the silver metal and turns away, bored, to return to her cartoons.
"I'm sorry," you say, not sorry at all.
"You should be." He shakes his hair out. "Can't say woodshop was something I ever paid much attention to in school."
You squat down beside him where he's counting the screws out for the deadbolt he'd acquired for you, your small cup of juice in hand. The deadbolt isn't new but it's clean of rust and that's all you care about. It doesn't need to do anything besides work.
"It can't be too hard though, right?" you ask quietly. There isn't any need to talk loudly this close to him and your head is starting to hurt from a long day.
"I hope not." He passes you the drill. "Hold onto that?"
He stands and you follow, the deadbolt frame in hand. He turns to your front door and holds it up to the frame, far from the door knob. "Where'd you want this thing?"
"Wherever you think is best," you say quickly.
"Got a pencil?"
You don't. You're ashamed to offer him a cyan blue crayon from Junie's arts and crafts. He takes it with a gleeful smile and uses it to draw a line under the deadbolt's two parts to make sure they fit together once they've been drilled in.
Junie starts fussing and you squint at her, trying to guess what's wrong. You leave the drill on the small table by the door.
"Junie, you want some dinner?" you ask, walking up behind her where she's stood watching TV. You rub her shoulder and lean over her, your face upside down in front of the TV. "I don't think you're hungry. Let's change that diaper."
She certainly doesn't want you to. You turn to Eddie where he's making clumsy crosses on the door in place of the screws, his brows furrowed.
"I'm gonna go get her some jammies," you say, and then wince. "Pajamas."
"Jammies," he repeats. You hate how happy he looks.
A hot flush washes over you. "She's the only one I talk to."
Again, that awful softening of his features. He's got the biggest, brownest eyes you've ever seen. "Why don't you get changed, too? I'm gonna start drilling." He waves the drill and you don't like how loosely he holds it.
"Please don't ruin the door."
A wolfish smile. "No promises."
You leave all the doors open. Eddie's nice but you're not stupid – if he plans on kidnapping her or something evil this is the perfect time. Though, you suppose, he could’ve abducted her when he found her outside.
You shed your uniform and pull on a pair of loose fitting pants. You can't find a clean t-shirt, probably because you own a grand total of three, and you get distracted when the drill starts whirring and Junie screams.
You know in your heart that it's just a baby scream rather than a sign that she's in pain and you still can't let it lie, rushing down the hall. You can see her, see that she's uninjured, only looking at the drill.
She's excited.
"You like that?" Eddie asks her. "Is that funny?"
Junie claps her hands together and reaches for the drill.
Eddie frowns. "Sorry, you can't have it. I gotta finish the door for your mommy. Why don't you build me something with your bricks, yeah? Something big."
Junie reaches up for the drill again.
"I can't, Junie, it's too dangerous. Don't want you to get all mutilated." You wrinkle your nose at what he's saying. He turns the drill towards his chest and touches the drill bit to his collar. "Look, see this? It's not for little hands."
Junie steps over the case of things on the ground and leans against Eddie's legs, insistent.
Your mouth drops open as he starts the drill and puts on some fake anguished screams. "Ah! Oh my god, it's eating me!"
Junie starts laughing at his fake screaming. Her eyes widen, her hands clinging to a rip in his jeans.
"Think that's funny, do you? Heartless girl. Where's your juice gone, hmm?" He holds the drill behind his back and points to her bottle on the side of the couch where you'd left it. "You want that?"
He goes over her head to grab it and encourage it into her hands. "Yummy," he says, his eyes moving to where you stand in the door past the kitchen, eyebrows jumping up. "Everything okay?"
"Screaming," you say, awkward in your breathlessness.
Eddie's eyes stay resolutely on your face. "She's okay. The drill is exciting. You're shirtless, you know."
You spin on your heel and back into your room. Your heart a jack hammer, you sieve through clothes until a rumpled t-shirt that smells of deodorant but not sweat appears and shrug into it.
Junie has a much better selection of clothes. You pick out some matching pajamas for her and a thick pair of socks and tuck them under your arm with her changing matt.
When you return this time, Eddie's drilling a third and fourth hole into the wall next to the door and Junie's watching with the teat of her bottle in her mouth, chewing but not drinking. You lay her mat down on the floor and grab her with a big sigh.
"Alright, Junie, let's get you all fresh for bed."
You change her diaper and she doesn't misbehave too much, Eddie's general presence a distraction. Soon she's sitting in your lap, dressed in new pajamas and smelling of talcum powder and baby creams, her wool socks soft as you rub your thumbs into the instep of her feet.
You sit on the floor watching Eddie drill the screws into the deadbolt frame. Junie slouches against you, her head digging into your chest and her tired arms struggling to hold up her bottle. You hold it up for her, watching Eddie's hands and his arms, how they move. Muscle and ligament tense under the skin, tattoos warping, his bats propelled into flight.
"I like your tattoos," you say.
Eddie stops drilling to look over his shoulder. "What?"
"I- I like your tattoos."
He lights up. His back straightens out and he turns back to the lock, giving the last screw a final good twist. The door makes a groaning protest and then it's quiet. Just Muppet Babies, Junie's soft suckling and the compliment you'd given adrift in the room.
"They're pretty sweet," he allows. You can hear how pleased he is though he won't look at you.
"They're cool. Have you had them long?"
Eddie starts to tell you all about them, fiddling with something you can't see on the door.
Junie decides that she doesn't want to be sitting anymore and turns in your arms, hands coveting your neck. You lift her into your chest and rub circles in her back, the weight of her emptying bottle on your shoulder. Soon, her small arms go lax. There's a rush of air as her lips open from the teat and the bottle tumbles to the rug with a dull thud.
He pulls open the door. Cool air rushes in. He closes it, slides the deadlock into place, and then pulls hard to make sure it won’t come free.
It’s solid.
He laughs triumphantly and Junie stirs. You pat her back and make some quiet shushing sounds and Eddie turns around, a slip of his teeth on show as he grimaces.
"Sorry," he whispers.
You shake your head. "You're amazing. Thank you."
If his cheeks weren't pink they are now. He leans into it, hiding one cheek behind his hair. "Stop," he says, exaggerated.
"I'll make it good, I swear," you whisper, covering Junie's ear with your hand. "I'll make you the best dinner ever. I'm the best at Kraft's mac and cheese, or-" You flush hot, realising that mac and cheese might not be the treat you think it is to him. "Or we can order in," you say, doing the maths in your head. You can't afford it, but maybe Benny-
"Kraft's mac and cheese? You're spoiling me."
You beam.
