hi! can i request a VERY fluffy steve fic of him just absolutely worshipping reader and being all over her and just being a cute obsessed bf
ahhh thank you so much for sending this one in!!
i fear "cute obsessed boyfriend steve" is one of my favourite versions of him to write. i love the idea that he doesn't even realise how obvious he is, while everybody else is just forced to watch this man orbit his girlfriend twenty-four hours a day pahah 😭
also, if you like fluffy obsessed bf steve fics, check out some of my other fics! (lovers lake, don't go far, nap trap, hold this for me, right where you left me, freckles) 🫶
i really hope i did your request justice, and thank you for such a lovely prompt x
like it's instinct
Steve Harrington x reader
Summary: Everybody has accepted one simple fact: if you walk into a room, Steve Harrington won't be far behind.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, obsessed boyfriend steve harrington, so much physical touch, praise, teasing, no plot just vibes, comfort fic (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 3k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
Robin notices first.
Not because Steve is being particularly obvious, but because she's spent enough years beside him to recognise the difference between habit and instinct.
Habit is grabbing his keys before leaving the house. Habit is checking the back door twice before bed, or reaching for the light switch with his elbow when both hands are full. Instinct is quieter than that. It lives beneath conscious thought. It's the tiny decisions your body makes before your brain has had chance to catch up.
Instinct is the way Steve's attention shifts every single time you enter a room.
He doesn't dramatically stop what he's doing. He doesn't lose his train of thought or stare like somebody in a romance film. It's subtler than that. Halfway through explaining something to Dustin behind the Family Video counter, his eyes lift almost imperceptibly towards the door a fraction of a second before the bell above it rings.
Then you walk in.
You're carrying two paper bags from the bakery down the road, your handbag slipping further down your shoulder as you nudge the door closed behind you with your hip.
Steve smiles.
Robin has seen Steve Harrington smile thousands of times over the years. She's seen the cocky smiles, the embarrassed smiles, the polite customer-service smiles he reserves for difficult customers, even the exhausted ones that followed too many nights spent fighting monsters.
This one is none of those.
It isn't bigger. It's softer. It settles across his face so naturally it almost looks unconscious, like the expression was already waiting for you before you'd even stepped through the door.
"...Hey."
You smile back immediately. "Hi."
"How'd it go?"
"Successful." You lift one of the paper bags slightly. "They had cinnamon swirls."
Steve looks absurdly pleased. "They did?"
"Mhm."
"I thought they'd sold out."
"They almost had."
The conversation carries on as though nothing remarkable has happened.
And that's exactly why Robin notices it.
Before you've even reached the counter, Steve reaches over without interrupting himself, lifting the strap of your handbag from your shoulder and setting it gently beside the till. He doesn't ask if you want him to. You don't thank him.
Neither of you even seems to register that it's happened.
Somewhere between your first date and now, little acts of care have stopped feeling like kindnesses.
They've simply become the shape your lives have quietly settled into.
Robin watches him continue talking to Dustin as though he'd done nothing at all.
Then, a few moments later, she watches his hand drift up again.
Your hair has started doing that thing it always does after a humid day, one stubborn strand curling across your face. Steve brushes it gently behind your ear without breaking the conversation, his fingertips lingering for barely a second before they disappear again.
You don't react.
Not because you don't like it.
Because it's so normal that neither of you thinks twice about it anymore.
Robin slowly turns towards Dustin.
He'd been watching exactly the same thing.
"...Did he just-"
"Yep."
"He literally couldn't help himself."
"Nope."
Steve finally glances over, faintly suspicious. "What?"
Robin folds her arms. "Nothing."
She nods vaguely towards Dustin. "Carry on."
Steve studies the two of them for another second before shrugging, immediately turning back towards you.
The conversation resumes.
Robin waits. "...Give it five minutes."
Dustin raises an eyebrow. "For what?"
"He'll do it again."
"You wanna bet?"
Robin doesn't even consider it. "No."
Barely thirty seconds later, you squeeze behind Steve to reach the shelves at the back of the shop.
Without looking, without thinking, he shifts sideways to make room before his hand settles lightly against the small of your back, guiding you past him with the sort of unconscious gentleness most people reserve for carrying something fragile.
Robin lets out a long sigh. "...Because I'd lose."
It isn't even that Steve is particularly affectionate.
It's that, somewhere along the way, affection stopped becoming something he consciously decided to do.
Love, you've discovered, doesn't always arrive in the form of three words.
Sometimes it looks like Steve quietly moving your favourite mug to the front of the cupboard because he knows you'll reach for it first. Sometimes it looks like him walking an extra ten minutes because one bakery makes the cinnamon swirls you like best. Sometimes it looks like the heavier shopping bag disappearing from your hand halfway through the walk home, or your favourite hoodie somehow finding its way into your wardrobe after you'd spent weeks stealing it from his.
None of those things is remarkable on their own.
Together, they become a language.
You don't remember exactly when it happened.
There wasn't a particular morning when Steve woke up and decided to memorise every tiny thing about you. He simply accumulated them. The way you always forgot to eat lunch when you were reading. Which songs you'd skip every single time they came on the radio. The fact that you unconsciously rubbed your wrists together whenever you were anxious. The tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever you were trying not to cry.
He notices everything.
Not because he's looking for things to notice.
Because, somewhere along the way, paying attention to you simply became one of the ways he moved through the world.
The sweetest moments are the ones nobody else is really supposed to hear.
You'll all be crowded around the Wheeler's dining table arguing over takeaway when Steve leans across just enough to murmur, "You eaten enough, honey?" so quietly you're not even sure anyone else heard him.
Or you'll be halfway through one of Dustin's increasingly dramatic conspiracy theories when Steve quietly asks, "You alright?" after noticing you've gone unusually quiet, his hand settling briefly against your knee beneath the table where nobody else can see.
They're never grand declarations.
Just tiny check-ins.
Little reminders that, even in a room full of people, some part of him is always listening for you.
The only problem is that Steve has absolutely no idea how loudly he speaks.
One afternoon you're all gathered in the Harringtons' living room for another movie marathon. Robin is attempting to ration the snacks with increasingly little success, Dustin is loudly complaining that nobody ever lets him pick the film, and Lucas has somehow managed to start a completely unrelated argument about whether Aliens counts as science fiction or horror.
You wander over with a bowl of popcorn, settling onto the sofa beside Steve before offering it to him.
Without taking his eyes off the television, he reaches in for a handful. "Thanks, sweetheart."
The room falls completely silent. Steve keeps watching the film. Robin slowly lowers the bag of crisps she'd been holding. Lucas bites the inside of his cheek so hard he almost hurts himself. Dustin simply stares.
Steve finally notices the silence. "...What?"
Robin points at him. "Sweetheart?"
He blinks. "...Yeah?"
"You just called her sweetheart."
"I know."
"...In front of people."
Another blink. "So?"
Robin looks genuinely lost for words. She turns to you instead. "Does he actually call you that all the time?"
You can't help smiling. "Honestly... I don't remember the last time he actually used my name."
Steve finally looks away from the television. "...That's not true."
You raise an eyebrow. "When was the last time?"
He opens his mouth. Pauses. Actually thinks about it. "...Huh."
Robin claps once. "Oh my God."
You laugh. "You call me Honey."
Steve nods. "Mhm."
"Sweetheart."
"Mhm."
"Pretty girl."
"Mhm."
"My love."
"Mhm."
"Baby."
Another nod. "Mhm."
Robin throws both hands into the air. "You are absolutely insufferable."
A faint blush creeps up Steve's neck. "I didn't realise."
"No," Robin says. "That's the worrying part."
Dustin leans forward. "Dude."
"What?"
"I think you might actually be the most down-bad person in Indiana."
Steve looks between the three of you, still appearing genuinely confused. "I've got a girlfriend."
"...Yeah."
"I like her."
The room dissolves into laughter.
Steve waits patiently for everyone to finish. Then, with complete sincerity, "...Am I missing something?"
You can't stop yourself. Still laughing, you shuffle a little closer until your shoulder brushes his, your hand finding his almost automatically. His fingers lace through yours without either of you looking down.
Robin watches the movement. She lets out a long, theatrical sigh. "...Hopeless."
Steve glances across. "For holding my girlfriend's hand?"
"No." She smiles despite herself. "For somehow making being disgustingly in love look like the most ordinary thing in the world."
Steve looks down at your joined hands. His thumb strokes once across your knuckles before he looks back up again. "...It is ordinary."
The room falls unexpectedly quiet. Not awkwardly. Just quietly.
Because that's the thing everybody keeps getting wrong.
Steve isn't trying to show you off. He isn't making some grand romantic gesture. He isn't performing for anyone.
This isn't the version of love that lives in films or Valentine's cards. It's smaller than that. Quieter.
It lives in mugs of tea and absent-minded touches. In pet names that have entirely replaced your own. In the unconscious certainty that if you're nearby, he'll somehow end up beside you without ever deciding to move.
To Steve, loving you has become so completely woven into the fabric of ordinary life that he no longer recognises it as anything unusual.
It's simply who he is.
The house is finally quiet by the time everyone leaves.
The front door clicks shut behind Dustin's endless complaints about carrying too many VHS tapes, Robin shouts something about Steve actually tidying up this time, and then, almost as suddenly as they'd all arrived, the noise disappears. Their laughter drifts down the driveway before dissolving into the familiar rumble of an engine somewhere beyond the end of the street, leaving the house wrapped in a kind of silence that only ever arrives after good company has gone home.
Steve doesn't move straight away.
He stands by the living room window for another moment, watching the last pair of taillights disappear into the darkness, one hand still loosely entwined with yours as though he'd forgotten he was holding it in the first place.
"They're never quiet when they leave," you murmur.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I think they do it on purpose."
"They definitely do."
You give his hand a gentle tug. "C'mere."
He follows without hesitation. He always does.
The kitchen still bears all the evidence of movie night: half-empty bowls of popcorn, abandoned glasses, crumpled napkins and a deck of cards that nobody had ever actually used. You begin clearing it together without discussing who'll do what, moving around one another with the effortless rhythm that only comes from years of sharing ordinary evenings.
Steve rinses the bowls while you stack the dishwasher. You wipe the worktops just as he reaches over your shoulder to put the cloth back beneath the sink. Every so often your hands meet reaching for the same thing, and one of you instinctively steps aside before the other has even realised there's something to make room for.
It no longer feels like coordinating. It feels like remembering.
Like two people who have spent so long building a life together that even the smallest routines have settled into muscle memory.
You're reaching onto your tiptoes to return the final mug to the cupboard when Steve quietly appears behind you. "Need a hand?"
"I've got it."
"I know."
His hand settles against your waist anyway. Not because he thinks you need help. Simply because you're there.
You glance over your shoulder, catching the faintly absent expression on his face, and smile. "You know they keep making fun of you for this."
His brow furrows. "For what?"
"This." You rest your own hand lightly over his where it's still sitting against your waist. "You can't seem to go more than five minutes without touching me."
He actually thinks about it. "...Can't I?"
"I don't know."
A small frown settles between his eyebrows. "...Probably not."
You laugh. "I noticed."
A faint blush begins creeping across his cheeks. "I don't really mean to."
"I know."
"I'm not trying to..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you, searching for words that never seem to come quite as easily as his actions. "I don't want you thinking I'm following you around."
"I know."
"It's just..." He trails off again. Then shrugs. "...I always want to know where you are."
There's no flourish to the sentence. No dramatic confession. He says it with exactly the same honesty he'd use to tell you he's hungry, or that it's probably going to rain tomorrow. Simple. Matter-of-fact. Entirely true.
Your chest tightens. "Why?"
He looks genuinely puzzled by the question, as though the answer should be obvious. "I don't know." He smiles a little, almost shyly. "I just..." Another shrug. "...I like being wherever you are."
For a moment neither of you says anything.
The clock above the stove ticks softly in the background. Somewhere outside, a car passes at the end of the street.
You think about all the times you've caught him doing exactly that. Wandering into the garden because you'd gone out to water the flowers. Appearing in the kitchen moments after you'd decided to make tea. Sitting beside you on the sofa despite there being six perfectly empty seats elsewhere in the room. None of it calculated. None of it deliberate. Just Steve.
"So," you say eventually, slipping your fingers through his, "Robin's right."
He groans immediately. "Oh, don't encourage her."
"You crossed the entire kitchen because I opened one cupboard."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I..." His eyes drift down between the two of you for the first time, only now seeming to notice how close he's standing. "...Huh."
You can't help smiling. "Huh?"
"I really did."
"You really did."
He rubs the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed now. "I swear I'm not trying to be weird."
"Weird?"
"I just..." He laughs quietly through his nose. "Sometimes I look up and somehow I've ended up next to you again."
The words make something warm unfurl inside your chest. Because he's right. You've noticed it too. Not just tonight. Always. It's almost impossible to remember a room where Steve hadn't eventually found his way beside you, as naturally as water finding its level.
You reach up and smooth an unruly strand of hair back from his forehead. "Steve."
"Hm?"
"I have never once wished you were further away."
His eyes flutter closed almost instantly. Such a tiny touch. Barely the brush of your fingertips through his hair. Yet he leans into it with the quiet contentment of someone who's finally stopped pretending they don't need to be looked after too.
"I like it when you do that," he admits.
"I know. I like it when you do it too. You always play with my hair when you think I'm tired."
"I know."
"You rub my back when I'm stressed."
"Yeah."
"You kiss my forehead whenever I'm overthinking."
"I know." His eyes open again. "You notice all that?"
You laugh softly. "Steve." Your thumb traces gently across his cheek. "I notice everything."
You notice the way he checks the locks twice before bed after a difficult week. The way he automatically reaches for your hand in crowded places without ever looking. The tiny crease between his eyebrows whenever he thinks everyone else is relying on him too much. The way he relaxes, almost imperceptibly, whenever you touch his hair. You notice the way he pretends he's not tired because everyone else is. The way he instinctively gives away the last slice of pizza. The way he apologises when somebody else bumps into him.
You notice him because you've spent years loving him.
Just as he's spent years loving you.
He looks at you for a long moment, something impossibly tender settling across his features. "I don't know why everyone keeps laughing."
"They think you're attached at my hip."
"They do."
"They're not wrong."
He smiles sheepishly. "I just..." Another pause. "...You're my favourite place."
The words leave him so quietly you almost think you'd imagined them. No rehearsed speech. No perfect line. Just the truth.
"I spend all day wanting to tell you things," he continues, almost laughing at himself now. "If Robin says something ridiculous, I want to tell you. If Dustin does something stupid, I want you to see it. If something good happens, you're the first person I think about. If something bad happens..." He shrugs. "...I still want you."
His fingers tighten gently around yours. "So I guess..." He smiles. "...I just end up wherever you are."
Your vision blurs before you even realise your eyes have filled. "You make it very difficult not to fall in love with you every single day."
His expression softens. "You still do?"
You laugh. "Steve."
"I know we've been together a long time."
"I know."
"I just..." He looks almost bashful. "I hope you still do."
Your answer is a kiss. Slow. Unhurried. The sort of kiss that has nothing left to prove.
When you finally pull away, his forehead settles against yours once more, his hand finding yours again without either of you acknowledging the movement.
Neither of you comments on it. Neither of you needs to.
For Steve Harrington, love has long since stopped being something he says.
It's the way he reaches for your hand without thinking. The way he unconsciously ends up beside you in every room. The way every ordinary day bends itself around one quiet certainty:
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: steve makes it home, but not all of him comes back at once.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, drugged and concussed steve, blood/injury, mentions of torture and trauma, brief non-descriptive vomiting, non-sexual undressing, fluff, post-s3 torture scene (4.4k)
𝐚/𝐧: i’ll be fine and then remember out of nowhere they tied up a 19-year-old, drugged him, and tortured him. anyway. im sorry abt this one. had to cope somehow.
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
“Woah, babe... that... that mailbox just waved at me.”
You glance over at the perfectly normal, completely unmoving mailbox at the end of your driveway.
“Yeah?” you say carefully, digging through your pocket for the house key, trying to keep his arm balanced around your shoulders. “Did it say hi too, or just the wave?”
Steve considers this very seriously.
His forehead rests against your temple while he thinks, brows furrowed in sluggish concentration. His breath fans across your neck in warm, uneven puffs, tinged with something coppery that makes your stomach turn.
“…just waved,” he decides after a long pause.
“Wow,” you murmur. “Rude.”
He huffs out a soft laugh into your hair—and for a second, it sounds just like him. Like the Steve you know.
Then his knees buckle.
“Woah, hey—!” You catch him hard, the impact jarring up your spine as he sags into you. Your grip tightens around his middle, fingers digging into the damp cotton of his shirt.
“Stay with me,” you say, sharper now, breath coming quick as you fumble the key toward the lock. “Steve, just... just hang on, okay? We’re right here.”
He makes a vague sound in agreement, head lolling against your shoulder.
“Mm... m’kay,” he mumbles.
You finally jam the key in, shove the door open with your hip.
“I got you. Just watch the step—Steve, watch the—”
His sneaker catches on the edge of the rug and he pitches forward, dead weight.
You lurch with him, heart jumping into your throat, barely managing to haul him back before he faceplants into the welcome mat. He makes a quiet, confused noise as you pull him upright.
The distance from the door to the couch is nothing. A straight line. Ten seconds, maybe.
It takes close to a full minute.
Steve’s face sinks right back into your neck as you half-drag him toward the living room. He keeps stopping every few steps, gaze snagging on random things like he’s discovering them for the first time: the standing lamp, the coat rack by the wall, the crooked photo of you two at the lake this summer.
“Babe,” he murmurs at one point, voice soft with wonder, pointing vaguely toward the end of the hallway. “There’s… wha... why’re you over there?”
“I’m right here, baby,” you say gently, tugging him forward again. “That’s a mirror.”
“...Oh.”
By the time you reach the couch, your arms are shaking.
Steve collapses into it with a breathy oof, body folding in on itself before going slack. His limbs fall wherever they land—one leg hanging off the cushions, head tipped back, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.
For a moment he just sits there. Blinking slowly at the ceiling, breathing through his mouth.
You drop into a crouch in front of him.
“Steve?” you whisper.
“Mm.”
The uniform makes it worse.
Bright navy and white stripes, grotesquely cheerful against the splatters of blood that have seeped into the collar, smeared across his side like someone tried to wipe their hands on him.
You start moving before you can think better of it.
Sliding your hands up his arms, across his shoulders, down to his thighs, his calves. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, just checking for something hidden, something worse, eyes frantically cataloguing every faint scratch you can find on his exposed skin.
Steve makes a quiet noise in his throat when you touch him. Not quite pained—more like confusion, like the sensation is arriving late.