Eddie cleans up the small mess he's made. You're afraid to move quite yet in case Junie's not really sleeping, though she's a dead weight in your arms, and you watch Eddie walk through the room with both caution and ease.
"Oh, you don't have to do that,” you say.
He folds the baby blanket in his hands and puts it back on the armrest of the couch before moving on to the stickle bricks, not looking at you as he says, "Just earning my wage, doll."
You can't watch him clean your home. You wrap a tight arm around Junie and rise to your feet. Eddie sees your approach and his movements grow faster, rushing to clean up the mess before you can stop him. You don't know who starts first but you're both laughing as you grab his wrist.
"Stop!" you whisper, mock-furious. "Stop cleaning."
"Sh, you'll wake the baby."
You shake your head in bemusement. "I'm gonna go set her down. Then mac and cheese."
"Take your time. Lots of things for me to clean up out here," he says with a mock sincerity.
You drift down the hall and turn back to sneak a glance at him. He's pulled Muppet Babies out of the TV and is rewinding it around his thumb, a small smile on his lips as he hums the theme tune to himself.
With Junie finally in bed for the night you take a quick peek at yourself in the mirror on your nightstand and cringe. You look tired. You give yourself a big smile and feel better; a smile makes even your most exhausted features look pretty.
You slap on some chapstick. You know, to counter your dry lips. It shines.
Slipping out of the bedroom, you close the door as quietly as you can manage.
Eddie's standing at the end of the hallway. You expect to feel scared. Instead, you’re perplexed.
"Hi?" you whisper.
"Can I use the bathroom?"
You laugh. "Yeah. Course you can."
You have to pass each other in the hallway. His hip bumps your hip, a short rub of fabric.
You're still thinking about it when he finds you behind the stove, half asleep with your face in your hand. It's the kind of tired where your eyes keep slipping shut, not aching so much as blurry with a heavy head.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, sitting down at your cramped table.
You hum. "Hm. Just tired." You give him a guilty smile as you tip the bigger portion into his bowl. "Sorry. Mac and cheese with bacon bits for you, my hero."
"Thanks, sweetheart."
The fatigue ebbs a little.
Eddie’s easy to talk to. He makes you laugh. When you say goodnight, he looks back over his shoulder twice.
-
It's a funny coincidence that Eddie sees you Friday night. He never grocery shops on a Friday but he knowd when his uncle gets home in the morning there won’t be anything for him to eat after his shift. He takes a sharp turn towards the TV dinners and there you are at the bottom of the aisle with Junie in the seat of the cart. You're talking to her like you'd talk to anyone, though you didn't sound so saccharine sweet over mac and cheese. Close, but not quite.
"What do you want?" you're asking. "Ham and pineapple or mini pepperoni?"
Junie holds her hands out for both boxes. You let her take them and the two of you puzzle over the pizzas, heads bent together.
"Pepperoni, right?" you ask her, quietly enough that he almost misses it.
"Peroni," Junie agrees. You let her keep the box and put the other one back in the freezer.
"Pepperoni," you correct, absentminded.
"Peroni."
"Pepper-roni." You sound it out slow, looking at a scrap of paper in your hand.
"Pepper."
"You'll get there. Do you think we need shampoo this week?" You start jovial, but quickly lose your sprightliness. "Maybe I can put some water in the bottle and just… shake it up. No, we definitely need it."
Eddie watches you look over the cart. He knows exactly what you're thinking, What can I put back?
"Hey!" he calls, walking a little faster to try and hide how he'd been listening.
You turn on the spot and smile as soon as you see him. Junie, to his delight, is even more excited.
"Hi," she says, hands thudding along the cart's handlebar.
"Hi, Junie. How's my favourite neighbour?"
She babbles.
"I'm psyched to hear it. How about you, sweetheart?" he asks, parking his cart next to yours.
You're looking very tired. Still in your work uniform with a hoodie thrown over the top and your smart flats swapped for a pair of converse with the laces undone. You pinch your cheeks up into a big smile. He guesses that with a baby you've gotten very used to hiding how you feel.
You don't hesitate to lay it down thickly. "I'm really good."
"Yeah? How's Junie liking daycare?"
You cover your hands with your sleeves. "She loves it. Loves napping again. She-" You frown. "She doesn't like the mornings. Dropping her off. But after." You nod with a tentative smile "Yeah, it's nice to pick her up."
"Uh-huh. How's work?"
"What?"
"How's work for you? How's Benny's?" he prods.
"You're asking me about work?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Nobody ever asks about work," you say.
You can't look at him as soon as you've said it, your eyes moving back to the grocery list in hand. It's an old envelope, and it crinkles under your squeezing fingers.
"Sorry," you mutter.
Eddie bites back a frown. "Well, I'm asking."
He holds out his hand for the list and you give it without thinking. He adores your handwriting the second he sees it, scanning the list for anything in this aisle.
"Hey, tell me about it," he prompts at your silence, pushing his cart. It takes you a millisecond to catch up, but when you do you're near frenetic.
"Well, I messed up like, five different orders today. And when I had Junie it was like they didn't care 'cos she's cute, but now she's not there they get pretty angry pretty quickly."
"She's like a magic item."
"Right," you say, sounding like you have no idea what he's talking about. "She was my lucky charm. 'N now when I mess up I gotta practically beg some of those guys to leave Benny alone. He's too nice to me already."
"Are they all terrible?"
"No, the regulars, guys in there everyday, they're all great. They're too generous. Benny's too generous. I know he's fluffing up my tip jar. I hate that. I don't want him-" You flinch. It's strange. Eddie takes a small step closer to you and waits for you to continue, but you've lost all steam. "Sorry, I don't mean to weigh you down with all of this."
"I asked. And I get it."
"I don't want him to feel sorry for me."
"Hey," he says, reaching out for a box of cereal on your list. He presents it to Junie and shakes it around, "who said anything about all that?"
"No, I know, I just-"
Junie smiles her approval and he chucks the cereal in your cart with a rattle of metal. "I'm not trying to make you feel worse, I swear. I get it. I- You said he's a nice guy, right? So maybe he doesn't feel sorry for you at all. Maybe he just likes you. He owns that place. I don't think it hurts him to put an extra twenty in your tips."
Junie reaches up. You turn to her and lean down until your face is a few inches from hers. "I wish I didn't need it," you say quietly.
"I know."
Junie puts her hand on your cheek.
You sniff, not crying or anything like that, only breathing. "Thanks, Junie," you murmur.
"Mommy," she says. She sounds a little concerned.