His hand lifts, slow and uncoordinated, missing yours the first time. He tries again, fumbling clumsily until it lands over your fingers.
The second he finds you, he holds on. Threads his fingers between yours, his grip weak but insistent when he squeezes.
You’re about to squeeze back when your eyes catch on something else.
His wrists.
Deep impressions ring both of them, angry red marks already bruising dark at the edges. The skin is rubbed raw, split and abraded in places where he must’ve fought against whatever they used to hold him down.
I don’t know, they took him—woah, dingus look at that! Oh my god, that’s amaazing... huh? Oh, right, right, um... I think they like... took him to another room? But... I don’t know what they did to him.
You swallow hard against the rising bile, brushing your thumb lightly over one of the marks.
Steve doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Steve, baby,” you say quietly, still inspecting his wrists. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Nothing.
“Steve?”
Your head snaps up, panic cutting sharp through your chest.
He’s looking at you.
Staring, actually—eyes locked onto your face with a strange, heavy focus that doesn’t quite stick, like he’s trying to see you through water, like every second you’re slipping just out of reach.
His hair hangs in damp strands over his face, clinging to his forehead and the bridge of his nose.
“Hey,” you whisper, lifting your free hand to push his hair back.
Your fingers barely graze his skin before he flinches.
And you finally see it.
Up close, it’s so much worse than it looked under the neon glare of the Starcourt parking lot.
Steve’s eye is nearly swollen shut.
The lid is puffed up and dark, deep purples and sickly reds bleeding into his cheekbone. His nose is streaked with dried blood, rust-colored trails cracking against his skin. His lower lip is split wide open, a jagged cut that hasn’t fully sealed.
You watch, horrified, as he presses his tongue against it, absentmindedly pressing the tip of it against the inside of his cheek. It slides beneath the swollen flesh, prodding the ragged edge.
“No, baby, don’t… don’t do that,” you murmur quickly, your hand moving on instinct to catch his chin.
The moment your fingers touch him, he freezes completely. His body relaxes, almost unnervingly pliant, and his expression goes slack.
Your hand trembles when you pull it back.
You don’t let yourself think about happened in that room.
All you have are fragments. Dustin Henderson’s explanation outside of Starcourt had been rushed and breathless, a mess of words that mostly made no sense to you—Russians, secret codes, an underground government lab.
Torture.
It hadn’t sounded real then.
It does now.
The evidence is sitting right in front of you, breathing unevenly on your couch.
Your gaze drops back to his wrists.
“Hey, Stevie?” you ask, voice thin. “Do you know where you are?”
“Mm?”
“Where are you right now?”
He frowns slowly. His eyes stay on you for another long second, then drift, sliding across the room in a dazed, unfocused sweep.
Whatever drugs they forced into him—truth serum, Dustin had said—it’s still in his system.
You can see it in his pupils—so dilated that the hazel in his eyes is barely visible, just a thin ring of gold swallowed by glossy black. The whites are bloodshot, veins spidering outward.
“...your house,” he murmurs quietly.
Your lungs finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding.
“Okay. Good. That’s good.” You swallow, throat dry. “And what day is it?”
That one takes longer.
You see it, the delay. His lips parting, eyes losing you again as they drift somewhere over your shoulder.
“Mmm… don’t know.”
Your chest tightens.
“Can you try? Just take a guess?”
He squints. Looks down at the coffee table, following the swirls in the wood grain.
“...Wednesday?”
It’s Monday.
“Okay,” you nod immediately, trying to keep your voice from pitching higher. “That’s okay. Um... what about the month?”
He blinks slowly.
“Steve?”
“...July.”
“Yeah,” you breathe, squeezing his hand, clutching to the answer like a lifeline. “Yeah, that’s right. That's good. And tell me what year?”
Something in him changes at that, a sudden restless energy cutting through the drugged haze.
His nose scrunches, shoulders twitching uncomfortably against the couch. He drops his gaze down to his hands, to where his fingers are still tangled with yours.
“I don’t…” His voice fades, head tilting in a slow, helpless shake. “…sorry.”
Your grip tightens instantly, thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“No, it’s okay. You’re okay, baby. You’re okay.”
You say it like it’s true.
Inside, everything is screaming.
You have no idea what you’re doing.
Nothing but half-remembered warnings from health class, scenes from movies, TV shows, something about concussions and checking someone's pupils, not letting them sleep.
But what if this is something worse?
What if there’s something happening inside his head right now—bleeding, swelling—and you’re just sitting here, holding his hand?
You tried to take him to the hospital. God, you tried.
He could barely keep his eyes open in the car, forehead knocking softly against the window every time the road curved, but whenever you said the word hospital, he shook his head.
Stubborn as always, even half-conscious.
“Steve—"
“No.”
“Steve, you need—"
“No... no hoss...pital.”
And after what you learned tonight—after everything about Russians and government labs under small-town malls—you understood him enough to hesitate.
But now it’s just you.
And the quiet, suffocating thought that you’re not enough.
What if you miss something?
What if he gets worse and you can’t help him?
What if—
A sharp, sudden huff cuts through your spiraling thoughts.
Your head jerks up just in time to see him fold forward, arms lifting clumsily, not quite making it.
You catch him immediately.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Your hands slide up to his shoulders, steadying him before he can pitch all the way down. “You okay? You feel sick again?”
Steve shakes his head.
Looks so distraught, all of a sudden.
The emotion sits strangely on his face, tangled up with the swelling and the fuzzy stupor still dulling his expression.
He drags his tongue across his split lip, swallows hard.
“Can you... can you hug me?”
He’s nineteen.
You forget that sometimes.
He turned nineteen less than two weeks ago.
You remember the pancakes you made that morning—burnt on one side, stacked too high with a slow-motion avalanche of whipped cream. The surprise party at the lake, Dustin nearly dropping the cake twice before it made it to the table.
The way Steve groaned when you made him close his eyes and make a wish.
Babe, you know I’m way too old for this, right?
Still, he blew out every last candle. Tore open every gift, read every letter.
And later that night, when it was just the two of you tangled under sheets and summer heat, he told you something you never forgot.
“Mm… ten years, maybe?”
“What?”
“Yeah, I mean... my parents traveled a lot over the summer, so. Just stopped having ‘em, I guess.”
Stopped celebrating his birthday, he meant.
Your arms are around him before the memory can finish forming.
You pull him in carefully, one hand cradling the back of his head, angling him so he's not putting pressure on his bruised eye.
He crumples into you with a quiet sigh, forehead bumping against your collarbone before he buries his face in the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, damp where it catches.
For a minute, you just hold him.
Feeling the frantic, unrelenting thud of his heart against your ribs, so fast it makes your own chest ache. You tighten your arms around him, pressing him closer, like you can slow it down that way.
His voice comes after a long silence, words muffled and heavy.
“…they kept... kept asking questions.”
Your fingers still in his hair, then move again, smoothing back damp strands from his forehead.
“Yeah?”
He nods, dragging his bruised cheek across your shoulder.
“Same... same ones. Over and over. Didn’t matter what we said. Just... again, again.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, a quiet, nauseating realization washing through you. Maybe your incessant questioning—Where are you? What day is it?— just dragged him right back there.
You feel him shiver into your shoulder, a weak laugh ghosting against your collarbone.
“Hey... you know wha... you know what was weird?”
“What?”
His fingers move against your back, tracing shapes you can’t see.
“They said we were gonna die down there.”
Your throat goes tight.
“And I…” he huffs, another brittle laugh shaking through him. “I just like... kept talking, you know? So they’d look at me ‘n not... not Robin. Saying whatever. Dumb stuff. I work at Scoops! Ice cream... Scoops... Scoops Ahoy.”
He sniffs, tilting his face into your neck. You feel his brows furrow against your skin.
“They got really pissed. Said if we didn’t answer, that was it. Nobody’d find us. Nobody’d even… know we were there.”
He sighs, his weight sinking heavier into you.
“I kept thinking about you,” he whispers.
Your hand stills in his hair.
“I kept thinking… if I didn’t come back, you’d—” He falters, jaw tightening where it presses into you. “You’d notice. Right?”
The inside of your cheek stings where you bite down. You nod, pressing your lips into his hair so he won’t hear the tremor in your voice.
“Of course I’d notice, Steve,” you whisper.
He nods, swallowing hard enough you feel it against your collarbone.
“I didn’t... didn’t tell you,” he mumbles, words muffled into the curve of your neck.
“Hm?”
“I didn’t tell you,” he repeats.
A cold thread slips down your spine.
“Tell me what, Stevie?” you murmur, pulling back slightly, trying to see his face.
You feel it before you understand it.
The shift.
The warmth you were holding stiffens under your arms. Muscles locking up all at once, shoulders going rigid.
“Steve?”
It goes from nought to ninety in less than a breath.
One moment he’s heavy, pliant in your arms; the next, his whole body convulses. Tremors wrack him violently, shoving against your chest, jostling you both. Each wave builds, stronger than the last.
“Hey, hey, it’s—it’s okay—” You rush, voice thinning with panic as your hands scramble along his back, trying to grip him, steady him. “I’ve got you, you’re okay—"
His arms clamp around you like steel, brittle fingers digging into your back. His chest jerks with shallow gasps, each inhale too quick to carry air.
“I d-didn’t tell you,” he chokes out, words splintering between breaths. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”
“Steve, baby, it’s okay,” you whisper, sweeping your hand slow and firm along his back, even as your own chest feels like it’s caving in. “Hey, hey, just breathe for me, okay? You’re home, you’re safe.”
He shakes his head, breath hitching against your shoulder.
“No... no, I—” His voice catches in his throat, scraped raw. “I never said it. I never... I never told you. We never...”
And in the long, ragged, suffocating pause that arrives after, you hear what he’s been trying to say.
What he means.
Two months.
That’s all it’s been.
Barely enough time to learn the shape of each other’s lives, and yet... it’s never felt that way.
It’s always felt older.
Like you didn’t meet him so much as find him again. Orbiting the same point for years, lifetimes, just waiting to collide.
You used to joke about it. Past lives, red strings. Soulmates, if you were feeling dramatic.
And in those two months—in all the ways you’ve come to learn him—this boy who loves loudly without knowing it, who gives pieces of himself away in quiet, constant gestures, who shows up, who stays, who cares harder than anyone else ever has—
After two months of learning what it means to be adored by someone like him—
There was always something buried just under the surface, left unsaid.
They’ve lived inside you for weeks now. You carried it with you everywhere, pressed close like a second heartbeat.
Three words you’ve never said out loud.
“I didn’t say it,” he whispers, hoarse, broken. “I didn’t.”
And whatever he’d been holding onto all night—whatever thin, fraying thread kept him upright for Robin, for the kids, through the mall, the parking lot, the drive home, brushing off every what happened? are you okay?—
It finally gives.
Slips clean through his fingers like sand underwater. Gone all at once, nothing left to brace against.
“I was just... I was so scared.”
You fold him into your chest, arms pressing him closer as a tear slides down your cheek and catches in the damp strands of his hair.
“I know,” you whisper. “I know, baby. I know.”
It isn’t true.
You don’t know.
You weren’t there.
Didn’t see the way they looked at him, didn’t hear their threats.
Didn’t feel what he felt, tied to that chair, not knowing if the next second was going to be the one that ended everything.
Not knowing if nineteen was it.
You don’t know.
But what else can you say?
...
It’s strange, how life keeps moving after a moment like that.
How something so monumental can implode in your chest while the rest of the world spins on, indifferent.
Your room looks the same—the half-made bed, his jacket draped over your chair from the last time he was here—but nothing feels the same. Your hands tremble, and you flex your fingers, pressing your nails into your palm to ground yourself before you pull open the drawer. You let your fingers trail over the familiar textures of his shirts, his sweatpants—pieces of him he leaves behind on purpose. They still smell like him, even after washing.
You take a shaky breath and turn back.
He doesn’t argue when you kneel in front of him.
Just watches you, sat quietly on the edge of the bed, legs parted to make space as your fingers start loosening the laces of his sneakers.
You ease them off one at a time, then move to his socks, brushing your thumbs over the warm, soft skin of his ankles. Lingering there, trying to imprint the memory of a touch that doesn’t involve pain.
You glance up at him, hands sliding over to his waistband.
“Gonna get these off, okay?”
He nods, planting his palms into the mattress so he can lift his hips, fingers splayed to brace himself. Your chest tightens at the way his face pinches—just for a second, there and gone, like he’s trying not to let you see.
You ease his shorts down over his thighs, then his briefs.
His shirt is the last thing to come off.
He hesitates a little when you reach for the hem, and the moment you lift the fabric, you understand why.
Even in the dim light, there’s no hiding it.
Dark bruises bloom across his sides, wrapping around his stomach. There’s one just under his ribs that’s so deep it’s nearly black at the center, the skin tight and swollen in a way that turns your gut ice-cold.
That's not from a fist.
For a heartbeat, you see him there.
Head slumped forward, taking blow after blow while he tries to breathe through the blood filling his mouth. You force it down, swallowing the rush of panic before it can break free.
Steve follows your gaze, blinking down at himself.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s uh… looks worse than it is.”
His speech is clearer now. No longer thick or slurred like it was before. Up close, you see that the glassiness in his eyes has started to lift too, his pupils returning to normal.
But what’s left behind isn’t easy.
His brows are pulled tight, expression pinched from bracing against the pressure building in his skull. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw to fight off the waves of nausea, worsening with each passing second of clarity.
You know that he’s lying—that it doesn’t look worse than it is—but you don’t argue.
Instead, you reach for his hands, gently lifting his arms, pulling his shirt over his head. You discard the bloodied uniform to the floor before helping him into a fresh shirt, sliding it over his bruised frame with care.
You reach for his sweats next, guiding him one leg at a time, your hand braced at his shin to keep him steady as you draw the fabric up over his thighs.
You’re adjusting the waistband over his hips when he suddenly goes still.
“You okay?”
He stiffens, jaw working. “Mm—I need the—”
You drag the trash can over just in time.
He folds forward with a weak gag, body curling in on itself as far as his ribs will allow.
There’s not much left in his stomach. The retching is brief, mostly dry, but it still wrings him out. Leaves him shaking, breath catching in uneven pulls.
You press your hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow, firm circles until it passes, until he leans back with a shallow breath.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, lips parted, face gone pale under all the bruising.
You shake your head, reaching for the warm washcloth you’d set aside earlier.
"It's okay. Don't apologize."
You press the cloth gently to his lips, slow, careful strokes as you wipe the corner of his mouth, the faint smear of blood under his nose, along the line of his jaw and down the column of his neck. It comes back faintly pink each time.
Your thumb follows after, catching where the cloth missed.
Then you pause at his mouth.
The cut on his bottom lip is so deep, the edges of it raw, pulled tight every time he speaks. You tilt his chin slightly, angling his face toward the light.
You’re still frowning at it, wondering whether you should clean it now or let him rest, when he says it.
And it’s not what you thought it would feel like, the first time.
It’s supposed to feel bigger than this, isn’t it? Fireworks in the chest, thunder in the ribs. Something that cracks the world open a little—shake the ground under your feet and pull the stars a little close so they can witness it too.
Instead, it happens in your bedroom at two in the morning, the coppery smell of dried blood clinging to your fingers, sticky under your nails, catching at the back of your throat
“I love you.”
His voice is low, scraped hoarse with exhaustion, yet steady in a way it hasn’t been all night.
It’s almost painful, how much rushes up all at once.
All the times you didn’t say it.
All the almosts.
All the places it lived instead.
In the center console of his car, watching him belt out the wrong lyrics at the top of his lungs, just to catch your laugh from the passenger seat.
In the sticky vinyl booth of that diner off the highway, knees knocking under the table while you plucked the cherries off his milkshake and debated the dumbest lines from the movie you just watched.
In the space between your pillows, lying on your sides in the dark, sharing half-formed plans and distant, candy-colored versions of the future—nothing guaranteed except for the easy assumption that you’d share it with one another.
It was always there.
Perched on the tip of your tongue, waiting—in the quiet beat after a joke, a kiss.
In all the moments where you’d look at him and just know.
Know with a certainty so sharp it scared you sometimes.
That this boy—this ridiculous, funny, soft-hearted, endlessly giving boy—was it.
You’d always told yourself there was time.
Tomorrow. Next week.
Later.
Some other night with candlelight and rose petals, when it made sense, when it could be perfect, worthy of the way it feels to love and be loved by him.
But maybe the truth of it lives here, like this.
Stripped bare, intimate in a way no grand declaration ever could be.
“I…” Your voice catches, and you swallow before trying again. “I love you too.”
Your vision fills with a sudden haze, and you blink quickly, forcing yourself to look away.
Steve’s eyes droop at that, brows furrowing softly as he shuffles closer.
“Baby… c’mon, don’t…” He raises his hand, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the second tear before it falls. He lingers there, cradling your cheek in the warmth of his palm. “Don’t cry. Please?”
“I’m not, I’m not,” you sniff, half-laughing, hastily wiping at your face with the back of your hand.
He studies you a long moment, blinking unevenly, before the faintest smile curls his lips. “Does my face look that bad?”
A startled laugh slips past you. You shake your head, pressing a weak palm against his shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”
His grin softens into a gentle, half-lidded smile, eyes warm and heavy as he lets his gaze settle on you.
“’M gonna say it every day,” he murmurs quietly.
Your chest aches at the promise.
You wish he didn’t have to think about it like that.
That he didn’t have to worry. That he didn’t have to carry the weight of those three words on his chest while tied to that chair—wrists raw, blood in his mouth and fluorescent lights burning into his skull—wondering if he’d ever get to say them aloud.
That the last thing on his mind wasn’t the absence of something so small.
Something you already knew.
You’ve always known.
“Steve…” you whisper.
“I know,” he whispers back, nodding slowly, eyes thick with exhaustion but bright with that familiar resolve. “I know you know. I just…” He rubs his thumb gently across your cheek. “I’m still gonna say it.”
You watch him for a moment, taking in the quiet conviction in his gaze, the stubborn tilt of his head. Stubborn in the ways that matter most—clinging to small, sacred truths even after staring death in the face.
You nod, because that’s who he is.
And because you’ll listen every time like it’s the first.
“Okay,” you whisper.