"Let's go get something yummy, baby." You stroke her face lightly. "I'm thinking canned peaches. Or pears, um. Fruit cocktail. And condensed milk," you add, sounding unsure.
"I got a can or two of that laying around," Eddie says, because he knows that shit is expensive. "Wayne hates sweet stuff."
"I couldn't-"
"You let me come over for one of those mini pizzas and I'll bring the dessert," he says, like he knows you'll say yes. He doesn't know. Eddie Munson’s an expert in pushing his luck.
Junie starts clapping her hands together.
"I think she's decided," you say.
-
You're terrible with a can opener. You whine to yourself as you struggle to get open the second can. Eddie had insisted on peaches and pears and fruit cocktail, because he wanted to try them all apparently. And then some dramatic speech about little kids getting spoiled.
You can hear him now in the living room with Junie. They're laughing in a way that you're worried about, that guilty, hushed giggling that raises your hackles.
"Shush," Eddie says, faux-angry, "your mom's gonna hear."
"Shush," she repeats with much more enthusiasm.
"You shush! Look, don't do that, Junie, you're gonna get it tangled in your hair," he says.
You carry the can and can opener with you into the living room. Something about tangled hair gets your heart racing.
"Eddie, please don't let her get stickies in her hair," you say quickly.
"They're called stickles," he says, dropping back onto his hands, head over his shoulder to give you a bright-eyed smile.
"I know what they're called. Junie can't say stickles."
"Stickles," she says.
"She couldn't when I got them," you amend.
He's up quicker than you can really take in, hands extended. "Let me do it," he says.
He works the can out of your fingers. It's more contact than you've had with somebody who wasn't your daughter in a very long time and it leaves you shell-shocked. Eyes on his nice hands, bigger than yours with thicker fingers and his riot of rings. He presses the can to his chest and hooks the opener, peeking between it and you intermittently.
"Go see what we made for you," he encourages. "I'll do it."
His arm brushes yours as he moves to the kitchen and that's worse than his fingers. You rub where he'd touched and drop down on your knees next to Junie, looking over the stickle bricks with a smile. It's a heart, poorly construed and of tens of colours. It falls apart when she tries to pick it up so you help her remake it, cooing.
"Thanks, baby. This is for me, huh? You're so sweet." Your voice drops to a murmur. "My sweet girl. Wanna cuddle?"
You open your arms out and she doesn't seem very interested. "Please?" you ask, vying for her waist.
She lets you pull her into your lap. When you actually start to hug her she does her lovely melting thing that she always does, a floppy fish in your arms but with tiny squeezing hands. You giggle at her antics and lift her up so her face falls into your neck.
"Thanks for my heart, Junebug." She snuggles her head into your neck, hair squished to your skin. "I love you," you whisper, rubbing her back.
"The works," Eddie announces grandly as he appears, two bowls in hand.
"Eddie, that's too much for her."
"She's a growing girl."
"A growing girl with a tiny tummy," you say turning her around in your arms. "Tell you what, you have that one," you point to the biggest one, "and we'll share that one."
"How about you share the big one?" he asks, though it hardly sounds like a question. He sits down and places the bowl in her lap.
You grab the spoon before she can and stir up some of the fruits. "Wow, look at this! You gonna say thanks? Thanks Eddie.”
She doesn’t say thanks — her mouth is too far open to form words. You make quick work of shovelling fruit and condensed milk inside, chilled enough that she shivers in your arms.
“Yeah, that’s good,” you say agreeably.
She gets enthusiastic enough to take the spoon and you let her, even when she totally mauls the food, eating so loudly that Muppet Babies becomes inaudible.
Eddie eats slowly. You can feel his gaze. “You’re not gonna have any?” he asks.
You’d felt it coming. Your answer is clumsy anyways. “No, I will. I just… I always have her leftovers,” you say, sheepish.
He stands up.
You’re gonna ask why when Junie tips fruit down your legs, cold on the naked skin of your ankle. You dab at your pajamas with a small sigh. There’s no point in getting upset. She’s a messy eater but they all are at this age. Honestly, it’s nice to see her attempting to use a spoon rather than her hands.
“You’re doing a good job,” you say. You’re not totally sure who you’re talking to.
“Tada!” Eddie cheers, wielding a third bowl of fruit. “Swap with me?”
“What?”
“You think Junie’ll come sit in my lap?” he asks. He doesn’t wait, really. He holds out the bowl and you take it on impulse as he sits down heavily.
He takes her into his lap with a cheerful groan. “Oh, c’mere, sweetheart. There’s enough milk on your chin to bake a cake.” He wipes it with his hand. He doesn’t so much as wince at the mess.
You stare. He eases the spoon out of her grip and scrapes up a half-spoonful of what looks like pear and feeds it to her with the same kind of deftness of hand that’d taken you months to learn.
He can feel your gaze, evidently, because he looks up. There, you catch it, that slither of insecurity he hides well.
You pick up your bowl and start eating. It’s the nicest thing you’ve eaten in almost two years. You’d die for Junie. You’d do worse. But to eat, to know she’s fed — gorged — to know you can sit here and eat this whole bowl of fruit all to yourself and you won’t have to put it down, that’s heaven. It’s better, because you never let yourself have anything nice if you can help it.
The fruit turns to a lump in your throat and you swallow it, sniffling. Your lashes grow heavy with unshed tears and you keep your gaze resolutely on your dessert. When was the last time you had something this nice all to yourself? When was the last time somebody ever went out of their way to be this nice?
It’s a small gesture and a huge one. A tear dribbles down your cheek. You lick it away and keep on eating.
-
Eddie starts to come around every Friday. It’s a good deal; you make dinner and he makes dessert. After that first time he makes it his mission to give you heaping bowls too much to eat most of the time. Soon, he’s coming a few days a week, not always long, sometimes until the late hours, though you tell him desserts are a Friday only occasion. He complies grudgingly.
You make your first friend in years, and it’s so sweet you don’t know what to do with yourself.
Or what possesses you to offer to cut his hair.
Eddie's sitting on the couch with Junie, his big thigh to her little one and a picture book spread between them whilst you clean the kitchen. He's not reading to her – she's trying to read to him. She can't read, of course, but she can remember some of the words in relation to the pictures. She pokes at the blue cat and says blue. She pokes at the blue dog and says blue. She also points at the red cat and says blue. It's a learning curve.
Eddie gives corrections and encouragements just as you would. You smile at him from behind your cup of water.
"He's red, sweetheart," he murmurs, arm around her shoulder to hold the book's edges. "Red cat."
"Red cat," she repeats with enough accuracy to make you choke on your water.
Eddie gasps almost as loud as you do. "Right! Red cat! You're so smart, junebug, I can't believe it," he praises, squeezing her shoulder. His gaze meets yours and he smiles.
You send him back your sweetest smile. If he wasn't always so nice to you you'd like him anyway because of how he treats Junie, like she's the fucking sun.
She gets so excited when other people are happy that she starts laughing, standing up and trampling all over his legs to give him a hug. She's given him half hugs, she's fallen asleep by his side and loves to pet his hair, but this is a proper, tactile hug. Her arms wind around his neck with purpose and as soon as his surprise has faded he brings his arms up to hug her in turn, laughing delightedly.
"You're such a smarty-pants," he praises, rubbing her back with a boyish brashness.
She squeals as he squeezes her, his fingers digging into her ribs. Never cruel, only tickling her. She eats up every second of it and buries her face in his neck, laughing her wound up baby laugh that always brings a smile to your face.
"Ooh, she's so smart. First blue, then red. Next you'll be saying indigo, and vermillion, and-"
He cuts off when Junie gets one of her nails caught in his hair. She jolts and whines like it hurts and he goes rigid. You move forward to play mediator but he's already pulling her away gently and making small shushing sounds. "Chill out," he chides lightly, "I got it. Here." He pulls the hair from under her fingernail and rubs the pad of his thumb over her hand. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he apologises, pouting at her scowl. He envelops her hand in his and waves it around. "Forgive me?"
She doesn't learn her lesson, pushing her hands back into his hair, probably less kind than what’s ideal. Eddie doesn't flinch.
You sit on the armrest gingerly. "Can I ask you something?"
Eddie looks over Junie’s head. "What's that?"
"Have you always had long hair?"
He doesn't balk. "No, of course not. I fu-" He clears his throat. "My mom was the best, and I fit in just like everybody else growing up. When I ended up with Wayne I was-" He smiles. It's the kind of rueful grimace that says, You didn't ask for this.
You smile encouragingly.
He drops his gaze to Junie, worming his arms around her in a loose hug as she continues to play with his hair. "I was mad about everything, and I remember him asking when I wanted to get my hair trimmed and I said ‘never’. Took a few years for it to grow past the awkward stage," he bares his teeth and nods toward his shoulder, as if allowing his past misdemeanour. "But now I'd say it looks pretty sweet."
"I love your hair," you say.
Eddie beams. "You don't think it's too long?"
Emboldened by his reaction, you slip off of the armrest to sit next to him, turning in until your knees touch. Junie, loyal as she is, climbs straight into your lap with a babble.
You pat her back with one hand and raise the other cautiously for permission. Eddie flares his eyes wide, as if to say, You want to? Go on.
You take a lock of his hair between your fingers like Junie had moments before. "I like it like this."
"But?"
You look at the ends, an inch of limpness where the rest curls. "You haven't had it cut since you were a kid?"
"Maybe not that long, but it's been a while. I do it myself sometimes." He gestures to his bangs. He speaks quietly. A rarity though not unknown for him to be so hushed.
You tuck the curl you'd been examining behind his ear carefully.
"Do you think my hair looks good?" you ask.
"Sh- Sorry, of course I do. I swear I was gonna-"
You shake your head, laughing. "Not like that. What I mean is, I cut my own hair. I cut Junie's, too, and I could do yours if you wanted me to."
He goes quiet.
"Only if you wanted. I know it's a lot of trust, so-"
"Would you do it now?"
You hold Junie's head away from yours to prevent a loving headbut. "Right now?"
"I'm in dire need."
He throws his big brown puppy dog eyes your way and you couldn't say no if you wanted to.
You explain how he needs to get it wet first and how the shower head in the bathroom doesn't detach. "It's, like, built into the wall."
"I could go home, come back?" he suggests.
"I can do it over the sink?"
-
Eddie can't remember the last time somebody washed his hair for him. He knows there must've been a time, some place in his life where his mom or dad had done it for him. He thinks that, if he'd asked, Wayne would've tried it once or twice growing up, but now Eddie's most definitely at the age where having his hair washed is a foreign luxury.
And it does feel luxurious.
It shouldn't; the sink basin is very small as they tend to be in the trailer kitchenettes – small sink, small stove, small small small – and Eddie has to crane his neck. Already the space between his shoulder blades aches from being bent over, and he can't breathe well, smothered by steam.
But your hands. One shields his eyes from run off, a gesture unnecessary and far from lost on him, while the other massages shampoo into his scalp. He'd been surprised when you started because you hadn't mentioned washing his hair, and he'd said, "You don't have to do that."
You'd hummed. "Well, it's kind of a waste not to."
That was that.
Your nails scratch lightly against his scalp and if his eyes weren't already closed they would've fluttered shut. He nibbles his lip and tries very hard not to show outwardly how nice it feels. Your left upper arm rubs against his back as you scrub at his roots, your right soaking wet beside his face, covering his eyes uselessly. He doesn't mention it. All this touching, he doesn't want it to end.
Your proximity honest-to-God sets him on fire. Your body pressed to his is a flame over his ribs.
"Maybe we shouldn't cut it at all," you say, stroking wet bangs away from his forehead. "It's soooo long."
"Can’t do it?" he teases.
"Keep your eyes closed, okay? I'm gonna rinse."
It's a comforting process. You dip your cup into the water. It fills with a wet glug, the rim shushing against the basin's bottom. You hold it over his head and pour carefully, heat caressing his scalp as the soap is washed away.
It's over too soon. You grab the towel you'd procured and tuck it around his shoulders, wringing all the excess water from his curls back into the sink. You encourage his head up wordlessly and he stands there, arms useless against the countertops edge, water sloughing down his face as you press the ends flat between your hands.
You lift his head and push his hair back with your hands, raking your fingers through it and laughing as soon as his face appears. "Eddie! I'm sorry, you're totally drowning."
He chuckles. They fade away as you pinch the corner of the towel and start to dab his face dry, dragging the rough material over his cheeks with an expression he can't read on your pretty features. Almost pensive, not quite.
"There," you say under your breath. "Saved you."
"My hero."
You smile at him softly before spinning on your heel. "I gotta find the hairbrush. And the good scissors." You look into the living room quickly and then turn to the hall leading to your bedroom.
Eddie looks into the living room too. Junie's not upto much, only watching TV, unusually subdued. He doesn't disturb her despite the itch to go over and play.
One of the muppets starts laughing about something and she laughs too.
"What are you smiling about?" you whisper from behind him.
"Nothing," he says quickly.