You lean in carefully, tilting your head to avoid the split in his lip, and press a soft, lingering kiss to the unbroken corner of his mouth.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 7.5k
warnings: cursing, graphic descriptions of death, mentions of suicide multiple times
includes: childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, insane amount of mutual pining, the slowest of slow burns, co-dependency on steroids, jealous!steve, insecure!steve
summary: another episode reveals more of what this mysterious man wants from you, but not enough for you to understand why he's doing all of this. and when you offer to keep eddie company steve doesn't take it very well which results in some of steve's old ways to resurface. you just don't realize everything has consequences and sometimes people find out things without you knowing.
a/n: omg you guys are gonna kill me for ending of this chapter lmfaooo. i'll keep the notes short for this chapter and let you guys get to reading. as always thank you so much for the love and support! comments and reblogs are so appreciated! love you all <3
masterlist want to be added to the tag list?
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
There’s a chilled breeze that billows through the night air, but that’s not what’s got goosebumps covering your skin. It’s the man behind you that you’ve still refused to turn around and look at.
“Y/N.” He says again. “You can’t ignore me. I’m in your head sweetheart.”
That finally gets you to turn around and when you’re met with just the other side of the empty road a shiver runs up your spine. You turn in each direction frantically looking for the man, but there's absolutely no sign of him.
“You’re not going to find me. Like I said I’m in your head. I’ve been here a lot longer than you realize.”
Your brain is a clusterfuck of emotions right now– scared, angry, upset, overwhelmed. You don’t know what the hell is going on or why you keep getting these visions that seem to come to life. And now this guy wants to play even more mind tricks with you.
“Just leave me alone please.” You plead out into the open air.
“You know I can’t do that. We still have things we need to accomplish.”
Things to accomplish– yeah like killing more of your classmates.
The road that you find yourself standing in the middle of, the one that Fred is standing on twitching like crazy, there hasn’t been a single car that you’ve seen come down it or even a hint of headlights in the distance. You’ve been out here for some time now and there should have been at least one car that has passed– it’s Saturday night.
It’s then that you realize that this isn’t reality and that you’re re-living what had actually happened. Just like last night the man had made you re-live Chrissy’s death, made it seem like you were there for it, but you were just plopped into a memory.
“He’s already dead isn’t he.” You mutter, the dread setting in. Not that you think you could have saved him, but it’s the fact that you didn’t get the chance to try.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you making me re-live it? You’ve already been fucking with me for months, using me for something you won’t tell me about. You are clearly getting what you want! Why are you torturing me even more?” You yell out, angry tears starting to form in your eyes.
“Your suffering has not been done in vain. You’ve been ever so helpful, aiding me in picking out the ones that need help the most. We’re taking away their pain Y/N.”
“Why me? I never asked for this!”
“Oh but you did all those months ago when you asked for the pain to stop. For your suffering to end. Those times where you’d thought it’d be better if you’d taken your own life than have to live another moment in pain.”
Your heart skips a beat at his words that bounce around in your head like a pingpong ball. He was clearly trying to break you even more than you already were, trying to make it seem like he was helping you when all he’d ever done was hurt you. “I– you put those thoughts in my head!”
“I’ve only enhanced what was already there darling.”
“That’s not true.” You argue back– your voice cracking because you truly don’t know what the truth is. It made sense to blame all your dark thoughts on him, nothing had seemed to be the same since you’d first dreamt of him, but what if what he was saying was true? What if he was just exploiting what was already rotten inside you?
“I think once you see that what we are trying to do together is for the better then you’ll stop being so defiant. All you have to do is exist and I’ll do the rest.”
You didn’t want to be his puppet and you think that maybe the only way to end this is to do the one thing he’d targeted you for. “And if I decide to just go ahead and listen to my darkest thoughts and kill myself? What then? You won’t have your precious helper.”
“You can try, but I won’t let it happen. You should have already figured out that I’m always with you. How was I supposed to pick out our candidates without your eyes and ears for me to use?”
The feeling of being trapped starts to settle in, like you’re a dog in a cage, except your cage is your head and your cruel owner is a mysterious man who only visits you in that cage. “Just get out of my fucking head!” You scream as you crumble down onto the pavement beneath you. Hot wet tears flow down your cheeks as you run your fingers through your hair, yanking at the roots, hoping the pain would snap you back into reality and out of this mental prison.
It doesn’t.
“Not until our work is done.”
You don’t say anything back, you just tuck your knees into your chest and hide your face in your arms as the tears continue to stream down your face.
“We are halfway there darling. This will all be over soon and when we help the last person, when my plan has succeeded, then I can end your suffering too if you want.”
“Just do it now.” You reply without missing a beat.
“Now Y/N, you know I can’t do that. Stop being such a brat and be grateful that I’ve chosen you to help me.”
“I don’t want to help you murder my classmates!” Your voice cuts through the open air like a whip and the man must have finally had enough because a much deeper voice infiltrates your brain, one you’ve never heard before, and you wonder if it’s even the same man.
“Enough! You’re going to help me and you’re going to see what we’ve accomplished so far whether you like it or not!”
You tuck your face back into your arms, refusing to watch the scene unfold in front of you, but the man has different plans. It happens before you even realize it– your head automatically snapping up to stare straight ahead at Fred. You couldn’t even close your eyes if you tried, he had complete control over you and it scared the absolute shit out of you.
“It didn’t have to come to this, but if you’re going to be so defiant then I’m going to have to show my hand. Just know I can do whatever I want to you and while I need you just know I can make your life much worse than it already is. So you’re going to sit here and watch what we’ve done and then I will see you again very soon.”
It’s like your face is paralyzed as you’re forced to watch Fred’s body slowly float into the air and you know what’s about to happen and you try your hardest to close your eyes, move your head away, but you can’t and so you sit there and watch as his limbs snap and twist like a human pretzel. How his jaw dislocates so far it’s practically protruding out of the side of his face and then finally his eyes get sucked out of their sockets and the blood pools out and down his face.
Fred’s body falls to the ground with a sickening splat and in a flash your vision goes black again.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Your eyes flutter open as you slowly regain your vision. You can hear muffled but panicked voices surrounding you and the feeling of someone’s arms holding you. Another slow blink clears your vision some more and you come to realize that you’re staring up at the ceiling of the boat house, the exposed wooden beams and sheet metal letting you know that you’re back to reality.
But wait… you were standing with Steve before you’d had another one of your dreams or visions or whatever the hell they were and now you were clearly not standing, but laying on the dusty wooden floor.
“Y/N, baby. Can you hear me?” Steve’s voice fills your ears and you quickly realize he’s the one that’s holding you. You turn your head slightly to see Steve’s doe eyes staring down at you, worry written all over his face.
“Why am I on the floor?” You ask as you try to sit up, but Steve’s got such an iron grip on you it’s damn near impossible.
“Whoa slow down. You passed out, scared the shit out of me feeling your body just slump over onto mine. Thank god I already had a hold of you earlier.” Steve states, his hands finally loosening their grip and aiding you in sitting up.
You glance around at the small circle that’s formed around you and take in everyone’s worried expressions– including Eddie. Who was hovering nearly as close as Steve.
“You okay?” Julie asks as she steps away from Dustin’s side to yours, hands reaching out for you to hold on to.
“Yeah…” You say slowly, like you weren’t entirely sure if you were or not. “With all the chaos I haven’t really had anything to eat today.” Your hands squeeze Julie’s in a reassuring way as you force a smile. “I’m sure that’s just what it was. I’m fine guys.”
Steve helps you up off the floor and wraps his arm around your waist like at any minute your body might go limp again and frankly it might. You’d watched another one of your classmates get brutally murdered and no one knew about it. Hell the police probably didn’t even know about it yet.
But what’s freaking you out the most is the fact that this guy doesn’t just visit you in your dreams anymore– he clearly has access to you whenever he wants. He’d made that abundantly clear and you worry that you might not be able to keep this a secret for much longer.
There’s still that familiar heavy feeling in your chest as you get your bearings, come to terms with the fact that this is apparently something you’re going to have to deal with again soon, and you try not to spiral as your brain starts to replay Fred’s limbs snapping like twigs. But there’s no panic attack or tears like last night and maybe that’s because he hadn’t visited you in your sleep and not because you were already becoming desensitized to it all– right?
Everyone starts to talk again once they deem you fine and at first you don’t listen, not on purpose necessarily, but there were certainly more pressing matters you were trying to work through. Ones that you knew you shouldn’t be going through on your own, but you didn’t quite understand the implications of what being attached to this man meant and if getting the ones you loved involved meant harm could come their way then this secret was staying with you.
That is until you remember there is one person who’s already experienced the horrors you have and they’re standing right in front of you. There’s just one issue– trying to figure out how you could get Eddie alone to talk to him.
Your opportunity comes sooner than you ever would have thought, but it’s a little unconventional and certainly going to make Steve mad.
“I think it might not be a bad idea if someone stays here with Eddie overnight– ya know to keep an eye on him.” Robin suggests.
Everyone looks over to Dustin, expecting him to be the one to volunteer, but you’re the only one looking at Eddie. Before Dustin can even open his mouth you’re speaking words that surely have everyone thinking you’d hit your head when you passed out.
“I’ll stay.”
“What?!” Steve chokes out, his fingers digging into your side, trying to anchor you to him. Surely he’d heard you wrong, surely you weren’t volunteering to stay here overnight by yourself with Eddie Munson. The guy who a couple hours ago Steve was sure had murdered Chrissy and honestly still isn’t 100% convinced it wasn’t him.
“I can stay with Eddie. It’s no big deal.” You state like Steve isn’t damn near losing his mind next to you.
Everyone else seems to be giving you strange looks too– like you were the last person they’d suspect to volunteer for something like this.
Eddie stands there stunned and he can see the array of emotions Steve seems to be going through right now. Never in a million years did he think Harrington’s girl would be offering up to keep him company while he’s on the run from the law. Eddie has always had a little bit of a soft spot for you, but you’d always been Steve’s girl, even when you weren’t. It had been made abundantly clear as soon as Hawkins High was blessed with King Steve’s presence that you were his in an unspoken way and so Eddie had admired you from a far. Knowing that if he ever did try anything Steve would have his ass just like all the other guys he’d made an example of without you knowing.
Then that party happened your sophomore year and he knew he shouldn’t have made a move on you, but you sat there with him and just talked and didn’t look at him like he was some freak, and he knew it would never turn into anything, but he’d enjoyed it while he could. But even after you two went your separate ways you’d still smile at him in the halls and give him a pencil in math class and Eddie likes to think that maybe in another world you two would have been good friends.
Dustin can see the storm raging behind Steve’s eyes and he really doesn’t care to see the two guys who he admires getting into a fight, so he tries to make peace before there becomes an actual issue.
“It would make more sense if I just stayed with Eddie.” Dustin offers.
But you’re not giving up about staying and that results in Steve dragging you outside to talk to you in private.
“I’m not trying to be controlling here, but why the hell are you so adamant about staying here with him?” Steve asks with a huffed breath, his hands quickly running through his hair like it might help him calm down.
“Because I feel bad for him and he needs a friend right now.” You reply casually, like this was sitting next to him at lunch and not in a boat house twenty minutes outside of town while he was a wanted fugitive.
“That’s what Henderson is for!” Steve leans against the metal siding and he can feel the coolness of it seeping through his jacket, but it does nothing to smother the fire within him. “I’m not leaving you here with him Y/N. You just passed out and you have no car to get away if you needed to. What kind of boyfriend would I be leaving you here?”
The word slips out so easily like he didn’t even think twice about it and it makes you wonder why he couldn’t admit to Dustin earlier that the two of you were together, but now that he feels threatened he’s alright with claiming you.
“For all we know he made all that shit up in there!” Steve quietly exclaims, hands thrown up into the air as he talks.
“He didn't Steve.” You finally reply.
“How do you know?” He questions in a sippy tone.
Things would just be so much easier if you told Steve about everything, but you’ve never been one to make things easier for yourself, and so you egg on the conversation that is bubbling on the edge of a fight. “I just know.”
Steve just wants to take you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you. What the hell was wrong with you? What kind of connection did you have with Eddie to just blindly trust him like this? Steve had never known you to associate with him, but maybe Steve didn’t know you like he thought he did, and it wedges a very ugly feeling of doubt square in his chest. “Well if you’re staying then I’m staying.”
This is where this conversation is going to blow up and maybe you’ll come to regret it and maybe you’re ruining things between Steve and you, but if this is what breaks the two of you, well then you weren’t that strong to begin with.
“You can’t.”
Steve laughs, like audibly laughs, and it throws you for a loop.
“I’m not accusing you of anything but you do realize what this sounds like right? I mean is there something I need to be worried about? Do you have a thing for loser super seniors who play board games with kids?”
He’s totally accusing you and mean Steve is peaking his ugly head out of his hole for you to see. You honestly get how this looks from Steve’s perspective, but he didn’t have to be such a condescending ass about it.
“You don’t trust me? Is that it?” You throw back at him, stirring the pot even more.
Steve groans as he rubs his hands across his face, trying to pull himself back from the edge of saying something he might regret. He trusts you, he does, but who on god’s green earth would be okay with their partner wanting to stay the night with a fugitive by themselves? Hell, he was a little worried about Dustin staying, let alone you.
“Don’t play that card with me right now. You know I trust you– it’s just hard for me to understand why you’re so adamant about staying here with him. Don’t you want to come back home with me?”
Steve is sure that everyone is hovering near the door listening to every single word the two of you say, but he couldn’t care less right now. He was damn near about ready to get down on his knees and beg for you to just get in the car with him and the two of you head to Chicago early, leave all this shit behind, but he can tell by the look in your eye that he’s on the verge of losing this fight and that your trip to Chicago isn’t going to happen.
Your eyes soften at the brown haired boy in front of you. All he wants is you to be with him and you aren’t even really sure if this is all about Eddie or the fact that Steve depends on you more than you realize. The two of you hadn’t spent a night away from each other in probably close to a month and if you stayed here with Eddie then that meant he’d probably go back to his house for the night. Which you knew would only make things worse. But even knowing that you pushed the guilt down and stuck to your guns. You needed to talk to Eddie and you were going to stay here tonight no matter how much Steve begged you not to.
“You know I’d rather be back at home and next to you in our–my bed.” You quickly correct your slip up and you see a flash of something in Steve’s eyes, but as soon as it’s there it’s gone. Truth be told, as frequently as he was staying over it was his bed as much as it was yours, but to refer to it as ours was something you didn’t know you two were at the level yet to use. You know things seemed to be moving fast between the two of you, but when you actually force yourself to think about it– Steve and you had been ‘together’ a lot longer than you’d ever realize.
“But I think Eddie can really help us with all of this shit that’s going on and maybe I can get him to open up a little more. Tell me more about what happened last night without an audience.” You continue, hoping Steve can see a possible good outcome from this, but you can still see the doubt in his eyes. The jealousy, the worry, all the bad thoughts that he’s conjured up in his mind about you staying here without him.
He’s got his arms crossed against his chest, closing himself off to you, wanting to be more mad about this than he should be. But the second your hands come up and gently cradle his face– he’s putty in your hands. “I love you Steve Harrington. Not Eddie. You. So if you love me as much as I think you do, I need you to trust me and let me do this. Let me try and talk to him, get him to see if he knows anything else, and if it ends up being a waste of time then I’ll radio for you to come and get me. I need to do this because if this has to do with the Upside Down again then we need all the information we can get.”
Steve reaches for your hands and gently takes them in his, tugging you a little closer to him. Whatever tension had risen between the two of you had started to fade the second you held his face and told him you loved him. Steve never meant for him to get so worked up, for him to bring out the person he once was, but he can’t help it when it comes to you. He wants you all to himself, hell he’d found himself getting jealous of the kids if they wanted to spend time with just you last summer.
Steve won’t ever be normal about you and that means he sure as hell isn’t alright with this idea you’ve come up with, but Steve also loves you and even though it doesn’t seem like it– he does trust you. He knows you like the back of his hand and he knows how fiercely protective you are over the ones you love and if something from the Upside Down was back again you’d do anything to try and stop it. You’d already lost your best friend to it, almost lost Julie, and he fears that if something like that happened again you wouldn’t be able to come back from it.
Steve knows there is no talking you out of this.
But he can also tell that there’s something else underlying all of this, something he can’t quite put his finger on. It nags at him and he doesn’t want to go back to square one with this conversation because he’s sure you’ll think he’s insinuating that you’re cheating on him, but it’s not that. It’s something he’s noticed for some time now, but tonight it’s like he can see it glowing around you.
The floodlight above the door gives off a slight buzzing sound and it’s all that fills the silence that falls between the two of you. You try to search Steve’s eyes for any inclination towards what he might be thinking, if this conversation is going to continue to go in circles or if he’s going to finally give in and put his jealousy and worry aside and let you do this.
Steve takes a deep breath and finally asks the question. “Is there something you aren’t telling me about?”
It’s a loaded question and he could be referring to just about anything, like if you have feelings for Eddie, but he’s not. You know exactly what he’d meant when he asked that and it puts a nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach. There’s a lot you haven’t told him about and you want to tell him, but here you were about to tell Eddie Munson before him.
“I’ll tell you everything later okay? I promise.”
It’s a lie and you know Steve noticed how your breath caught in your throat when you spoke, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he pulls you into a bruising kiss, like it might be the last time he kissed you, and the thought puts a horrible feeling in your gut. He was acting like you were being sent off to war, but he didn’t know you were already at war with your mind.
He pulls away just enough to take a breath, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching for any sign that you might back out of doing this.
His search is futile.
“This is absolutely killing me and I can’t believe I’m letting you do this. But I trust you and if you think you can get him to open up then I’m willing to let you try. But I want a radio check in every half hour and like you said if he clearly isn’t going to talk then you radio me and I will be here before you know it to come and get you.”
He presses his lips to yours again and then brings your right hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to the silver band on your finger. The simple action makes your stomach flip and you find yourself reaching for his ring clad hand and repeating his actions. No other words are spoken, your promises to always come back to each other were made a long time ago, and the rings had become something stronger than spoken words.
Moments later a walkie is pressed into your hand from Dustin and everyone else tells you goodbye before clambering off towards Steve’s car. Julie lingers behind with Steve, but she doesn’t take as much convincing, a hug and kiss on the top of the head with a promise of seeing her in the morning sets her on her way, but Steve still hovers.
“Every half hour. I promise.” You try to reassure him and he smiles half heartedly at you, like he knows how overbearing he’s being.
“Maybe I should make it every fifteen minutes.” He mutters as he pulls you back into him, his lips ghosting over yours. “Please be careful, if he even blinks at you weirdly, radio me alright?”
“I promise.” You kiss him again, not caring about the audience in the car. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Another quick peck is exchanged because you two can’t help yourselves and then you watch as Steve’s beamer backs out of the gravel drive and back onto the main road.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
In the boathouse Eddie sits on an old milk crate waiting for you. He’d heard the sound of Steve’s car leaving probably five minutes ago and yet the door he’d had his eyes trained on ever since hasn’t opened. The idea that you’d gone back on your word and left with everyone else hurts him more than he’d like to admit. He should have known better than to think that anyone would want to actually help him– that someone like you would want to help him. It was one thing to give him a pencil in class, but he was a wanted man, and really he doesn’t blame you for changing your mind, but it still hurts.
Before he can really start to feel sorry for himself the door creaks open and you walk into the dimly lit shack. He can tell you’re slightly on edge, like you’d been out there wracking your brain until you realized you had to face what you’d signed yourself up for.
“Thought you’d changed your mind there for a minute.” Eddie says half joking.
You can’t lie, once everyone left the realization of what you were about to do, what you were about to tell Eddie had finally hit you, and it scared you. That man was clearly in your head and what if you telling Eddie about everything would make things even worse. You’d been debating if you should really do it, but in the end you knew you’d eventually have to tell someone and well the one person who’d experienced the wrath of this man already was probably the only good candidate.
“Nah, I’m a woman of my word Munson.” You reply, sitting down on a worn plastic cooler next to him with a sigh.
“Never thought you would be holed up in my supplier’s boathouse with me while I’m on the run from the law. Could have been a great love story if you weren’t already taken.”
He’s deflecting, trying to make light of the absolute shit situation he’s found himself in, but for the first time since you set foot in this nasty building Eddie had cracked a smile and it’s got you doing the same. “Always the flirt.”
“Only for you sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes at him and the playfulness of the conversation quickly wears off as silence falls between the two of you. The elephant in the room, the reason he’s here, the reason you’re here, it seems to suck all the air out of the room.
“You gonna tell me why it was so important for you to talk to me alone that you got into an argument with Harrington about it?” Eddie finally asks.
“You heard that?” You mutter, looking down at your dirty sneakers.
He awkwardly rubs the back of his neck and looks anywhere but at you. “Kinda hard not to.”
The tightening feeling in your chest that’s been there since you woke up on the floor earlier only seems to worsen and you know you’ve got to tell him. You hadn’t gotten into the argument with Steve for nothing, but now that you’re faced with the task at hand you’re not sure if you can.
“I’ve been having these really bad nightmares for the last couple months.” You start, eyes still trained to the floor.
Eddie’s eyebrows pinch together in confusion, not sure what your nightmares have to do with all of this, but he doesn’t question it, just sits there and listens.
“They are horrible, like I’m talking about the people I love being brutally murdered over and over again. Having to relive some of the most traumatic moments of my life.” Your eyes flicker up to your arm that rests on your thighs, the one that still has the jagged scar hidden underneath your jacket sleeve. “It started after I dreamt about some man and he had this arm that transformed into something that wasn’t human and he’d said that he had picked me to help him– that I was his now. I didn’t think much about it then, but then the nightmares started and the headaches and the nosebleeds and I genuinely felt like I was going insane.” You pause and then, “I still feel insane.”
Eddie’s doe eyes hyper focus on you. Chrissy hadn’t necessarily told him all about what was going on with her, but she’d told him enough, and it sounded a lot like what you were experiencing. And look how she ended up. The idea of you ending up like her has panic spreading through him like a hot fire, but he doesn’t know what to do, hell he can’t do anything if he wanted to. Everyone thought he’d killed Chrissy and knowing his luck you were going to start floating in the air any second.
A shaky sigh emits from you and it has Eddie reaching out, taking his hand in yours, because honestly that’s all he can offer right now. You finally look up at him and you wish you hadn’t because he’s looking at you with so much concern that it makes you just want to cry. Eddie has always been sweet to you and it kills you that he’s been put in the middle of all of this. It all feels like your fault.
You swallow hard, the lump in your throat that you’d been trying to ignore only growing bigger by the second. “I’m still not sure how, but I’m connected to all of this somehow. To Chrissy’s death.”
“What?” Eddie whispers, more to himself than to you.
“I know you didn’t kill Chrissy because I was there last night. Well now I know I wasn’t really there, but I saw it happen. That man that I’d dreamt about last month, he visited me in my dreams again last night and he told me that I was helping him with his mission or something. That he’d picked me out practically becuase I was so fucked up in the head. Then the next thing I know I’m in your trailer watching Chrissy’s body snap and twist in ways it shouldn’t. I tried to call out to you, but you couldn’t see me, he’d put me in the memory of what he’d done. Wanted me to watch what I’d helped him do.”
“Y/N…” Eddie’s voice is soft and timid, like he’s afraid any sudden movement or loud noise will make you run.
“The worst part is that he’s been in my head for so long without me knowing. I unknowingly helped him pick his victims. I’m the reason Chrissy and Fred are dead.” Your chest burns and you couldn’t even take a deep breath if you wanted to. It’s all starting to crash down around you and when Eddie asks about Fred the only response you can give him is a broken sob.
Eddie can’t seem to wrap his brain around all of this, he was still trying to process what had happened back in his trailer and now you’re telling him you were somehow a part of this, unwillingly of course. He knew Hawkins was a shit hole, but damn it was worse than he’d thought.
He wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest, like that might fix everything.
“Fred is dead and I’m the only one who probably knows about it.” You cry out into Eddie’s chest. “When I passed out earlier it was that man in my head again and he killed Fred out on a road somewhere. He’s in my head and I can’t get him out Eddie. I don’t know what to do, I asked him to take me instead, but he just keeps torturing me and using me for his sick plans.”
Eddie gently cradles your head in his hands, pulling you back from his chest. “Listen, I honestly don’t know what’s going on. This is all so fucked up, but this isn’t your fault. That guy or wizard or whatever the hell he is, he’s taking advantage of you, and to see you this upset goes to show that you’d never do this knowingly. Their deaths are not your fault.”
He’s trying his best to make you feel better, to try and reassure you, but he wasn’t good with stuff like this normally let alone when there wasn’t some immortal creature trying to kill them all.
His reassuring words don’t do much to help you though because in it’s own fucked up way it is your fault and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. That man had made it abundantly clear. So, you try to pull yourself together and ask the one thing you’d started this conversation to get to.
“Last night at your trailer. Do you remember anything else happening? Anything that you didn’t tell us earlier? Anything that might help me figure out what the hell is going on with me?” You ask with a sniffle.
Your eyes search Eddie’s face for any sign of hope, but when those big brown eyes of his widen with sympathy and he shakes his head no you feel the air escape your lungs once more.
“I’m sorry Y/N. It all happened so fast and before that I was focused on finding the ket for Chrissy. Everything I remember I told you guys earlier.”
You brace your elbows on your knees and hold your head in your hands, your tears falling onto the dusty floor as you come to the realization that nothing is going to save you from this horrible fate you’ve been dealt.
“Fuck!”
Eddie frowns at you, he really wished he could have thought of something, but he’s surprised he remembers what he does. He offers a comforting hand on your back and silence settles back between the two of you save for your sniffles and occasional sob.
He thinks back to earlier when he couldn’t help but join everyone else in listening in on your argument with Steve. The question Steve had thrown at you– is there something you aren’t telling me about? It bothers Eddie more than it should and as he looks over at you, how shaken you look, broken. It hits him that what you’re dealing with, you’ve been dealing with it on your own.
“Does Steve know about all of this?” Eddie can hear you suck in a breath, like the question had startled you, but that simple action had answered it already for him. “Y/N you gotta tell him. This isn’t something you keep from him.”
You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to get the tears to stop, but the idea of telling Steve all this just keeps them flowing. “He knows about the nightmares.”
“But not about the man in your head?”
“I know I need to tell him, but Steve’s already been through so much. This would destroy him.” You state, lifting your head to look over at Eddie.
“So you’re just gonna let it destroy you instead?” Eddie asks in a disapproving tone and when you don’t answer he scoffs in disbelief. “I tended to keep my distance from Harrington through high school, but Y/N if there is one thing I know about him it’s that you mean a hell of a lot to him. This isn’t something you keep from him because you’re afraid it will destroy him. God forbid something happens to you and he finds out afterwards. That would destroy him more than you confiding your troubles in him now, letting him be there for you like he wants to be.”
“I told you.” You whisper, like it actually meant something, like at least you told someone.
Eddie sighs and leans back against the wooden wall, the weight of everything finally settling in. “I can’t help you through this like he can Y/N.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The whole drive back into town is completely silent. It’s awkward and everyone tries to act like they hadn’t heard the whole argument Steve and you had moments ago. Steve’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white and everyone knows better than to make a single peep. At one point Dustin clears his throat and Julie nearly jumps out of her seat to try and smother the sound, especially when she sees Steve glare back at them from through the rearview mirror. Robin even considers offering her not so helpful words of wisdom at one point, but for once in her life she knows when to bite her tongue.
Steve drops everyone off one by one starting with Robin until eventually all that’s left is Julie. He puts the car in park in the driveway, but doesn’t turn the ignition off and that has Julie pausing her movements.
“Are you not coming in?” She asks from the passenger seat.
Steve shrugs, his fingers gliding over the steering wheel to try and act like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wanted nothing more than to not have to go sleep at his house. “Doesn’t feel right if Y/N’s not here.”
“Steve, you practically live here. My Mom literally asks you what you want for dinner more than she asks me.”
That ugly green feeling has still taken root in his chest and he knows he said he trusted you and he does, but he can’t help but let that monster still plague his mind. Let him think the worst about what your real intentions might have been to stay there with Eddie. That everything you two had been through, what you’d done, what you’d said– it was all a lie. He wishes he wasn’t like this, but he can’t help it.
“Do you think she has feelings for Eddie?” He blurts out.
Julie gives him a look like she was questioning if he is being serious and when she realizes he is she laughs in his face. Steve shoots her a dirty look and it makes that feeling in his chest twist even more, was he that much of an idiot that he hadn’t seen it sooner?
“Stop asking stupid questions.” Julie says breathless from the laughter.
“I’m being serious Julie. Why else would she not want me to stay with her? If she really did want to talk to him about what happened why would it be such a big deal if I stayed to?”
Julie leans over slightly on the middle console and wraps her hand around Steve’s. “I’m saying this to you because I love you like a brother and I feel like we can be honest with each other. She’s been through some shit Steve and Eddie has clearly gone through some shit. She probably just wants to talk to him about it.”
“I’ve been through shit! You’ve been through shit! Why isn’t she talking to us?” Steve thinks that’s the dumbest reasoning anyone could give. In what world would Steve not understand what you’d been through?
“You act like you don’t know my sister at all. What I’m trying to say is that she doesn’t like burdening us with her issues if you haven’t noticed. Even if we make it clear that we want to be there for her it’s probably easier for her to open up to someone like Eddie who doesn’t really know her, than someone who’s gonna take her hurt and wear it on their sleeve.”
Steve throws his head back against the headrest with a frustrated sigh. All he ever wanted to do was be there for you, to protect you, and from what Julie was saying it sounded like you were going to Eddie for that instead of him.
“Steve, she loves you, like so much it makes me sick, but because she loves you she doesn’t want to hurt you with what she’s been going through. She thinks she can handle it all on her own, but you know her better than anyone and she needs you more than she lets on. So stop spiraling because there is no way in hell I’d let Eddie Munson be my brother in law.”
That gets a breathy laugh from Steve and he finds himself fidgeting with the keys in the ignition, testing if he really can go inside and sleep in your bed without you.
Julie rolls her eyes and is already halfway out of the car before she speaks. “Just come inside. She’ll be fine and if something happens she’ll radio us.”
He turns the keys and the reflection from the headlights against the garage door disappears as the car turns off. The walkie feels like it weighs a ton as he carries it inside, the weight of it much more metaphorical than literal. It was his only lifeline to you throughout the night and that weighed heavy in his chest.
The ascent up the stairs and to your room is slow, like he’s delaying the inevitable, not wanting to spend a night without you. But eventually he slowly pushes open your door and flips the light switch. Everything is exactly the same as you two had left it this morning, your clothes still strewn on the floor from the previous night's activities, your comforter still a bunched up mess, and the glass of water that Steve had gotten for you after your panic attack still sits on your nightstand.
You should already be comfy under the covers waiting for him like you are when he has to work the closing shift, but you aren’t. You’re clear across town alone with a guy that isn’t Steve and it makes his chest burn with something deeper than jealousy.
Steve sets the walkie down on your desk and starts to head towards your dresser for a clean pair of boxers to change into, but something catches his eye.
Your diary.
It’s a simple leather bound journal, something he’s seen you write in a handful of times, and really he’s never had any desire to look at it. That’s your personal thoughts and everyone deserves privacy, but that little devil on his shoulder and that green feeling in his chest has his finger ghosting over the spine. The leather is cool to the touch and he spends a lot of time just touching the outside of it, knowing that he shouldn’t open it, shouldn’t invade your privacy like this, but he can’t help himself.
His fingers grip the edge and he’s flipped it open without even a second thought, his eyes scanning the page until they land on the date at the top.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 9.7k
warnings: cursing, smoking, graphic descriptions of death
includes: childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, insane amount of mutual pining, the slowest of slow burns, co-dependency on steroids, loverboy!steve but also the first inklings of jealous!steve and insecure!steve....
summary: a horrifying dream has you spiraling in ways you never have before and when steve suggest spending the day with him at work to get your mind off of it you think it's a great idea. but when news breaks of a horrific murder at the forest hills trailer park your day of watching steve work is replaced with trying to keep secrets and getting thrown right back into the craziness that always seems to happen in hawkins.
a/n: it's starting to get juicy!!! i hope you guys can kind of tell where i'm taking the vecna storyline with the reader. i'm very excited to get to start writing it and exploring it more!!! as always comments and reblogs are so appreicated! and thank you so much for your continued love and support on this <33
masterlist want to be added to the tag list?
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
There’s a gentle breeze that floats through the air as you walk up the long sidewalk towards the big blue Victorian house. It’s a beautiful house, one you aren’t familiar with, yet your legs carry you up the front steps and onto the porch like you’ve been here a million times before.
The front door has a stained glass window pane with a rose in the middle of it and a warm glow from inside the house bleeds out through the glass. You stand there for a moment, admiring it, before your hand wraps around the handle and pushes open the door like you lived here.
The inside of the house is just as extravagant as the outside– a grand staircase, a giant grandfather clock, a chandelier in the middle of the foyer. It was a house you only could dream of living in. Your feet carry you down the hall and into the den only to find a man looking out the window– his back turned to you.
“Y/N. I’m so glad we could meet again.”
Even though you’d only heard that voice once before, you’d never forget it.
The man turns around and you’re met with the same man who you’d dreamt about last month. The man whose arm transformed into something only nightmares could conjure up.
You want to ask a million questions.
Where am I? Who are you? Is this a dream?
But you can’t seem to speak and when he motions for you to take a seat on the plush couch your legs move without even thinking about it. You can’t help but think– is he controlling me?
He takes a seat in the lounge chair across from you and for a moment you actually take in his presence. Blonde hair, blue eyes with round frame glasses perched upon his face, and he wore a three piece suit that was nice, but looked a little dated. There was nothing about him that would have told you to steer clear if you’d seen him out in public. You wouldn’t have even looked twice if you’d passed him on the street, yet there’s a dark aura that seems to surround him.
“Who are you?” You finally manage to spit out.
He clasps his hands together in his lap as a faint smile stretches across his face. “I’m a friend. Someone that’s been around for a while, but hasn't really had time or the means to make my presence known until recently.”
Your eyebrows meet in the middle as you stare back at him. How the hell could this man be a friend if you’ve never seen him before except in your dream last month?
“I can tell you’re confused, but don’t worry. This will all make sense after a while.” He slowly gets up from the chair and removes his suit jacket, gently draping it over the back of the chair, and then he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. “I just wanted us to meet again so I can tell you just how helpful you’ve been. I would have never been able to do this if it weren’t for you.”
“I don’t understand.” You mumble the nervous pit in your stomach growing larger by the second.
“You were the perfect candidate– already so broken and weak. When I finally made my decision that you were the one that was going to help me and then when you let me in so easily that night. I knew I had made the right choice. You were so compliant, letting me into that pretty little head of yours, and I’d say your suffering has paid off so far. Stage one has already been completed.”
You’re beyond confused. Had he been the one that had been giving you all these nightmares, purposely fucking with you until you were on the verge of mental insanity? And what the hell had you unknowingly been helping him with?
In the blink of an eye you see his arm starting to transform into the same disgusting form from your dream. He rounds the coffee table that separates the two of you and as he approaches you it’s like you’re frozen, but not in fear. It’s like he’s got you in a trance and an odd sense of calm washes over you.
He raises his arm and his large disgusting hand hovers over your face just like it had before. Your eyes flicker past his crawling skin and land on his piercing blue eyes that seem to be void of any life.
“I want you to see what we were able to do together. This is just the beginning Y/N.”
Your head snaps back and your vision goes black.
It comes to you in quick flashes– a trailer park, a Hawkins Tigers cheerleading uniform, a black bandana. Then suddenly you’re standing in the middle of Eddie Munson’s trailer as you watch Chrissy Cunningham levitate in the air while the lights flicker continuously.
The scene that’s unfolding in front of you makes no sense. What was someone like Chrissy doing with Eddie and at his trailer too? This clearly had to be a dream, something that could only be imagined.
You quickly realize that Eddie can’t see you as you try to talk to him, try to ask him what’s going on, and you suddenly feel like you’re in your own fucked up version of A Christmas Carol.
Chrissy’s body flying up onto the ceiling has you nearly falling onto the floor with Eddie and when her limbs begin to snap and twist into shapes not humanly possible you stand there frozen in fear. Her jaw dislocates with a cracking sound that makes your stomach churn and then just when you think it’s over with, her eyes burst and get sucked into her head, blood pooling out where they used to be.
Eddie’s screams fill the trailer and you don’t think you could scream if you wanted to. You feel the bile coming up your throat and how your body is telling you to run but you can’t. All you feel is panic and the man’s words replay in your mind.
I want you to see what we were able to do together.
Was this real? How did you have anything to do with this horrific scene that just unfolded in front of you? This was surely just another one of your fucked up nightmares.
It had to be.
Chrissy’s body drops to the floor with a lifeless thud, Eddie runs out of the trailer, and your vision goes back once again.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
When your eyes open again you’re disoriented, but the moonlight shining through the curtains illuminates the room just enough that you can tell you’re back in your bedroom. There’s no jolting up in bed with tears streaming down your face as you reach out for Steve this time. Instead you feel a heavy weight on your chest, like you can’t breathe, and the feeling of Steve’s arm around your waist makes it even worse.
It feels like the walls are closing in on you and you can feel the heat starting to spread throughout your body. You know you’re on the verge of a panic attack and normally you’d seek out Steve, but right now all you wanted to do was get out of this room.