You raise your eyebrows. "She has a nice laugh, right? Doesn't matter how bad I feel, she laughs and everything's okay for a little while."
He feels a fond stab in his chest. "Her laugh's like yours."
"I guess we do sound the same."
You do, but it's not really what he'd meant.
The metal sound of scissors snapping. You wield them at him faux-threateningly and shepherd him into a chair you've dragged to the middle of the kitchen.
Eddie fights goosebumps as you pull a brush through his hair, loses when you take a lock at the front between two fingers and stop about an inch and a half from the end.
"I'm gonna do that much, okay?"
You're a quiet hairdresser. Eddie doesn't care, he can talk for Indiana, but there's something so sweetly simple about the quietude, just your hands in his hair, the snipping of your scissors and Junie's occasional excited chattering. You start to hum a song Eddie doesn't recognise about halfway through. It's melancholy. He doubts you realise what you're doing.
You draw silent as you round to the front. Eddie watches your hands work for what feels like hours. You have really pretty hands, not perfect, burnt fingertips and neat little nails. They smell like honey hand soap.
You pull two locks from the front together to make sure they're the same length. His curls will hide any discrepancy, he knows from experience, but he doesn't want to tell you that. Selfishly, he wants that extra time with you this close.
You work your way between his legs to comb his half-dried bangs. Eddie looks up at you with wide eyes.
"You want me to trim these, too?" you ask quietly.
"If you please."
You huff a laugh through your nose and start to trim his bangs carefully. He closes his eyes, and maybe it's the fact that he can't see you that gives him the confidence to reach out for your hip, a touch that can't be defined as amicable. He curls his fingers into the soft material of your shirt and feels the heat of your skin underneath.
You draw closer, as close as you can be.
"What made you decide on bangs?" you ask.
"Zits, mostly."
He can feel your laugh under his hand.
"I used to… I used to powder my face," you confide, a murmur, "like, an inch thick to try and hide everything. Being pregnant makes you so-" You pause to snip some hair, comb it away. It tickles his face. "Well, it makes you spotty. Or it made me spotty. It actually made me really sick."
"That's must've sucked," he says earnestly.
"It- Yeah. I guess it did. I don't know."
He hadn't meant to bring up something unhappy, but he's hungry to know. "Were you on your own?"
"Mostly."
"What was the worst part?"
"Being scared all the time."
He'd been expecting morning sickness or aching feet. "You were scared?"
"I honestly thought I was gonna die, Eddie."
He opens his eyes and leans back in his chair, hand flexing over your hip, as he tries to tamp down his surprise.
"It was," you mess with his bangs with the tip of your ring finger, "hard. I felt sick all the time, and when I didn't I would make myself sick worrying about her. What if I eat something or I catch something and it hurts her? What if- what if it all works out perfectly and then I can't look after her?"
"Did it work out perfect?"
You rub your lips together. "Uh, I guess so. It took a long time, and it hurt," you sound especially unhappy with that part.
He strokes up your waist, wanting to soothe the small crease between your eyebrows. "By yourself?"
"Yeah, by myself."
"I'm sorry."
You tuck his hair behind his ear and grin at him. "Now what are you sorry for?" Your hand lingers near his cheek. Slowly, you turn it, pressing the knuckle of your index finger into the skin under his eye and rubbing a small line. He worries he’s in love with you right then and there. "Not like you're the one who knocked me up."
You drop your hand and Eddie really doesn't want you to go anywhere, his grip kind but steadfast, bringing the other arm behind your back in a loose hug. "Who was it?"
"Just some guy. Nobody. Nobody worth thinking about."
"How old were you?" he asks.
"Why are you asking me all this stuff?"
"I wanna know about you."
You bring your hands to the towel around his neck and pull on it mildly. "I was sixteen. Seventeen when I had her."
He drags his fingertips up and down the small of your back lightly, almost like he's playing guitar. "I'm sorry you were all by yourself. That young. When I was sixteen I was still watching The Bugs Bunny Show."
You giggle and your hands move up to the side of his neck. He can hardly breathe, afraid to dispel whatever enchantment it is that he's under.
"Could be worse, huh? I'm nineteen and I still watch Muppet Babies," you joke.
"Why wouldn't you? It's the pinnacle of modern television."
"Yeah?"
Your beaming smile hits him straight in the chest. He thinks about how beautiful you look and can't stop, hiding his face in your stomach to stop from saying something stupid, laughing loud. You laugh in tandem, hugging the back of his head until your giggles peter out.
A small hand on his arm. You both turn at the same time and find a very unhappy Junie.
"What?" you ask her. Then, teasing, "Are you jealous?"
You lean down to pick her up. Eddie's gutted to lose your touch and then quickly exuberant when Junie ducks out of your arms to grab at his legs.
"Oh my god, yes," he says, holding out his hands.
Junie tries to take them and he slips them under his arm, pulling her onto his thigh with a big sigh. The sigh is half the fun, a theatrical reluctance when really he's always happy to have her climbing on him.
As soon as she's in his lap she's pleased, turning her head so she can watch the TV across the room.
You roll your eyes at his smug smile. "Shut up. She just wants what other people have."
"And you had me?"
"Shut up, Munson, seriously," you say. You don't sound half as mad as you're trying to.
Eddie takes a drying curl between his fingers and pokes at the side of Junie's face. "Whatever you want, sweetheart," he says, grinning when your daughter starts to squirm on his thigh.
He grins at her and tickles her until she's curling in with her chin dropped to her chest, smiling despite herself.
His fondness colours every word as he croons, "I got you."
Junie sounds about as outraged as a toddler can be when he tickles her nose and then drags the tip of the freshly trimmed curl under her eye. He draws a big circle around one of her cheeks until it's kissing her chin. She dissolves into giggles while squirming to get away from him and so he stops, only for her to blink and tug at his wrist.
He tickles her until she's screaming.
You pause on your knees where you'd been sweeping up his trimmed hair to look up at her and he's struck with guilt. "Y/N, you don't have to do that. I'll do it."
"No, you're okay."
Eddie finds his gaze drawn to your thighs, spread out as they are in your kneeling position, and then stolen by Junie as she almost topples off of his lap.
"I think…" he begins quietly, speaking to Junie though it's just as much for you, "that your mom deserves something nice for my haircut. What do you think?"
"I don't think that," you say.
"Wasn't asking you," he says seriously. Back in baby mode he continues, "What's mommy like, huh? What's her favourite thing in the whole world, besides you?"
"Sleep," you say.
"Well, I can't help you there."
"You help me there all the time. Junie sleeps like a log every Friday."
"Food coma," he says knowledgeably.