Your chest tightens the more you move and by the time you make it out of Steve’s grasp and down the stairs you feel like you’re going to pass out, but you use every ounce of strength you have left to walk to the backdoor and out onto the back deck.
The cold March air hits your lungs and it burns like a wildfire has ignited inside your chest. You manage to sit down on the steps, your hand gripping one of the banisters of the railing like it’s what’s going to get you through this. You try to do your breathing techniques and while the fresh air and openness does help some, you can’t seem to rid yourself of the weight on your chest.
You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself, but the images of Chrissy’s mangled body are all you can see. You keep telling yourself that it was just another bad dream, that it’s just your mind playing some really fucked up trick on you, but you can’t shake the feeling of how real it felt. Eddie’s screams still play in your head like you’re next to him back at the trailer.
The storm door opens, but you don’t hear it, and you don’t even realize someone is out here with you until you hear your Dad’s voice.
“Jesus honey, what are you doing out here? You’re gonna freeze to death.”
March in Indiana was usually never warm and just because it was spring break that didn’t mean winter wasn’t still holding on for dear life when it could. So needless to say your sleep attire of an oversized t-shirt and some underwear was less than adequate for being outside right now, but honestly you couldn’t even tell how cold it was. You don’t even think you’re in your body right now.
Your Dad sits down on the step next to you with a sigh that only comes from a fifty year old man who’s worked a blue collar job since he was right out of high school. “Sweetie what’s going on? Why are you out here crying?”
You furrow your eyebrows at him. You hadn’t been crying, you’d been spiraling, but you hadn’t been crying. A quick swipe to your cheeks lets you know that you had been in fact crying. Good lord how much of a mess were you that you hadn’t even known you were crying?
The overwhelming feeling of not being able to breathe is quickly replaced with one of just straight sorrow. One look into your Dad’s eyes and you crumble even more than you already have. You can actually feel yourself crying now and as your Dad wraps you up in his arms the first sob wracks your body.
“I’m scared.”
“Another nightmare?” He asks softly as you grip onto his shirt like you used to when you were a baby.
The sounds of Chrissy’s bones snapping fill your head and you want to bang your head against the railing to try and get it to stop.
“I’m so scared Daddy. There’s something really wrong with me and I don’t know what to do. I just want it to stop.”
You haven’t called him Daddy since you were a little girl. When pigtails were still your signature hairstyle and you didn’t have your two front teeth. Yet as you sat here curled into his side while you sobbed into his shirt all he saw was that little girl. You’d always be that little girl to him and it kills him that he can’t seem to stop whatever has been plaguing you since that fire at the mall.
He’d figured it would be Julie that they’d have a hard time with and while she has her moments still, nothing could have prepared him or your Mom for these last eight months with you. All he wants to do is make your pain go away, but he can’t, and apparently no doctors can either.
Upstairs Steve finds himself half awake reaching out for you only to find your side of the bed empty and cold. His eyes fly open and panic blooms in his chest as his eyes scan your bedroom. He notices your door was left wide open and he’s tumbling out of bed, practically tripping over the covers as he flies down the hall. You very well could be in the bathroom and honestly he should not be panicking this much over you not being in bed next to him, but Steve had abandonment issues.
Growing up in a less than loving household will do that to a person. Add in all the people in high school that never liked him for who he really was and a first real relationship that Steve had convinced himself was love when it really wasn’t and well Steve can’t help but be a little neurotic when it comes to you.
He’d thought for the longest time that no one would ever love him for him. That no one would really want to be with him, but then the one person who he’s loved since before he knew what love really was tells him that they love him just as much and now Steve can’t not be clingy.
It didn’t help that you two had been intimate hours earlier for the first time and while you two hadn’t officially had sex, you’d done things that would only intertwine your souls more. Steve didn’t want you to regret it considering you’d only just opened up about actually wanting to be with him this morning, but things had gotten out of hand very quickly and so now he’s running down your stairs worried that you’d come to your senses and realized you didn’t actually love him like you’d said.
It’s not just the whole sex thing that worries Steve, it’s the fact that you haven’t been the most stable lately and to find you not next to him in the middle of the night warrants a little worry from him. Especially when he comes downstairs to find the back door wide open, but when he starts to barge out onto the deck he stops dead in his tracks. His hand hovers on the handle of the storm door as he looks through the glass at the two figures illuminated by the moonlight.
He can hear your cries through the door and your Dad’s hushed words of comfort as he rocks you back and forth in his arms. Steve doesn’t know what’s happened and as much as he wants to be there for you, he just watches on from inside the house, knowing that you clearly needed your Dad right now more than you needed him.
The moment Steve’s hand landed on the door handle your Dad knew he was there watching. Even with his back to him your Dad had a sense as to when Steve was around. When he’d found you out here moments ago by yourself he knew it would only be a matter of time before Steve would come looking for you. He’d been like that with you when the two of you were kids, glued to your side, always keeping an eye on you. And maybe that’s why your Dad is seemingly okay with Steve practically living here because he knows that when he can’t look after you himself that Steve will.
You’ve always been one to need your Dad, but there’s a new man in your life that can protect you, wants to protect you. He’d be hesitant if it was anyone else, but he’s seen the way Steve looks at you. It’s the same way your Dad looks at your Mom– like you’re his whole world. And that’s all he could ask for when it came to his little girl.
So, he turns his head to look back at the young man standing behind the glass door, ignoring the fact that he’s only in his boxers for his own sanity, and nods his head for him to come out onto the deck. Steve hesitates for a moment, thinking maybe he was seeing things, it was dark out after all. But then your Dad takes his free hand and motions again for him to come out there.
The moment the door closes behind Steve your head snaps up at the sound, but you don’t turn around to look at him. He can hear your Dad whispering something to you and then you’re shakily standing up with his help. Steve can feel his heart in his throat as you turn and he takes in just how broken you are. Even with just the moon as his only source of light he can tell that the girl he’d fallen asleep next to hours ago is long gone. You’re physically shaking as your Dad guides you into Steve’s arms and he wants to tell himself that it’s from the nearly freezing temperature outside and not your body wanting to give out.
As Steve tucks you into his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head, your Dad’s hand lands firmly on his shoulder. Steve feels his heart skip a beat at the physical contact from him, but when he turns to look at him there’s no malice behind his eyes at all. Your Dad gives his shoulder a knowing squeeze and Steve nods in understanding.
You’re his little girl and he’s trusting Steve to take care of you, be there in ways for you that he can’t as your Father. He’s letting Steve know that he’s got his whole world in his arms right now and that while he loved Steve as a son that didn’t mean your Dad wouldn’t hurt him if he hurt you.
His hand is still on Steve’s shoulder as he leans in a little towards you, his other hand reaching out to move your hair out of your face. “Babygirl, you need to get some rest. We’ll talk about this as a family tomorrow okay? Try and figure out what we need to do to get you better.”
If that meant going out of state for you to get the treatment you needed then so be it. The doctors here in Hawkins had been no help and your Dad would move mountains to not see his daughter suffer anymore.
He just didn’t know what you were suffering from wasn’t anything a doctor could cure.
You simply nod at him, unable to work up the strength to speak right now, and if you had you’re sure all that would come out is broken sob. Your Dad gives you a smile that falls flat and then gives Steve one more squeeze on the shoulder before heading back inside.
Steve doesn’t pry for answers as to why you were out here crying and when he eventually gets you to go back inside and crawl back into bed with him he doesn’t ask then either. He knows you’ll tell him when you’re ready, but if it was another nightmare he’s already accepted the fact that you won’t tell him what it was about. You’ve never told him what any of them are about.
He can assume it might be something related to death or you reliving all the fucked up things that you guys have went through, but he isn’t for sure. And as much as he tries to help you through all this, at times he feels like he’s at a disadvantage when he doesn’t even know exactly what you’re dreaming about. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t insist on you telling him, he’s just there for you and that’s all he can do.
Sleep never returns for you. The remaining five hours until Steve’s alarm goes off for work are spent staring up at your ceiling or at Steve once he finally drifts off to sleep. Every time you close your eyes it’s like you’re back in Eddie’s trailer and the vivid images of Chrissy’s body being snapped like a glow stick replay on a loop. Steve tries to stay awake with you, but you can tell he’s tired, plus he has work in the morning. So, you gently scratch your nails up and down his forearm knowing it’ll knock him out before he even realizes it and when you hear his snores start to fill the room you roll back over and wait for the sun to rise.
Steve decides that you’re coming to work with him today as soon as he wakes up, claiming that you sitting at home all day wouldn’t do you any good. You can’t necessarily argue with him, you’d had such a good day yesterday and you wanted to have more days like that, even with the horrible night you’d had. So maybe getting out of the house and focusing on something other than the images that plague your mind will do you some good. Plus you’ll get to see Robin and maybe she can distract you with her Nancy issues.
You seem to have to keep continuously telling yourself that it was just a really bad nightmare last night though. Every other one you’ve had you of course wake up at first thinking it’s real, then after a minute or so you realize it’s not, but this nightmare hasn’t had the same effect. It was different from any of the other ones, it had felt so real, and the man’s words still stick with you like he’d burned them into your brain.
Steve can see you’re in your head again as you two stand in the bathroom brushing your teeth. His gaze flickers over to you in the mirror and the light that had seemed to reappear in your eyes yesterday was gone. He’s sure it was a nightmare last night, but for his own sanity he needs to make sure that everything was fine with the two of you after the time you’d spent together.
“Y/N..” He trails off, testing the waters as he puts his toothbrush back in the cup on the counter.
Your eyes flicker over towards his reflection in the mirror and you hum in response before spitting out your toothpaste and quickly rinsing your mouth.
Steve takes a deep breath as you turn to look at him, preparing himself to hear an answer he might not want to hear. “I feel weird even asking this, but I just want to make sure you don’t regret what we did last night. It’s just that I woke up and you weren’t next to me and then I found you outside crying and like I knew it had to be a nightmare again. But things moved a little fast last night and we’ve still not established what we really are and we were supposed to talk last night but then I ended up between your th-“
Your lips are on Steve’s before he can even register you moving towards him. He’d been caught up in his rambling, hands moving through the air just as fast as his mouth, but then you’d silenced him with yours and now he’s melting into you. His hands find their home on either side of your face as he deepens the kiss and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this feeling.
You don’t want to get used to it.
Before this can turn into anything more than an innocent kiss you pull away reluctantly, but the pout on Steve’s face is almost just enough for you to smash your lips back onto his. Your hands lay flat against his chest as his arms wrap around your waist– pulling you flush against him.
“There’s not an ounce of me that regrets what we did last night.”
You can see the moment the worry in those big bambi eyes of his vanishes and a shy smile starts to paint itself across his face. “Good because I didn’t either.”
“I am sorry for just vanishing in the middle of the night and not waking you up. It’s just I had a horrible nightmare last night and–” The images begin to replay in your head and you have to force yourself to rid your brain of them, try and stay here in the moment with Steve and not get sucked back into that dark place again. “When I woke up I was on the verge of a panic attack and I just needed to get out of my room as fast as possible. That’s all it was, it had nothing to do with us and what we did. I promise we’re good.”
You made sure to emphasize that things between Steve and you were fine because honestly that’s the only thing holding you together after last night. Your little bit of happiness that you could still cling onto came from Steve and if things went south between the two of you there was no way you could handle all of this on your own.
Steve doesn’t know what feeling settles in his chest as he takes in what you’ve just said. Relief? Worry? Guilt? All three? He’s glad that things aren’t weird between the two of you after last night, but also can things be that good between the two of you if you’re still struggling to just exist yourself? He wants to ask more about the nightmare last night, but he’s worried about overstepping and so presses a quick kiss to your lips instead of ruining the moment.
“Hmm you just love kissing me don’t you Harrington?” You tease as he pulls away.
“I’m making up for lost time. Should have been kissing you years ago.”
Another kiss is pressed to your lips, which then turns into another one, and then after a short makeout session Steve ends up being ten minutes late for work.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
For a majority of the morning your mind is preoccupied with things other than your horrible nightmare. It starts when Steve and you stroll in late to find Robin standing at the counter already ready to start in on you two and then she sees the hickey on Steve’s neck which results in her waiting to hound you for information. Not that she particularly cared to hear about Steve and you having sex, it was just that she needed to hear some good news in your inner circle's relationship department.
Steve grabs an extra stool from the back room and sets it behind the counter. “Just sit here and look pretty. I’ll be in the back doing some inventory if you need me alright?”
You nod and Steve presses a quick kiss to the top of your head which results in Robin rolling her eyes. It was all honestly just an act she liked to put on, she loved the fact that her two best friends had finally pulled their heads out of their asses and got together. If only she could do the same.
With Steve occupied in the back you proceed to tell Robin that it was just some heavy fooling around. If this would have been one of your old good friends you might have told her that he was good with his tongue, but this was Robin you were talking to and you adding heavy onto fooling around was enough for her.
She then tells you that Nancy had approached her after the game last night. Apparently Nancy wanted insight for the school newspaper from some of the band members who had been at every game this season to capture just how much this win meant not just for the players but the whole school. She got so nervous that dropped her trumpet, breaking a part of it off, and then when Nancy bent down to help her pick it up, Robin scrambles to grab it and hits her with said trumpet.
“Oh Robin…” You trail off, voice laced with sympathy.
She hides her face in her hands, a groan slipping out as she leans against the counter. “I’m a lost cause. Just take me out back and shoot me. Put me out of my misery please.”
Before you can tell her it’s not as bad as she’s making it out to be, Steve comes out from the back, a VHS held high in his hand. “I’ve found our morning movie.”
You squint your eyes at the tape in his hands, trying to get a better look at it, and when you can finally read what it is you about burst out laughing. “The Shaggy D.A.? Babe, come on.”
Steve doesn’t even clock the fact that you’re making fun of his movie choice all he heard was babe and everything else went in one ear and out the other.
Robin grabs the remote from the counter and points it towards the TV. “Well I for one could use some fun and whimsy this morning, so pop her in the VCR Stevie!”
The TV turns on and The Shaggy D.A. is long forgotten.
We’re in the Forest Hills trailer park in east Roane County. We don’t have a lot of details now, but we can confirm that the body of a Hawkins High student was discovered early this morning. Police have not yet released the victim’s name although we are told they’re currently in the process of notifying the family.
Everything around you seems to freeze in time and the news reporter's voice starts to get slower and slower until a ringing starts to develop in your ears and you can’t hear anything. You can feel the panic starting to bloom in your chest the longer you look at the trailer in the background.
There was no way this was a coincidence.
There was no way you had a dream about one of your classmates dying in Eddie’s trailer last night and now come sunrise your dream has become a reality. The chances of that not being Chrissy and that not being Eddie’s trailer were slim to none and you honestly don’t know what this means for you.
If it does end up being true does that mean you’re somehow at fault for her death? Was it not a dream and did you sleep walk all the way to the trailer park and commit this crime with that man? Was this all still just one big fucked up dream?
Steve breaks his attention away from the TV and glances over to check on you, he’s expecting you to be a little shocked, but he was not at all expecting to see you sitting there with a thousand yard stare going on. It’s like you weren’t even here. He gently places a hand on your shoulder and shakes you a little, mumbling out a hey to try and bring you back to reality.
You eventually look over at him, but there’s still absolutely nothing behind your eyes, and then they’re back on the TV before he can ask you anything.
The gruesome images from last night start to replay in your mind the longer you sit here and listen to the reporter say the same thing over and over again as she stands in front of the trailer you might have witnessed a murder in last night, one you may very well have had a part in. You need to get the hell out of here before this tight feeling in your chest turns into a problem you don’t want to have in public.
Your brain catches up with your body as it’s halfway towards the door and your hearing comes back enough for you to register Steve hollering out asking where you’re going.
“I need a cigarette.”
Or maybe a whole pack.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The dumpster behind the arcade and Family Video won’t ask you what's wrong or judge you for chain smoking. So, you sit flush against the brick wall and let the busted pavement beneath you surely dirty your jeans. Your hand shakes as you bring the cigarette up to your lips and you know it’s only a matter of time before Steve comes out here looking for you. He’ll have questions that you won’t have answers to and honestly you’ve never told Steve the details of your nightmares before so you sure as hell aren’t going to start now.
You’re still trying to process what all of this means or if it even means anything at all and you’re trying to wait until the full story comes out before really spiraling because there is a small chance that it’s not even Chrissy that was found dead. But deep down you know it was her, you knew it as soon as the TV came on and you saw the trailer in the background behind the reporter.
This was going to be a secret for as long as you could keep it because if you did tell Steve you know he’ll believe you and if he believes you that means there is something seriously wrong with you and this all just isn’t some coincidence.
Seconds later you hear the sound of the back door opening and the all too familiar smell of Steve’s aftershave infiltrating your senses. He doesn’t say anything, just sits down next to you on the pavement with a sigh, grabs the pack of cigarettes, and lights one for himself.
You don’t look at him for the longest time. You keep your eyes straight ahead, staring out at the field behind the building, the tall grass billowing in the wind.
It’s not until he reaches out and intertwines his hand with yours that you turn to look at him. He’s got a soft smile on his face as locks eyes with you and for a second it feels like everything is okay when you look into those big eyes of his.
“You alright?” Steve asks softly.
Alright was on the complete opposite end of the spectrum of how you were doing currently. You wanted to tell him what was going on, maybe then you wouldn’t feel so alone and scared, but that’s your problem. You’re too scared to tell him that you might be connected to this murder and that you’d potentially seen it happen last night. Plus, the last thing you want to do is to drag Steve into something else life threatening. So, until you could figure out what was actually going on with you and whatever took place at Forest Hills, you were going to have to try and keep your shit together.
“Yeah, it just freaked me out a little bit.” You take a long drag from your cigarette hoping the nicotine buzz can get you through this without breaking. “Seems like this town just can’t seem to catch a break.”
“Maybe it was just some freak accident– who knows?” Steve replies with a shrug.
You laugh a little and turn your attention back to the field in front of you. “Yeah because freak accidents are actually freak accidents in Hawkins.”
Steve doesn’t say anything, just takes another drag from his cigarette, and joins you in looking out at the field. You were right though and if this ended up being connected to everything you guys had dealt with for the past three years Steve honestly doesn’t know how much more fight he has left in him. He’s only nineteen and some days he feels like he’s twice his age.
You sneak a glance back over at him and you know he can tell you’re looking at him– admiring him. From the striped polo he put on this morning that was just a little tight in the arms so when he flexed his bicep the tiniest bit it strained against the fabric. To his stupid little green Family Video vest that you teased him about, but loved so much, wanting to grab him by it and pull him into you. Or his Levis’ that always seemed to fit him in an annoyingly good way.