"You really don't have to get me anything, Eddie. My services were administered charitably."
He pushes his hands behind Junie's back and pulls her to his chest before standing. When he has her secure in one arm he pulls the chair back to your small table and tucks it in.
"Get up," he says to you. "I'll do it, alright? Swap with me."
You ignore him until he starts kicking you in the leg. "You're ridiculous!"
"You're ridiculous. Seriously, get up. You're not a serf." He returns your glare. "I'm a big boy, I can clean up after myself."
"It's my house."
"If you don't let me-"
"Christ! Okay." You drop the dustpan and brush sullenly, wiping your hands together as you stand before taking Junie out of his arms. "I'll make dinner."
"No you won't! I'm gonna order takeout," he says factually, already on his knees and sweeping.
"No you're not."
"I am. Me and June already talked about it. She's craving Marino's pizza."
"I'm not gonna let you use the phone."
"I'll walk to my place and order the pizza to here."
"Eddie-"
"Why are you being a hardass?" he asks.
"Fine! God, clean up your gross hair and order your stupid pizza. You're making me crazy," you say, collapsing onto the sofa with a little oomf, Junie's weight hitting you hard in the chest. She moves into a sitting position and pulls your shirt up, hands moving across the space under your chest.
Eddie throws himself into cleaning all the mess you'd made for him, the hair and the towel and the sopping wet draining board. He washes the dirty baby bowl on the side and fills up one of Junie's bottles with water, then a glass for you. He hasn't seen either of you drinking a thing since he's been here, likely his fault for distracting you.
He's about to call for pizza when he peers past the cabinets and sees you dozing on the couch. He decides pizza can wait until tomorrow; it's later than he realised.
Junie's halfway across the room with Mr. Bear playing make believe. She talks and talks and talks, gibberish to him but what's likely an unending, complicated storyline, no doubt.
Eddie approaches with the bottle already outstretched. "Junie," he says, and when she doesn't answer, "Junebug. Junie. Junie." Each iteration of her name softer and sweeter than the first, hoping to entice her in.
He holds the bottle in front of her face.
She finally looks up with a pout.
"For you," he says, offering the water.
She seems mildly interested as she takes it, turning back to her teddy and talking around the teat like it's not there.
You're struggling to keep your eyes open. Eddie gives the room a quick once over before kneeling down in front of you, tugging your shirt down to cover your exposed tummy as he says, "I should head home."
You blink at him and turn onto your side, cheek squishing into the couch cushion.
"Okay? Why don't you and Junebug head to bed?" he asks, using a tone not far from what he'd use with your daughter.
"You know, her full name's Juniper," you whisper.
He didn't know. "Really? I love that."
You wrinkle your nose, sounding very tired as you continue, "But someone told me it sounded like a name for a cat. So I've called her Junie ever since."
"It doesn't sound like a cat's name," he placates. "It's beautiful. You chose well."
"Yeah?"
Eddie smiles at you fondly, eyes tracing down your nose to your lips, shiny with balm. He tilts his head to the side to mimic yours. He could kiss you.
"Sounds like the name of an elf. Juniper Lightfoot, or… Goldwind. She could even be a mage. Juniper the Brave."
"Juniper the Loveliest," you say, and then grin. "Juniper the Hungriest."
"Juniper the All Great and Hungriest," Eddie says decidedly.
"Would you make her a hero, in your game?" you ask.
"Of course I would. She wouldn't even need to divide, she'd just conquer."
"What about me?"
"What, would you be a hero?"
You nod. He doesn't know why, but he thinks his answer is going to hold a lot of weight with you.
"You would be," he starts quietly, words painted slowly as he raises a hand to rest on your wrist, pinky finger spread over the hill of your thumb, "a fighter. With insight and survival."
"I don't know what that means," you say.
He leans in. "It means yes, you'd be a hero. You'd save kingdoms. Slay dragons." He squeezes your wrist.
"I think I better leave all that stuff for Junie. I'll just cheer you guys on from the sidelines."
"You're her mom, she can't do it without you. And even if she could I bet she wouldn't want to. Where's all the fun in guts and glory if you can't share it?" he asks, rubbing his thumb over your skin.
Your eyes shut. Eddie doesn't know if it's from fatigue or a want to end this conversation. He feels marginally embarrassed for descending into nerd metaphor with you, but he thinks it's the kind of thing you needed to hear. He thinks if Junie could understand how often her mom prioritises her and misses out for her she'd want to fix that. Eddie doesn't know you half as well as she does and it breaks his heart sometimes to watch you insist on a smaller portion, to watch you put things back at the grocery store because she wants a box of milk duds, even to watch you wear yourself out ironing baby clothes in the only pair of pajamas you own.
"Make sure you lock the deadbolt behind me," he says carefully. You hum. He gives your wrist one last squeeze.
Junie looks tired in that she's getting agitated, whimpering under her breath. Eddie ducks down to give her upper arm a good rub. "Why don't you go cuddle with your mom?" he asks her, turning her by the shoulder so that you're in her eye-line. "Go have a lie down."
He doesn't know whether what he says makes any difference but you extend your arms out and Junie walks towards you, big staggered steps that make him laugh to himself as he pushes into his unlaced converse.
"Don't forget to lock up," he says in place of a farewell.
"Goodnight, Eddie," you say.
He waves. You're both too tired to wave back.
He's surprised to find his Uncle Wayne still home when he gets in, shoving into his work boots with a grunted hello.
"Hey."
"Did you cut your hair?" Wayne asks, perplexed, a little gruff.
"Junie's mom did it for me."
"'Junie's mom,'" Wayne quotes dryly, slugging his bag over his shoulder. He's heard all about Junie's mom.
Eddie scratches the back of his neck and splutters when a big hand claps his back, a demonstration of Wayne's pity as he passes through the open door.
Eddie spins to watch him jog down the steps. "We're friends," Eddie calls.
"Don't be dumb," his uncle says without turning back.
"I'm not exactly known for being smart," Eddie says to himself, cheeks heated by a furious blush.
𓆩❤︎𓆪
thank you for reading! | my masterlist | multi-chapter
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reader gets marc to humble himself for a moment. puts him on his back, makes him beg for once.
he's too smug
A/N: Marc Spector x F!Reader x Jake Lockley x Steven Grant. Dirty ass sex (diff types/diff locations). Marc being punished for being a rude. Mentions of hair.
It’s Marc’s own fault.
He’d been pissed at her. Irate, really.
How could you go out there by yourself? How could you risk your fucking safety like that?