You watch as he lifts his cigarette back up to his lips and an old memory resurfaces in your brain causing you to let out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. His eyes immediately darted over to you, eyebrows raised in question.
“What?”
“You remember my sophomore year when you were so pissed about me smoking that you ripped the cigarette out of my hands not once but twice? Now look at us.”
Steve sighs, remembering how much of a menace he was back then when it came to you. “Yeah, well we’ve been through some shit since then. I think we deserve a cigarette when we want one.”
He isn’t wrong and if the feeling you had deep in your gut came to be true, well you were about to go through even more shit.
The two of you finish your cigarettes in silence and when he offers his hand out to you to help you up off the ground you gladly accept it. Robin still has the news on as Steve and you wander in from the back and you try to just tune it out, focus on something other than the hundreds of horrible thoughts whirling around in your brain, but when Dustin, Max and Julie come busting through the doors moments later it becomes increasingly hard to ignore.
“Hey, Steve.” Dustin calls out.
“Did you guys see this?” Steve replies from behind the counter.
Dustin ignores him completely. “How many phones do you have?”
“Someone was murdered!” Steve says pointing over at the TV.
“How many phones do you have?” Dustin reiterates, his tone already borderlining annoyed.
“Uh two. Why?” Steve asks.
“Technially three, if you count Keith’s in the back.” Robin interjects.
The kids share a look like they’re all mutually deciding something and then Max says. “Yeah three works.”
Dustin rips off his backpack and then slings it across the counter. “What are you doing?” Steve questions as his backpack hits the floor with a thud and then suddenly Dustin is hopping over the counter and taking everything down with him as goes. “No, no, no! My tapes! Dude what the hell?”
Dustin grabs your arm and tugs you off the stool you were sitting on in front of the computer. “Dustin!” You holler, stumbling right into Steve’s chest.
That has Steve about ready to pull Dustin right off the stool by the collar of his shirt. “Don’t pull her like that again Henderson!”
Dustin looks over his shoulder at Steve, sees his arm wrapped around you like he’d just saved you from a near death experience, and then he spots the hickey on Steve’s neck and lets out a laugh. “You two finally together now?”
Steve quickly opens his mouth ready to tell him that yes you two were, but then he closes it just as fast. You’d said you wanted to be with him, he knew he wanted to be with you, and in your own weird way he knows the two of you are together, but nothing had been said officially. Or if this was something you were to be going around publicly announcing. So, he quickly changes the subject, not knowing that his lack of response makes your heart twinge a little.
“What are you doing?” Steve moves so he’s hovering over Dustin's shoulder.
“Setting up base of operations here.”
“Base of operations? Get off the damn computer.”
“I need it.” Dustin argues back.
You didn’t care to listen to Dustin and Steve start their bickering. So, you bend down and help Robin in picking up the scattered tapes that are all over the floor behind the counter and trying to re-sort them.
“For what?” Steve pries.
“Eddie’s friends' phone numbers.”
You freeze at the mention of Eddie, your breath catching in your throat as you try to act nonchalant, like his name doesn’t take you back to that trailer. You can hear Steve complaining to Dustin about Eddie being his new friend and Robin scolding the kids for being here and messing around on a Saturday, but you’re not at all engaged in the conversation. You’ve been staring at the same tape in your hands for the last minute hoping that once again this was all just one big coincidence.
But you should know by now that things are never a coincidence.
“Will you two fill them in while I do this?” Dustin commands to Julie and Max.
You slowly turn to face the group once again, your stomach already churning at what you know is about ready to come out of their mouths. “Fill us in on what?”
As Max and Julie begin to re-tell what they’d experienced last night the bile in your stomach begins to quickly make its way up. You keep trying to swallow it down, trying to stay calm, while they practically tell you that what you’d dreamt about or honestly at this point you don’t even know if it was a dream, had happened. It’s making the room spin and you have to steady yourself against the counter so your legs don’t give out from under you.
The girls hadn’t even seen what you’d seen, but they’d seen the lights flicker, heard Eddie’s screams, saw Chrissy go into the trailer with Eddie and then never come back out.
What this mysterious man had to do with you and why he killed Chrissy you have no idea, but whatever was to come next you were sure was nothing good. You know now would probably be a good time to tell everyone what you’d experienced last night, but you’re still processing everything and how do you exactly tell people that you’d witnessed a death but weren’t actually there for it as far as you know.
Eventually everyone takes turns calling known associates of Eddie’s and it really is like a command center set up behind the front counter. You can tell Steve couldn’t care less about helping Eddie and so he mans the store, you sit on one of the stools so you don’t pass out, and everyone else makes calls like it’s their job. The plan is to find someone who knows where he might be and then hopefully find him and have him explain what happened, try and clear his name, but you’re the only one that knows it’s gonna be much harder than just Eddie saying he didn’t do it.
“Hey, guys, I might have a lead.” Max states after what seems like hours of calling people. “Apparently, Eddie gets drugs from some guy named Reefer Rick, and sometimes Eddie crashes there.”
“That sounds promising. Where does this Reefer Rick guy live?” Robin asks.
“See, that’s the thing. No one knows. He’s more of a…. legend than someone that people actually know.”
“What about a last name?”
Steve finally speaks up from over by the bins, he’s been acting like he’s re-organizing them for the last ten minutes. “Bet the cops know the last name.”
“What?” Julie asks.
“The cops.” He turns and moves over to the front of the counter, leaning against it. “I mean, listen, if this Reefer Rick is actually a drug dealer. I guarantee you he’s been busted at some point. Means he’s in the system.”
Dustin gets up from his stool with an annoyed look on his face. “The cops? Really, Steve? That’s your suggestion?”
“I just think at this point they should be filled in on what we know, what’s going on.”
You sit there thinking– they don’t know half of what actually happened.
Steve puts his hands up in defense. “Whoa. I believe in innocent until proven guilty, all that constitutional shit. I just, you know, don't think we can rule it out.”
Honestly, Steve had been less than thrilled when he’d heard this all had to do with Eddie, and you could tell from the jump that Steve wasn’t the biggest fan of Eddie. For what reasons you weren’t sure, but what you’re about to say is surely going to be nothing Steve wants to hear.
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do here Steve– trying to prove his innocence.”
Steve physically re-coils at your words. You had barely said a word since the kids arrived and now you’re copping a little bit of an attitude with him over Eddie Munson of all people?
You take a deep breath before standing up from your stool and grabbing your bag from under the counter. “Also, we don’t have to worry about trying to figure out where Reefer Rick lives. His place is out by Lover’s Lake.”
Now everyone’s eyes are on you and you know they are all thinking— how the hell do you know that?
“And you know where he lives because…?” Steve trails off, eyebrows pinched together in confusion and a little bit of something else he can’t quite place yet.
“I got some weed from him once after everything at the mall. Thought maybe it would help.” You shrug like it’s no big deal.
Except you’re lying straight through your teeth and praying no one can tell. The only reason you know where Rick lives is because Eddie had driven you out to Lover’s Lake that night sophomore year. He claimed it was so you guys could have more privacy, but clearly he was killing two birds with one stone because on the way back into town he swung by Rick’s to pick up more drugs.
“You don’t like how weed makes you feel.” Steve states, eyes narrowed at you like he doesn’t believe you. Which, he wasn’t lying, the first time you smoked a joint was at a party at Steve’s freshman year and he had to stay in his room with you while you tried to remember how to breathe.
Everyone can sense the tension starting to bubble up between Steve and you. Unbesetowed to you Julie jabs an elbow in Dustin’s side and gets him to move the subject along before Steve starts assuming things.
“Does it really matter? If Y/N knows where Rick lives then we should already be on the way. The longer we wait the more at risk Eddie is.” Dustin interjects, hands flailing in the air to try and get his point across.
Not even a minute later Robin is locking up the store and you’re all piling into the beamer. It’s a tight squeeze and Julie ends up sitting in Dustin’s lap, but you make it work. You can feel Steve looking over at you every so often the whole drive out to Lover’s Lake.
Normally you two would be holding hands over the center console or he’d have his big hand on your thigh, but not on this drive. You’re more reserved, your body turned away from him, and Steve does not like it one bit. It’s not that you're mad at him or anything, it’s just that you’re on your way to potentially go see Eddie and you’ve got to act like you don’t already know what’s happened.
Act like your whole world is blowing up right in front of you– like you’re not losing your mind.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It’s not hard to guide Steve on where to turn. It’s a straight shot south out of town and then a right turn down Holland Road, the house is on the left with a big metal boat house out towards the lake. Even with your stellar directions, it’s still a decently long drive out to the lake, and by the time you guys arrive it’s dark.
You all head up to the front door and without Dustin knocking relentlessly and calling out for Rick with no answer, you could tell no one was home. The lights were off and it looked like no one had been there for a good while. The mailbox was bursting at the seams with mail and there was at least a couple months of newspapers rotting away on his front porch.
You wander off the porch and when you glance over at the boat house something in you tells you that is the place he’s hiding out at. “Guys, over here!” You holler out and everyone follows you down to the boat house without a question.
Normally Steve would be the one to take charge and lead the way into possible danger, but he’d been a little more standoffish tonight and so he lets you take the lead, but follows very closely behind. You slowly push open the squeaky door, your flashlight illuminating very little for you to see. “Hello? Is anyone home?” You call out as you finally enter the building.
The boathouse has a musty smell to it, like an old garage or an attic that never really gets used. There's a boat in the middle with random crap used for fishing and outdoorsy things filling the spaces around the rest of the building. The floorboards creaking as you walk around is the only sound that echoes in this metal shack, until Steve grabs an oar off the wall and starts jabbing the tarp that’s over the boat.
It makes Dustin and you jump and you want to rip that oar out of his hands in annoyance, but you think Dustin might have you beat.
“What are you doing?” Dustin exclaims and when Steve only continues to jab and doesn’t respond Dustin gets even more shitty with him. “What are you doing?”
“He might be in here.” Steve finally responds.
“So take the tarp off!”
“If you’re so brave you take the tarp off!”
“Hey, look over here.” You hear Julie call out from the other side of the boat. She shines her flashlight onto one of the work benches to reveal candy wrappers and empty beer bottles. “Someone was here.”
“Maybe he heard us. Got spooked and ran.” Robin theorizes.
“Don’t worry. Steve will get him with his oar.” Dustin smarts off and you find yourself having to hold back a laugh.
“I know you think you’re being funny Henderson, but considering everyone in this room has nearly died a hundred times. Personally, I don’t find it funny in the slight–”
Suddenly a figure jumps out from under the tarp and starts to go after Steve. There’s so much hollering and commotion it takes a second for everyone to realize that it is in fact Eddie that has Steve pinned against the wall with a broken beer bottle to his neck.
Your heart has practically dropped to your ass when you see just how close that jagged glass is to Steve’s neck. You haven’t seen Steve this scared since the mall last summer and suddenly you’re back there hearing him get tortured while you can’t do anything.
“Eddie! Eddie! It’s me.” Dustin calls out, finally getting Eddie to tear his eyes away from Steve and back towards you guys. “It’s Dustin.”
Your hand finds Julie’s next to you and you’re sure you're squeezing it so hard that it hurts, but she doesn’t say anything, just pulls you closer to her.
“This is Steve.” Dustin explains. “He’s not gonna hurt you, right Steve?”
Steve mumbles out something in agreement as Eddie looks back at him, beer bottle still pressed against his neck.
“Steve, why don’t you drop the oar?” Dustin suggests hoping it will diffuse the situation, but it does the complete opposite. As soon as Steve releases his grip the sound of it hitting the floor makes Eddie jump and press the jagged glass harder against Steve’s neck.
“He’s cool. He’s cool.” Dustin exclaims.
You lock eyes with Steve and your already heavy chest seems to tighten even more. How you two always ended up in situations like this you don’t know, but you don’t know how much more your heart can take.
“What are you doing here?” Eddie finally asks.
“We’re looking for you. We’re here to help.” Dustin replies and Eddie looks back at him. “Eddie, these are my friends. You know Robin, from band.” Dustin starts to explain, pointing to each of you as he speaks. “This is my friend Max. The one who never wants to play D&D.” He moves to the side so Eddie can see Julie and you. “And my girlfriend Julie. Who also never wants to play D&D.”
As Dustin goes to introduce you Eddie’s eyes flicker over to you and you make the mistake of making eye contact with him. You can see the exact moment his eyes soften as he finally sees you standing there. “And this is Julie’s sister–”
“Y/N.” Eddie mumbles.
“Um, yeah that’s Y/N.” Dustin stutters slightly, surprised that Eddie knew who you were, but didn't think much of it, still trying to get him to free Steve from his grasp.
Steve though, even with a piece of jagged glass pressed to his neck, could sense the softness in Eddie’s voice when he said your name. Like he was relieved to see you here and Steve wonders what history you have with someone like Eddie for him to act like that when he sees you.
“Eddie. We’re on your side. I swear on my mother! Right, guys?” Dustin is trying everything to reason with Eddie, trying to talk him off the ledge.
Everyone agrees mumbling out that they swear on Dustin’s Mother’s life and it was like everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Eddie to let Steve go or do something that would alter his life and everyone else’s forever.
Thankfully Eddie makes the right choice and pulls the bottle away, releasing Steve from his grip, and straight into your arms.
“Hey I’ve got you. It’s fine, you’re fine baby I promise.” You whisper to Steve as he seemingly crumbles into your arms, trying to catch his breath. You can feel his heart racing as you press your palm flat against his chest, trying to ground him, and honestly yours is probably beating just as fast.
Steve doesn’t really say anything and you’re not expecting him to, he just grips the back of your shirt like his life depends on it as he nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck.
“Eddie…” Dustin starts as he kneels in front of his trembling figure, who’s now slid down onto the floor. “We just want to talk.” He tries to take the beer bottle from him, but Eddie sharply pulls his hand back, an iron grip still on the neck of the bottle.
Robin crouches down next to Dustin. “We want to know what happened.”
Steve has calmed down enough that he’s able to just stand beside you. Your arm is still wrapped around his waist though, because if there was one thing Steve Harrington needed– it was physical touch.
A sniffle comes from Eddie and then his broken voice says. “You won’t believe me.”
You know you shouldn’t, you should just keep your mouth shut and let someone else say something, but for your own sanity you need to know if what you say last night was what actually happened.
“I will Eddie.”
Eddie looks over at you and his big doe eyes seem to regain a little bit of spark, like he might be able to re-tell what had happened if you were here to listen. Steve notices the way he looks at you because of course he does, but you don’t notice the way Steve pulls you impossibly closer to him, how his hand grips yours like you might leave him to go sit next to Eddie. And that makes the gears in Steve’s brain start to turn and a ugly green feeling start to settle in his chest.
Eddie begins to tell everyone about how Chrissy had come to him to get something to help her with her nightmares and how he’d taken her back to his place after the game and then he starts in on what actually happened and you feel the life drain out of you in a matter of seconds.
“Her body just like, lifted up into the air and uh, she just hung there in the air. And her bones, she um…” A whimper escapes past his lips as he tries his hardest to relive that moment without breaking down.
You feel like you’re in the same boat, the images replying in your mind right along with how he’s telling it and you think you might actually be sick this time.
“Her bones started to snap.”
The sounds of her body twisting in ways that weren’t humanly possible fill your ears and you find yourself squeezing Steve’s hand like it might take it all away.
“And her eyes man, it was like there was something inside her head, pulling.”
A ragged breath escapes past your lips and you’re trying so hard to keep it together, but Eddie is explaining exactly what you saw last night to a T and you have no idea what this means for you or if maybe you’re next.
“I didn’t know what to do, so I ran away. I left her there.”
Eddie scoffs when he realizes just how insane this sounds and even if you’d said you’d believe him he knows he wouldn’t if he was in your guy's shoes. “You all think I’m crazy, right?”
“No. We don’t think you’re crazy.” Dustin immediately replies.
“Don’t bullshit me man! I know how this sounds.”
“We believe you.” You state, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat.
Dustin exhales and begins to tell Eddie just how crazy this town can be. “Look, what I’m about to tell you might be a little…difficult to take.”
“Okay.” Eddie replies, not sure what else they could tell him that could rival what he’d witnessed last night.
“You know how people say Hawkins is… cursed? They’re not way off. There’s another world. A world hidden beneath Hawkins. Sometimes it bleeds into ours.”
“Like ghosts and shit?” Eddie asks.
“There are some things worse than ghosts.” Max responds.
“These monsters from this other world, we thought they were gone, but they’ve come back before. That’s why we needed to find you. If they’re back again, we need to know.” Dustin continues.
“That night.” Robin interjects. “Did you see anything? Dark particles maybe?”
Eddie shakes his head no.
“It would almost look like dust, swirling dust.”
Again, Eddie shakes his head. “No, man, there was nothing you could see or touch. You know I tried to wake her. She couldn’t move. It was like she… she was in a trance or something.”
“Or under a spell.” Dustin suggests, like he’s just figured something out.
“A curse.” Eddie replies, looking up at Dustin.
“Vecna’s curse.”
Steve and you look at each other, confused as to what the hell they were talking about. “Who’s Vecna?”
“An undead creature of great power. A spell caster. A dark wizard.”
You’re about ready to ask for them to explain this in a little greater detail when suddenly your vision goes black and when it returns you’re no longer in Reefer Rick’s boat house, but in the middle of the road somewhere. You see Fred Benson standing in front of you with the same white eyed look that Chrissy had and a familiar voice from behind you makes your stomach drop.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: coach!steve harrington x teacher!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: living inside Mrs. Harrington’s stomach is Eli Parker's newest—and most important—friend.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elementary school au, pregnant!reader, girldad!steve, tooth-rotting fluff, you thought steve was smitten just wait 'til he's expecting a baby with you, eli being a cutie patootie as usual (4.7k)
𝐚/𝐧: part of my p.e. teacher!steve series, but this can be read as a standalone fic
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
There’s an unspoken rule here at Hawkins Elementary:
Try not to look too married at work.
You’re professional educators. Responsible adults entrusted with the sacred, time-honored task of shaping young minds. You are not, under any circumstances, supposed to be making heart eyes at your spouse across the monkey bars.
Unfortunately, your husband has never been particularly good at subtle.
Recess is in full swing, the blacktop swarming with a small army of sticky-fingered, grass-stained kids burning off the last of their pre-lunch energy.
You’re stationed beneath the big maple tree at the edge of the playground, planner balanced on your knee. Sunlight spills through the leaves in soft patches of gold, warming your lap and the backs of your hands.
The weather is beautiful. You’d be enjoying it a lot more if your lower back didn’t feel like it was being slowly pulled apart.