It’s the same argument that they’ve had for ages, but this time he really gives it to her. She flinches beneath his tone. She curls inward and there’s Steven in the mirror roaring at him for being unfair. Jake is silent as Jake always is, but he’d no doubt wreck Marc for this if he could.
The girl is the one thing Jake cares about and he’d never tear into her like Marc is doing now.
Marc groans, shoving a hand through his hair until the curls catch on his knuckles and the pain burns bright along his scalp. “You don’t have a suit,” he mutters. “You don’t have anything.”
She’d only done it to help him. She’d pulled some recon, gathering intel on a cult leader based outside Eldorado, Texas. They’d been holed up in a shitty motel. He’d been asleep - actually asleep - dreaming of nothing, but perfect flat black air. When he awoke, she’d been gone and he’d been frantic.
“I think I can handle a couple of old fucks,” she defends flatly - her eyes locked on the tips of his boots.
‘They have guns,” he snaps back at her. “They’re working with something supernatural. The entire reason we came here is because people have been dropping like flies outside their base.”
He'd seen the crime scene photos. The faces stretched too wide. The injuries that defied belief. The blood. The lack of organs.
Her eyes flicker back to his face, her tongue wetting her lip. “We came here because Khonshu wanted to.”
He catches her around the shoulders and forces her back against the wall. He wants to shake her. He wants to punish her for scaring him this morning.
Do you know what I carry? All that guilt? That blame? I killed my brother.
“You can’t just fucking leave like that,” he declares in a low, furious voice. “You can’t.”
She’s upset - it has completely disfigured her pretty features. She’d looked so happy with herself when she’d stepped back into the room, her fingers closed around her dead phone that he’d called a hundred times. “I know,” she had immediately exclaimed before he could speak. “I know I shouldn’t have left, but I got some really good info!”
He’d lashed out - advancing on her. “I don’t fucking care.”
Her expression had been stunned and he’d just kept going. He couldn’t hold back on and he knew he was making a mistake as each sentence shot from his mouth like a bullet.
Here they still were.
Every excuse she has for him, he swats away. He volleys it back. You cannot scare me like that. You cannot leave in the middle of the night. I don't care what you've done for SWORD. I don't give a flying fuck.
When he finally tires himself out, the rest of his anger going wet and hissing to smoke, she's staring at him blankly. To his horror, her lower lip quivers before she sucks it between her teeth.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, brushing past him and rushing into the bathroom. The door shuts with a click. The water goes on. He knows she’s crying.
You’re a fucking wanker, Steve accuses. His brow narrowed to something hellbent in the mirror above the desk. She was trying to help.
“It was a stupid move,” Marc argues though, now, he’s regretful. Standing alone in the empty room has only accentuated how loud he'd been; the walls seemingly still echoing with his rage-filled statements. He had been way too hard on her. “She could have asked me to go with her," he adds weakly.
Right and not let us sleep? We haven’t in weeks, Marc. She was looking out for us, yeah?
Marc grunts.
You don’t yell at her. Not like that. Not to her. Steven’s gaze falls on the bathroom door before it returns to him. Marc is suddenly consumed with an image of his howling mother - her eyes wide and burning in the dark. You’re an idiot.
It’s always Steven who seems to have the most healthy balance with her. He believes in her ability to fend for herself when necessary. He worships the ground she walks on. He communicates. He tells her all of his secrets and vulnerabilities that, in turn, are also some of Marc’s.
Of course, then there’s Lockley.
Out of the corner of his eye, Marc catches Jake in the reflection of the television. He is silent, his mouth a thin line. A muscle in his jaw flexing or straining as if he might crush all of his teeth from gritting them so hard. There is that brightness around his pupils - that itch of madness that marks all of Jake’s expressions. Marc feels even more cowed. If the ruthless killer thinks he's fucked up then maybe he has?
He drops onto the edge of the bed - the mattress squeaking under his weight. He rubs his temples and tries to come up with something to say to her. On the other hand, he’s also terribly stubborn. He doesn’t want to outright apologize because he thinks he was, at least, a bit right.
She doesn’t come out for an hour and when she finally does, she ignores him. She slips into a bed in a pair of shorts and a too-big t-shirt. Her hair and skin are still damp from the shower.
Marc feels another spark of anger in his gut and he forgets whatever words he’d been willing to give her. He also slides into bed, making sure there is a wide berth between them. The cheap sheets have turned gray from age. The blankets itch.
He doesn’t say goodnight.
***
A few hours later, Steven must take over and it’s Marc who watches from the side. He watches as Steven turns her around and kisses her fervently. His hands hold her face still as he devours her mouth, his curls drooping against her brow, his breath singing apologies that are Marc’s.
“I’m sorry he did that,” Steven murmurs as she returns his kiss with equal heat. She sucks on his tongue; she opens her thighs.
“Fuck me,” she whispers - her fingers wrapped around the nape of his neck as she draws him down to her. Marc can tell exactly when Steven pushes inside her. She gasps and Steven’s hand comes down hard on the top of the headboard. He’s gotten better at fucking - more sure of himself.
“Like that?” he asks her as he circles his hips. His pace is harsh and the bed shudders. He plants his knees to leverage his weight - his strokes become long and deep. When his fingers tease and pluck at her clit, she makes a noise like she’s dying. “You want it like that, yeah?”
She nods - all frantic - all desperate for him. There are tears in her eyes as she clings to his shoulders and she hitches her legs higher over his hips. The muscles in his back undulate and flex as he rocks forward.
She’s just at her peak when he sits back on his heels and brings her with him (an act he'd certainly be unable to do if Khonshu wasn't blooming through the meat of his muscles). She’s in his lap and his hand fists the back of her hair and he does not stop or ease up, instead he uses all of that super-human strength to fuck up into her - to be unrelenting as she rides him and moans Steven Steven Steven - shit that feels so good -
***
It must be somewhere near dawn when Marc comes to again - though not in his body. He’s in another mirror-realm. All murky. All blurred and pockmarked as a Monet painting, but the vision of her shoved over the cheap wooden table in the motel room appears clear and abrupt in front of him. It’s Jake now. He knows it because Jake carries himself like a panther - tall and broad and smooth. His hands permanently curled into fists.
She’s naked - her cheek planted on the tops of her hands as Jake keeps her pinned over the table. Marc can see all of her. The secret of her cunt. Her ass. Everything. Jake strokes the outside of her thighs. He kisses her, massaging the flesh.
“Jake,” she purrs and then he’s pushing his face between her legs. He eats her like that - sloppy and frantic from behind. She's crammed full with his fingers and his tongue until he’s ripped an orgasm or two from her and then he uses his cock.