You wince, bending forward to finish scribbling the rest of your reminders—copy math worksheets, call Toby’s mom—when a shadow falls across the page.
You close your planner slowly, letting the suspense sit there for a second before you tilt your head up.
The first thing you see is the whistle.
Silver gleaming against his sternum, hanging from the faded blue lanyard you gifted him during his first week teaching here. The edges are frayed now, worn soft with years of use, but Steve refuses to replace it.
Below that is his gray P.E. shirt, darkened slightly with sweat from a morning of dodgeball and relay races. His basketball shorts sit low on his hips, revealing strong, sun-bronzed thighs sculpted from years of sprinting across this very playground.
You raise a brow. “Mr. Harrington.”
Steve squints down at you, one hand lifted to shield his eyes from the sun. The other rests casually on his hip, fingers splayed over the waistband of his shorts.
“Mrs. Harrington,” he replies, lips curving into an easy, knowing smirk. He nods toward the empty space beside you. “Is that seat taken?”
You tap your pen thoughtfully against your planner. “Hmm, I don’t know. Depends who’s asking.”
His grin widens as he steps closer.
“Well. There’s this insanely smart, ridiculously pretty fifth-grade teacher who happens to be married to me. She says I’m kinda great. Might vouch for me.”
You roll your eyes, though your lips betray you with a smile.
He drops onto the bench beside you, knees bumping yours.
The teasing spark in his eyes softens almost immediately once his gaze lands on you—quietly roaming over your face, a silent ritual to catalogue the smallest of details.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs.
You laugh under your breath, reaching out to untwist the lanyard where it’s gotten caught on his collar. “Hi.”
You haven’t seen him all morning.
Tuesdays are brutal—back-to-back classes with no shared planning period, no painfully long faculty meeting where he sits beside you, slouched halfway out of his chair, nudging your ankle under the table until you kick him in the shin.
You didn’t even get your usual five minutes with him in the hallway. The ones where he leans against the lockers outside your classroom, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face while dramatically recounting how his third graders attempted to unionize against the mile run.
Now, finally, you get a second to really look at him.
And Steve Harrington in sunlight is frankly a dangerous thing.
His skin glows warm from all the hours he spends outside, chasing rogue kickballs and letting kids climb on him like he’s a human jungle gym. His eyes always hover somewhere between honey and deep chestnut depending on the light—right now, in the afternoon sun, the centers are a rich amber, little flecks of green scattered around the edges.
You like that his hair’s grown out a little lately. Thick, luscious strands catching the light, the tips kissed gold by the sun.
Just a little halo of sunshine clinging to your golden boy.
“Free block?” you ask.
“Mhm.” His thumb starts tracing absentminded circles over your knee. “Had to come check on my girls.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”
He bristles. “What? I haven’t seen you all day.”
His gaze drops for a moment, mock indignance softening when it passes over the gentle curve of your stomach. He tips his head, brows knitting faintly.
“You feeling okay?”
“Uh-huh,” you nod as you sit up, trying to stretch out the tight pull in your back. “Just a little achy.”
It's like a switch gets flipped inside of him.
He immediately slides closer on the bench, turning so you’re both facing the playground—two coworkers supervising recess, nothing suspicious about it.
Except now, his entire side is pressed against yours.
Shoulder to shoulder, flush from knee to hip, the solid heat of him seeping through cotton and denim until you’re practically fused together.
Steve has always run warm—your golden boy, always carrying a pocketful of sunshine with him wherever he goes—and right now, it’s radiating straight into your aching hip.
His arm starts to creep behind your back.
“Steven,” you warn under your breath, eyes flicking toward the kickball field where Mrs. Patterson is very much within viewing distance.
He hums like he didn’t hear a word.
You feel the warmth of him first, then the broad span of his palm settling at the small of your back, just below your waist. His fingers spread gently, steadying you as his thumb traces along the line of your spine.
Then he presses in. Deep.
The sound that escapes your throat is completely involuntary.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning a little closer. “Right there?”
You swear your husband has some kind of supernatural gift—he finds this exact spot every time without even trying, that stubborn knot of tension right above your sacrum that’s been throbbing all morning.
“Lean into me a little,” he says softly.
You do it without thinking.
Your shoulder tips against his chest, your weight settling against him as his arm tightens around your back. His thumb resumes its slow, steady circles, pressing and easing and pressing again.
The kids shriek across the playground. A whistle blows somewhere near the jungle gym.
But right here, tucked against Steve’s side, the world goes pleasantly quiet.
“Better?” he asks, breath warming the side of your neck.
You nod, eyes drifting closed for a moment. “Mhm.”
His hand slides a little higher along your spine, thumb digging in just a touch more firmly this time.
You groan, a little louder than you probably should.
Steve huffs a laugh under his breath.
“Careful,” he murmurs, faintly smug.
You’d elbow him if you could remember how to move your arms.
For a while, you sit there in silence. Letting him work out the knot in your back, leaning into his chest like a cat nuzzling into a spot of sun-warmed carpet.
“How’s she doing today?” he asks after a long while, lips brushing your temple.
You sigh dramatically.
“Other than using my bladder as a trampoline and wrecking my back?” you mumble. “She’s fine.”
Steve’s chest lifts with a quiet laugh. He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder, soft and lingering.
You smile, melting into his touch. Forgetting, briefly, that you’re at work.
Then you very much remember.
“Okay, okay,” you laugh, reaching back to catch his wrist. “That’s enough, Mr. Harrington. I’m supposed to be supervising.”
“What?” he huffs, hand lingering at your waist. “I’m just... being a good husband. Nothing wrong with a little massage.”
You tilt your head subtly toward the playground. “Tell that to Mrs. Patterson.”
Steve glances over.
Sure enough, Mrs. Patterson stands near the kickball bases with her hands on her hips, scanning the playground like a hawk who has spent thirty years policing recess etiquette.
He sighs dramatically. Mutters something about how he can’t even take care of his own wife in peace.
Still, he behaves.
Reluctantly shifts a few inches away, withdrawing his arm from behind you. His hand returns to rest casually over your knee.
You sit up properly and reach for your planner.
Before you can even touch the pen, Steve asks casually:
“You eat this morning?”
You hesitate.
It’s tiny, barely a pause.
But Steve Harrington notices everything when it comes to you.
His brows raise slowly.
There’s a daisy-printed lunchbox sitting untouched on your desk.
Steve insisted on buying it after going through an entire color-coded stack of OB pamphlets—one he hoarded from your doctor’s office “just in case.”
You’ve walked into the kitchen on more than one occasion to find him hunched over the table, elbows planted, brow furrowed, lips moving faintly as he works through a paragraph about fetal development like he’s cramming for finals.
Apparently, pregnant women can get lightheaded if they don’t eat often enough. Something about blood sugar. Or iron. Or both.
You don’t remember exactly, but Steve does.
“You’re not supposed to go more than two hours without eating,” he told you last week, moving around your kitchen with the focus of a man preparing for battle. “You could get nauseous. Or like, pass out. Which we’re not doing. So,” he’d set the lunchbox on the counter with finality, tapping the lid. “You eat this one before lunch. And I’ll pack something extra for after. Okay?”
Every day since, you open it during quiet reading time to find: two pre-peeled cuties clementines, string cheese, homemade trail mix portioned into a little reusable container, and a granola bar he spent five full minutes analyzing in the cereal aisle because he didn’t “trust half those ingredients.” There’s always an ice pack inside, too, because you mentioned one time that fruits taste better cold now that you’re pregnant.
Unfortunately, that lunchbox is currently buried under a stack of ungraded spelling tests and construction paper solar systems.
You hadn’t meant to forget. You really hadn’t.
“Stevie…” you try gently, knowing the nickname will soften the blow. “This morning was so busy.”
He holds your gaze with an unimpressed stare for exactly two seconds.
“Baby, I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one,” he sighs, shaking his head, fondness softening every word.
“I am the responsible one.”
“Uh-huh.” His hand slips off your knee as he leans down, rummaging through the gym bag at his feet. “Sure you are.”
“I am!”
Steve straightens a second later.
And when he does, he’s holding a bright, round fruit in his hand.
Glossy in the sunlight, skin dimpled and taut, a deep sunset color that's almost too perfect to be real. It looks plump, like it might burst if you so much as look at it too hard.
Your mouth waters instantly.
Your second trimester cravings have been all over the place—salt and vinegar chips one week, strawberry milk the next—but lately, all you can think about are oranges. Cold ones. Sweet, juicy, dripping-down-your-wrist ones. You’ve gone through three bags in five days.
Steve watches your posture straighten, eyes locked onto your target.
His mouth curves slowly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, smug. “Thought so.”
He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and presses his thumb into the top of the peel. It splits with a soft tear, citrus scent blooming instantly between you. You lick your lips in anticipation.
Steve peels with the careful precision of someone who has done this many, many times.
His thumb slides under the rind and lifts it away in long, clean strips instead of shredding it. When stubborn white threads cling to the fruit, he scrapes them away gently with the pad of his thumb, collecting the little curls of pith in his palm so they don’t fall onto your dress.
He always peels them for you now.
Says you’ll complain when the smell sticks under your nails. Says he’s better at it than you—no mangled fruit on his watch.
But really, it’s because he wants to.
Only a few months in and he’s already the kind of dad who reads ahead in pregnancy books like there’s going to be a quiz. Who keeps a page in his class planner filled with bedtime story ideas, with little notes about hairstyles and braids he wants to practice before the baby gets here.
Last week you’d tried peeling an orange yourself while standing at the kitchen counter.
Steve lasted about three seconds watching you struggle with the rind.
“Just—give it to me,” he’d said, gently prying it out of your hands. “Your fingers are gonna smell all day.”
Lately, he doesn’t let you do much of anything alone.
He ties your shoes before you can bend down, picks things up the second you drop them. Slides chairs out before you even reach the table.
He’s started appearing at your classroom door halfway through the morning with a giant cup of ice water, because that’s been another one of your cravings lately.
There was one afternoon he walked in and found you standing on a chair, arms stretched high, trying to staple construction paper planets to your bulletin board.
Two seconds later, you felt a pair of hands wrap around your hips, easing you down.
“Absolutely not.”
“Steve—”
“Nope. I’ll do it.”
And he did.
Spent his entire free period stapling crooked Saturn rings to a crayon-dotted galaxy, asking you three times to confirm whether Uranus came before Neptune.
At home, it’s even worse.
If you so much as shift in the middle of the night trying to get comfortable, Steve wakes instantly.
“Mmph… baby?” he mumbles, pushing himself upright. “You okay? What do you need?”
“Nothing,” you whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
But he’s already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
Next thing you know he’s in the kitchen at two in the morning—barefoot, hair sticking up in cowlicks, wearing an old t-shirt and boxers while he spreads peanut butter thick across a slice of toast or scoops vanilla ice cream into a bowl.
Most nights it’s both.
Then he sits cross-legged at your feet while you eat on the couch, eyelids heavy with sleep. Warm hands wrapped around your arches, thumbs kneading all the tender spots until your whole body melts into the cushions.
You used to tease him about it.
“Steve,” you laughed once, nudging his shoulder with your foot. “I’m pregnant. Not dying.”
He’d only shrugged, stubborn as ever. “Yeah, I know. Just like doing this stuff.”
Stuff like this.
He finishes peeling the first half of the orange and starts separating the slices. Eases his thumb into the center seam, gently pulling a segment free without bursting the delicate juice pockets. His finger runs along the curve, checking carefully for seeds. When he finds one, he digs it out with his nail and flicks it into his palm.
Only when he’s satisfied does he lift the slice up to your mouth.
“Open.”
You roll your eyes, but you do.
The fruit presses cool against your tongue—he must’ve kept it cold all morning somehow— and the second you bite down, sweet juice floods your mouth.
You practically melt, eyes slipping closed.
“Good?” he asks quietly.
“So good.”
He laughs under his breath. You feel a small bead of juice slip toward your chin, but Steve’s thumb is already there, brushing lightly along your bottom lip to catch it before it falls.
When you open your eyes again, he’s still looking at you.
Really looking, gaze warm and intent, tiny creases gathering at his temples from how wide he’s smiling.
So painfully affectionate, your husband.
Like this—feeding you orange slices on a splintered playground bench—is somehow the highlight of his entire day.
You swallow and reach for the next slice.
He pulls it back just out of reach.
“Ah ah—say thank you, Mr. Harrington.”
You narrow your eyes.
“...Thank you, Mr. Harrington.”
He grins, victorious, and slides the wedge past your lips with exaggerated care. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Harrington.”
A loud shout from across the playground makes you both jump.
“What?! Coach Steve! Coach Steeeeve!”
You and Steve share a look.
It’s a voice you both know all too well.
“Uh oh,” he sighs, slowly lowering his hand. “Here we go.”
Eli Parker comes sprinting across the grass like a tiny tornado, curls bouncing wildly with every step. His velcro sneakers slap against the pavement—one strap has come undone, as usual, flapping behind him.
“Coach Steve!” he pants, skidding to a stop in front of the bench, cheeks flushed pink and shiny with sweat. “Why are you here at recess? You don’t have recess! You have P.E. time!”
Steve lifts the half-peeled orange solemnly. “I’m on snack duty.”
Eli squints. “That’s not a real job.”
“It is now. Mrs. Harrington’s eating for two, remember?”
Eli blinks.
His gaze drifts slowly toward your stomach.
“Oh.”
And just like that, his favorite teacher becomes background scenery—more important matters await.
Eli sidesteps your husband like he’s a piece of playground equipment, edging closer to you instead. He tucks his hands behind his back and rocks forward onto his toes, suddenly shy.
“Um... Missus Harrington?”
Your heart melts a little every time.
“Yes, Eli?”
He glances up at your face, then at your belly. “Um... is the baby ready?”
Steve pauses mid-peel. He glances up at you, brows furrowed.
Ready for what? he mouths.
You bite back a smile and lean back slightly, patting your stomach. “Yep. She’s all yours.”
Eli steps closer and bends at the waist, hands planted on his knees.
Slowly, he lowers his face toward the curve of your bump.
“Hi, baby,” he whispers. “It’s me again, Eli.”
Steve’s fingers slow over the orange.
“Today we had apple slices at snack. But they were kinda mushy, so you didn’t miss nothin’. And Jacob falled in P.E. but he only cried for like… this much.” He pinches his fingers together to demonstrate. “I helped him up ‘cause I’m strong now. I eat all my carrots.”
You smooth your hand over your stomach, smiling.
“And we’re playin’ tag but I didn’t get catched even one time. I was too fast! You gotta run zig-zag, like this,” he demonstrates with his arms, nearly elbowing Steve in the chin. “When you come out, I’ll teach you. You gotta go like—whoosh whoosh!—so nobody can tag you. Not even Coach Steve. He’s... kinda slow.”
“Uh—hey," Steve protests.
Eli ignores him. “Just don’t run by the slide. There’s a crack there. Timmy tripped there once and there was blood everywhere. He had to get stitches! But he’s fine now. He got a Spider-Man bandaid. Oh, and...”
“He does this every day,” you murmur quietly to Steve while Eli continues his extremely detailed recess debrief.
“Seriously?” Steve whispers.
You nod. “Comes over to give her updates.”
Steve blinks, staring down at the top of Eli’s curls, expression gone soft. “Huh.”
“…and you always haveta pick chocolate milk first at lunch,” Eli explains firmly. “’Cause if you wait, it’s all gone and then you haveta drink regular milk and regular milk tastes weird.”
You’re still listening to Eli’s spiel on cafeteria survival rules when you feel a gentle nudge against the back of your hand.
Steve is holding another orange slice out to you, attention split between feeding you and listening to this tiny seven-year-old explain why pizza day is the most important day of the week.
You bring the slice up to your mouth.
As soon as the juice bursts across your tongue, you feel it.
“Oh! Hey, Eli?”
“…and then Jacob pushed—huh?” Eli looks up.
“Wanna feel something cool?”
“What kinda cool?”
You grin.
“The best kind.”
You take his warm, sticky hand in yours, and guide it carefully to the curve of your stomach.
“Right here. Just wait.”
Eli waits.
Nothing happens at first.
He squints down at your belly, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth.
And then—
“WOAH!” Eli yanks his hand back with a gasp, eyes round as saucers. “What was that?!”
You laugh softly. “That was the baby.”
“The baby?” he repeats, voice dropping to a loud whisper.
“Yep. That was her kicking.”
Eli’s jaw falls open, eyes fixed on your stomach.
“Um, Missus Harrington?” he says, voice growing a little urgent. “Can I feel again?"
You nod, guiding his hand back. His palm rests there, quivering ever so slightly with excitement.
Another small thump.
Eli gasps, but doesn’t pull away this time. A small giggle spills out of him.
“Wow,” he breathes. “She did it again. Does that mean she knows me?”
“Yeah, honey. She knows you’re there.”
Eli beams down at your stomach, rubbing his palm side to side like he’s waving through a window.
“Hi, baby,” he whispers. “It’s okay. It’s just me. I’m your recess buddy, remember?”
Steve has gone very, very quiet.
You glance up to find him completely frozen.
The orange sits half peeled and forgotten in his palm as he stares. Gaze locked on Eli’s hand, on the soft stretch of your dress over the life the two of you made.
When he catches you looking, he blinks quickly, that stunned expression flickering away.
In its place comes an exaggerated pout—eyes drooping, lower lip jutting out.
“Uh oh,” you murmur, smiling. “Somebody’s jealous.”
You grab his orange-sticky hand and guide it to the other side of your stomach.
Steve doesn’t move a muscle.
It’s like this, every time; he holds his breath, barely rests his palm on your stomach. Like he fears pressing too hard might disturb her.
He never says a word—just waits.
Eli, meanwhile, is vibrating with curiosity.
“So, so if she can kick, why can’t she talk? Does she have a mouth?”
“She does. She’s just still growing.”
“Can she hear me?”
“Yeah, but it’s probably a little muffled. Like when you’re underwater in a swimming pool.”
Eli thinks about that.
“Do I haveta be louder, then?”
“Well...”
“Nope,” Steve cuts in quickly. “Definitely not louder. She can hear you just fine, buddy.”
Your husband shoots you a quick look—eyebrows raised, lips quirked into an amused smile—before slowly pulling his hand back, clearly reluctant to lose contact.
A moment later he hands you another slice of the orange.
Then he fits one into Eli’s palm, too.
The slice looks enormous in Eli’s tiny grip. He clamps all five fingers around it, taking a massive, full-force bite. Juice immediately dribbles down his wrist.
Steve leans forward like he’d been expecting it, using the hem of his own shirt to wipe Eli’s arm before the stickiness spreads everywhere.