“He shouldn’t have said that to you,” he remarks quietly - in between dirty, open-mouthed kisses. His words are whispered against her teeth as she moans into everything he gives her. “You did good, baby.”
***
He returns to his body somewhere around nine pm. The room is different. It’s now cluttered in clippings and notes and he guesses that Steven went on a research bender with her. He probably sniffed out the local library and made some corny joke about Scooby-Doo.
The television is playing an old black and white movie with a young Clark Gable. He’s on his back and, in the dark, he can hear her lightly snoring beside him. Her breath puffs against his arm. She didn’t get much sleep the night before for obvious reasons.
He shouldn’t wake her and so he just lays there. He watches Claudette Colbert flash her leg to hail a car while he listens to the girl sleep a dreamless sleep.
***
She must want him to pay.
She fucks Steven and Jake while icing him out. Fair, he has to admit. She’s right to do it.
The thing is, is that they’re having both the dirtiest sex and the most intimate. The kissing is hurried and sloppy. The bed pallets crack. Jake smells her - spends fucking hours doing it. He shoves his nose into her throat - her cunt - the crevices between her elbows and under her knees. He likes her sweat and sometimes he just growls like he’s some half-Anubis - some wild animal.
Steven has somehow gotten less shy about dirty talk. She’ll drive them back to the motel while Marc is stuck in the fucking rearview mirror. She pulls the car to the side of the road, leans over the gear shift and tugs Steven’s ear between her teeth. “I can’t wait.”
They crowd into the backseat with her laughing as Steven bumps his head. “How wet are you?” he asks before dipping his fingers into her cunt, easing the tips inside, rubbing her clit with the calloused pads of them.
She whimpers - digging her nails into his shoulders as he feels her - finds the ridges and the deep deep parts - stretches her and massages her until she’s blubbering against his cheek.
“Dripping.” he husks and then makes her straddle his lap to ride him slow - hips rolling forward and knees braced. She clutches at him - her dress and bra pulled under her tits so that Steven can mouth at the soft peaks. His face buried in her.
“I love you,” she tells him, which kills Marc a little. Steven goes all misty-eyed as he stares up at her - as his hands settle on her hips and his lips part in shock as if she had never said such a thing before.
She’d had - a hundred times. But Steven continues to collapse under the idea of it. He can’t imagine it - still - even now. Just as Marc cannot believe anyone could love him after his mother had made it so painfully clear that he was unworthy of the feeling.
***
Jake over-stimulates her until she cries.
Steven goes down on her for hours. It is almost as if they’re fucking her at the same time while Marc is stuck outside of it. Jake comes in for a moment and then Steven possesses the body. It goes and goes as they use their separate talents to pull her open - make her shudder and snap.
It’s Jake who knows how to prep her when he wants to take her ass. It's Steven who nearly loses his pace when he’s in there. It flips and rearranges and twists and turns and it somehow always ends with her on her back, hands wrapped firmly around the slats of the headboard with her legs hitched over Jake or Steven’s shoulders. The fucking goes from rough and thorough - hips audibly snapping against her ass to slow and inexorable and lazy.
She’s grunting - skin feverishly hot as her hair sticks to her forehead and her mouth forms a permanent oh - and she’s past the point of caring - past any point of holding back and Marc wants to rage - wants to return to her and feel her from the inside - shove deep as she grips his shoulders and tells him she loves him -
But every time Marc returns to his body, it’s still the quiet between them. It’s the ocean of sheets and the television on and his stubbornness at being unable to tell her i’m sorry i’m sorry and not even just for that but all the times i have doubted you before -
***
He hits a breaking point. It’s after they’ve gotten rid of the cult leader. Jake had wrapped that up with a clean throat-cutting.
They’re back in their motel room with grease-stained bags of French fries and burgers and Marc is so on edge that he might pop.
He tosses the bags on the table and finally says. “I’m sorry.” She turns to him, lifting an eyebrow. It’s not enough. He’s bad at this and he’s not sure how to get his point across. He has to touch her.
He strides toward her and she stands rooted to the spot. When his hands cup her cheeks, she jerks in surprise, reflexively grabbing his wrists. His eyes search hers - unmoved. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” His tone melts and swivels before it becomes very obviously desperate. “I need you, baby,” he says. “I fucking need you.”
She narrows her gaze as she regards him with a quiet intensity. Her eyes slip over his face and down the line of his nose - his mouth- before landing on the silver chain around his throat. She reaches for it, squeezes it between her fingers and gently pulls it forward. He leans with it and just as he’s about to kiss her, she smoothly shifts out of his grasp.
“Please,” he grits out - his voice thin - scraping over his tongue.
“I don’t know,” she says - tapping her chin. “You were an asshole.”
He swallows. “I was,” he agrees. “I was a dick.”
“Jake says you shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near my pussy again.”
He fucking bets Jake said that, humming it into her ear as he fucked her dumb. Marc would show him. Marc would prostrate himself for her.
He groans and falls forward onto his knees. She looks a little stunned and her eyebrows nearly hit the top of her forehead when he starts to crawl toward her. “Don’t say that, sweetheart,” he begs.
He wraps his fingers around her ankle and tugs enough so that she collapses onto the edge of the bed. He noses at her bare calve, dragging the tip up over her knee and then her inner thigh. He kisses her there before kissing the lace front of her panties. Thank fuck she wore a dress. “I don’t think you’re going to take it away from me,” he tells her and her chest hitches.
“Really?” she murmurs - slightly breathless. “Why is that?”
His eyes bore into hers when he uses his teeth to pull her panties to the side and then slides his tongue along the slit of her sex from hole to clit. She startles - her knees nearly clamping down on his head.
“Because,” he taunts huskily. “No one - not even them - eat that pretty little pussy like I do.”
He can tell she wants to say something - fight back at him - drag this argument out until they’re scratching at each other. He doesn’t have time for that. He wants to be inside her.
“Please,” he says again - pleading and whining at the root of his tongue. He rests his cheek on her thigh as he peeks up at her. “I fucking missed you.”
It seems to do the trick. Her eyes soften and her body relaxes. Perhaps, she thinks that she has done enough - iced him out and made him suffer. She has. By simply keeping him an arm's length away, she has made him ache in a manner that has unmoored him completely. It's kind of fucked. The whole business.
He's learned his lesson. His anger is something he must latch before he blows. His protectiveness can be...overt. It is so strange to be constantly growing now - realizing things that had never occurred to him previously.
She reaches for him, fingers curling inward. “Show me how sorry you are then.”
He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
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