Eli barely notices, too busy chewing with wide-eyed focus.
“Are you gonna teach her stuff? ’Cause you’re a teacher?” He asks around a mouthful, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “Like, y’know… ABCs and stuff.”
You smile. “Yep. Eventually.”
He frowns a little. “Eventually?”
“Yeah. We’re gonna have to teach her how to talk, first.”
Eli freezes mid-chew.
“She can’t talk?” he says, scandalized.
“Not when she’s first born,” you confirm gently. “She has to learn everything. How to move, how to talk… it’s all brand new for her.”
Eli turns his head slowly, staring at your stomach like this is deeply upsetting information.
“What about... what about running?”
“Mm, she'll have to learn that too. Maybe by the time you’re in fourth grade.”
He gasps, betrayal written all over his little face.
“She won’t even know how to run?” he whispers.
You laugh softly. “Not right away, honey. Babies can’t do very much when they’re first born.”
He stands there for a second, eyes squinted, lips pursed. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.
Then suddenly his whole face lights up.
“Wait!” He bounces up onto his toes. “But that means I can show her stuff! I can teach her how to count to a hundred,” he says, chest puffing up with pride. “And I can do the monkey bars all the way across without help now. And—and I can show her how to tie her shoes! I learned that last week.”
He lifts one foot to prove it—the sneaker he's got on has three velcro straps, and one of them is hanging open.
“That’s very impressive,” you say seriously.
Eli nods like he already knew that.
Then he reaches out with his free hand, tiny fingers carefully brushing against the curve of your belly.
His voice drops into a soft whisper.
“I can’t wait ’til you’re out, baby.” He pats your stomach gently. “I’ll teach you everything.”
He thinks about it for a second. Then adds:
“I’ll be like… the best big brother ever.”
Your throat closes up a little. You glance over at Steve to find him already looking at you—this warm, stunned sort of wonder in his eyes, like the moment landed in his chest the same way it did in yours.
He reaches for you quietly, thumb brushing along the back of your hand.
You lace your fingers with his and give them a squeeze. He squeezes back.
Then the bell rings.
A long, miserable groan ripples across the playground.
“What?” Eli exclaims, shoulders collapsing dramatically. “But—but I wasn’t done!”
“You can talk to her again tomorrow,” you promise.
Eli turns back toward your stomach, lips puckering in serious thought.
“Okay,” he sighs. He leans closer one last time.
“Bye-bye, baby. Don’t forget me.”
“She won’t, honey,” you smile, smoothing his curls back from his forehead.
You brace your hands on the bench, ready to stand.
Steve is already on his feet. One hand wrapped around your forearm, the other settling at your lower back. You don’t actually need the support, but he always acts like you might topple over without him.
“Easy, easy.”
You roll your eyes affectionately. “Steve, I’m fine.”
You call your class over, watching them shuffle toward you in a crooked, noisy line.
“Alright, fifth graders! You ready?”
“Wait, wait,” Steve says suddenly, hurrying forward. “One more.”
Before you can react, an orange slice gets slipped past your lips.
You laugh around it, juice bursting sweet across your tongue.
You reach up on impulse, resting a hand on his shoulder to press a quick, soft kiss to his lips.
It’s not something you do often at school, and you can tell it catches him off guard.
You pull back to watch him blink, tongue darting out as he instinctively licks away the glossy residue on his mouth. Hazel eyes gone round, breath caught like you haven’t been kissing him for years.
You kind of hope he’ll always look like that, no matter how chaste the gesture.
Behind you, your class erupts into varying degrees of horror and fascination: “Ewwww!” “No way!” “Coach Steeeve, can I have a bite of the orange?"
“Alright, alright!” you laugh, waving them down. “Enough.”
You turn back to Steve, lowering your voice. “See you after last period?”
“Uh huh,” he nods, still a touch dazed. He blinks, shakes his head. “Yeah. I’ll—yeah.”
You smile at him and turn back to your students, ushering the rowdy line toward the school doors.
Halfway across the blacktop, you glance back.
Your husband is still standing by the bench, one hand lifted in a loose wave as he watches you go.
You mouth the words silently.
Love you.
He smiles, mirrors the words right back.
Love you too.
And right then, a small flutter rolls through your stomach.
A tiny voice responding in kind, a little heartbeat of its own saying:
Love you three.
✿
Once you disappear through the school doors, Steve exhales slowly.
Then he looks down.
Eli is still there.
Hovering by his leg, nibbling thoughtfully on what’s left of his orange slice. At this point it’s mostly membrane, barely any juice left, but he’s got more important thoughts on his mind.
He sucks at it with intense focus, eyes narrowed in deep, seven-year-old contemplation.
“Coach Steve?” Eli says finally.
Steve rests his hands on his hips, orange peels crumpled loosely in one fist. “What’s up, buddy?”
Eli glances toward the doors where you disappeared, then back up at Steve.
i am MUCH more of a lurker than poster on here, but i’ve been writing a steve harrington x oc fic for the last few weeks. it’s a slow burn childhoods friends to lovers set in between the time of s4-s5 of stranger things. it started out as just an exercise of wanting to write more, but i’m thinking about sharing it. i know oc fics aren’t as popular on here, but would anyone be interested in me posting it? i’m also planning on writing a few steve harrington x reader one shots because i do love writing and reading those too!!!
please help a disabled brazilian trans woman and her family
the situation is fucking dire right now. the whole leaky pipe fiasco drained our finances to the breaking point. we barely have money left to last to the end of the week, much less the month. any amount would be greatly appreciated. we are getting desperate
Summary : Bucky Barnes has a crush on a tea shop owner. But is she really just a tea shop owner?
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x witch! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant, post-Thunderbolts. Magic. Cursing. Nightmares, trauma. Bucky lives in the New Avengers tower. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 11.5k
Note : I’m on vacation and just managed to finish this story!!! Will start posting more regularly once I get back, but enjoy!!!
It had been raining a steady drizzle all afternoon.
You were rearranging your loose-leaf tins on the shelf behind the counter— your labels were hand-drawn, organised not by alphabet or herb, but by energy. Fig, your small parakeet, was perched lazily on your shoulder, his little peach belly rising and falling as he dozed. A few regulars had come in earlier and left with different tea blends, the usual murmur of jazz from your record player in the background, and now the shop had been eerily quiet for the last thirty minutes.
Then the bell above the door jingled.
That’s when you saw him.
The man who stepped in looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His jacket was damp, his hair curling at the ends from the rain, and when his eyes met yours, your Fig chirped in your ear.
You almost missed it, but when your eyes dropped, and you saw the metal arm— Wakandan vibranium peeking from the edge of his jacket sleeve. You recognised him immediately.
Fig tilted his head sharply and gave a warning chirp, feathers fluffed. His stranger danger mode had kicked in.
“He’s not a threat,” you whispered to the bird, which was easier said than done, considering the adorable thing was deathly protective over you.
Bucky looked at Fig. Fig looked back.
Fig chirped again, and he was not disapproving, just skeptical. He was always wary of people with metal limbs after a bad experience with a garden gnome.
“Another Avenger in my shop,” you said with a welcoming smile. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
He blinked, stopped mid-step like you’d just spoken in Morse code. “I—what?”
“You’re taller in person.” You repeated and shrugged. “Our mutual acquaintance showed me some team-outing photos.”
That earned you a half wary, half confused head tilt, maybe a little amused, but he walked up to the counter anyway. Fig ruffled his feathers, clearly intrigued.
Bucky rested his non-metal hand on the wood between you, glancing around the cosy space. “Bob did say this place was good.”
You gave him a half-smile. Bob came in a few months when he moved to the tower in New York, asking for a blend of herbal leaves that would aid in his recovery, and since then, he had already sent in two other avengers in here– Yelena needed a calming brew and Ava needed one that helped with her energy— but you didn’t think he’d send yet another one your way.
“He’s right,” you said confidently.
“He said,” Bucky measured his world carefully, “You could help me sleep.”
The words were small, but they didn’t feel fragile. It was as if he’d said them before to empty rooms and gotten nothing back.
You nodded, already turning to reach for a jar labeled Nightangel Brew.
“Do you have trouble falling or staying asleep?” you asked.
“I….” he paused. “A bit of both.”
You worked while you talked, scooping a blend of lemon balm, passionflower, valerian root, and a few curls of dried orange peel into a parchment sachet as an addition to the basic blend. The scent drifted up into the air. It was soothing, almost citrusy.
“No allergies?” you asked, as you scooped a bit of sea salt.
“No,” he confirmed.
You hesitated only a second before writing something on a notecard and slipping it into the brown paper bag with the tea.
He glanced at it, then at you. “You put your number on here.”
“Yep.”
He looked at you, amused but not complaining. “That’s… bold.”
You leaned in a bit. “Relax,” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “I only put my phone number in there in case you have questions about brewing the tea.”
Bucky took the sachet, eyes narrowing slightly. “You brew it differently?”
You shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s not just steep-and-dump. If you want flavour and effect, you’ve gotta be kind to it. Use a covered mug to keep the volatile oils from evaporating. Bonus points if you add honey after it cools a little. Or call Bob, he’ll tell you I lectured him for ten minutes once about not microwaving water in a mug.”
He huffed between a scoff and a laugh. Fig chirped curiously.
Bucky raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip twitching again. “And if I had questions about… more than the tea?”
You blinked, a little thrown off. But still, you leaned a little closer and said, “Then I’d probably still tell you to steep it for five minutes and not call after midnight unless it’s a tea emergency.”
He picked up the bag and took a step back. “Thanks…?”
You offered your name.
He repeated it slowly, like he was letting it settle on his tongue. “Okay. I’ll, uh… let you know how it goes.”
You shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, come back. We’ll adjust the blend. Or if you want to introduce yourself to Fig properly. He’s still undecided about you.”
As if on cue, Fig flapped his wings slightly and let out a single unimpressed chirp.
Bucky smiled, giving the bird a mock salute with his vibranium fingers. “Tough crowd.”
“Don’t worry,” you said. “He warms up. Eventually.”
The door jingled again as he left, disappearing into the curtain of rain outside.
You turned back to your shelf and sighed. Fig nuzzled into your cheek like he agreed.
“Yeah,” you whispered to him, smiling. “He’ll be back.”
—
After the last customer left and the bell over the tea shop door gave its tired little jingle, you flipped the sign to CLOSED, turned off the lights, and let out a deep breath.
It had been a long day — stormy weather always brought in the insomniacs, the anxious, and the romantics. You didn’t mind. You liked helping people who let tea cool in their hands before sipping it. People who didn’t ask questions about the strange, overgrown rosemary plant in the window that occasionally moved on its own as if readjusting their posture. People who didn’t ask questions when vines curled around your wrist as you asked permission to pluck her delicate leaves.
But tonight… you were tired.
Fig settled on your shoulder with a chirp and nuzzled into your neck.
“You really shouldn’t judge customers,” you scolded him. “Even the one who asked if we had matcha Red Bull.”
Fig screeched, offended.
“I know, I know,” you whispered, locking the back door.
You walked home in the drizzle, jacket wrapped tight around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way your fingertips itched with energy.
You had a feeling something was waiting for you at home.
And sure enough — when you pushed open the creaky door of your little apartment across the street, you felt the presence of… magic.
You dropped your keys into the wooden bowl by the door and looked around.
There, on your kitchen table, was a scroll, the mystical equivalent of a fax machine.
You sniffed the air, smelling sandalwood, ash, and a touch of cosmic ozone.
“Wong,” you muttered, stepping closer as Fig flew up to his perch in the corner of the room.
The scroll unrolled the moment you touched it.
To the Esteemed Herbalist of Fig & co
The Sanctum Sanctorum requests your assistance once again. We are in need of a Class IV Lucidity Draught (stable, shelf-safe, dream-filtered, and no substitutions). Preferably before next quarter moon. Strange has broken another Mirror of Insight and refuses to admit it.
Discretion appreciated. Your potions are still the most reliable in this dimension, no matter what the New Orleans apothecaries claim. Payment enclosed, as always.
- Wong
P.S. Fig is due for his magical familiar certification renewal. Please see attached.
You sighed, a mix of fondness and exhaustion tugging at your lips. “Of course he broke another mirror.”
Fig puffed up proudly at the mention of his name and squawked. You held up the attached pouch — sure enough, a handful of glittering stardust coins nestled inside, along with a single enchanted pearl. Payment, plus a bonus. Wong never forgot to tip.
You carefully rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into the hollow panel behind your spice cabinet — the one no one ever noticed because you’d warded it with three layers of disinterest.
You lit a few candles, cast a quick circle, and whispered the potion recipe into the air, watching the herbs rearrange themselves on your shelf.
The Lucidity Draught would take three nights to finish. The rarest ingredients you needed were water from the last rainfall (you always kept a bucket on your roof), rosemary that had bloomed under starlight, and a vial of sleep-ink that could only be harvested from a page left unread for seven years.
Luckily… you had all of that. Fig helped. He always knew where you stashed things.
“I told you not to bring me the experimental saffron strain,” you sent him away to fetch another vial, “It messes with dimensional boundaries.”
As the potionwork began and the ingredients simmered in your teapot, you glanced out the window, down at the street. From here, you could just barely see the windows of your own shop below, the sign swaying slightly in the rain.
Fig hovered over your shoulder, preening like a supervisor.
“You know,” you muttered as you decanted a viscous blue liquid into a tiny vial to age over a couple of days, “I like the tea shop because it doesn’t ask anything magical of me.”
Fig whistled knowingly. You glanced at him.
None of your normal customers knew, and you’d like to keep it that way. You never used magic in the shop — not even the smallest charm.
Everything you sold, everything you brewed, was just herbal blends. Because you loved tea in all its simplicity, its kindness, and its ritual.
As you sealed the last potion bottle, Fig let out a pleased trill and landed back on the candleholder.
You smiled, finally letting your shoulders relax.
Tomorrow, you'd go back to being the local tea seller who definitely wasn’t a real witch.
You’d refill your Nightangel Brew, maybe add a new jasmine blend to the shelf.
And maybe—just maybe—keep an eye on the door.
In case a certain former assassin with a metal arm came back.
Not that you were thinking about him.
Much.
—
Two days later, the shop had just opened for the morning, and you were doing what you always did first thing: steeping a pot of your current favorite (today: chamomile, cinnamon, and a drop of pear extract), restocking the honey jars, and politely telling Fig that no, he could not perch directly on the loose-leaf tins like a goblin king.
There were no customers yet. You put on classical cello music on the speakers, whispered a patience charm into your tea steam, and Fig flipped the “Open” sign in the window.
And then your phone buzzed.
Fig, perched on the hanging rack above you, looked down with narrowed eyes. He hated when technology interrupted your tea time. You ignored him.
The message was from a number you didn’t recognise.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Bucky. I think I burned it last night.
You blinked. A second message came in immediately after.
BUCKY : The tea. Not the tower.
You snorted in amusement, already typing.
YOU: I told you to steep it for five minutes in a covered mug. Not boiling water. I gave you the rules, Barnes. Did you microwave it?
Fig hissed. It sounded personal.
Your phone buzzed again.
BUCKY: I didn’t microwave it. I used a pot. Then I forgot about the pot.
You burst into laughter, startling Fig so badly he flapped his wings and knocked over your cinnamon jar. You sighed but didn’t stop smiling.
YOU: I'm not mad. Just disappointed.
BUCKY: Is this a customer service line or an ouija board for my dad?
YOU: sorry.
There was a longer pause before his next message.
BUCKY: Can I come by later? Try again, maybe supervised?
You stared at that message a moment longer than you meant to. Fig peered down at your screen, then made a throaty little hmm noise.
You didn’t look up. You just typed.
YOU: Sure. I think Fig wants to watch you try.
BUCKY: Of course he does. Is it weird I kind of want to impress a bird.
You smiled.
YOU: He is the true owner of the shop.
And as you set your phone down and turned to your blend-in-progress, you chuckled excitedly to yourself.
—
That afternoon, you were restocking the lemongrass jars when the door chimed.
Not the jingle-jangle of a casual browser or the clumsy shoulder-first push of a tourist trying to escape the rain.
You didn’t even turn around before speaking.
“Been waiting for you all day, Barnes.”
He paused before huffing out a small laugh. “I think I’ve earned ‘Bucky’ by now.”
You turned, and yep — there he was,standing just inside the shop like he wasn’t sure if he should touch anything, hair still slightly damp from the mist outside. He wore a dark sweater this time, sleeves rolled halfway up.
And under his arm was… a mug.
You tried not to smile too obviously. “You brought your own?”
“I figured if I’m going to fail,” he said, “I should at least fail in my favourite one. And maybe Fig would be kinder to me because I’m not going to ruin one of your mugs.”
As if summoned by name, the parakeet popped up from the shelf behind you and gave a long chirp — somewhere between amused and unimpressed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky muttered to the bird, pretending to understand him. “I’m not microwaving it this time.”
You took the mug from him, inspecting it. It was chipped near the rim, clearly well-loved, and had a faded print of a tree with roots stretching into a starry sky.
“This one’s seen things,” you said.
He gave a small smile. “Like its owner.”
You looked up. “That’s not always a bad thing.”
There was a heartbeat of silence between you, long enough to be noticeable. Just long enough for Fig to tilt his head like oh?
You cleared your throat. “Come on. To the bar.”
He followed you to the counter where you had already set out the tin of Nightangel Brew and a small linen pouch of fresh lemon.
You placed the kettle on its heating plate. “Step one. Know your water.”
“...Know it?”
You nodded. “Boiling water is murder on herbs, remember? You don’t want a rolling boil — you want a simmer with little bubbles.”
Bucky leaned in a little, his brow furrowed in focused concentration — or maybe just to smell. You pretended not to notice how close he was standing. Fig, however, absolutely noticed, and can’t decide if he was rooting for you or jealous of his proximity.
Bucky watched as you spooned the herbs gently into a steeping sachet and placed it in his mug. You handed him the kettle.
“Go ahead. Don’t rush.”
He raised an eyebrow but followed your instructions. Carefully, he poured slow circles, then covered the mug with the little ceramic lid you passed him.
“Five minutes,” you said. “Exactly. ”
“Noted.”
You leaned against the bar, watching the steam rise from the gaps. “So what happened yesterday? Got distracted?”
He hesitated. You saw it in his jaw.
Then he said, “I didn’t need it to sleep at first, but… then I woke up from a nightmare. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d try the tea, but I didn’t time it right. Kinda… zoned out.”
Your shoulders dropped kindly, “Well, hopefully, brewing it right will help.”
Fig fluttered down and landed between you both on the bar, watching Bucky quietly, tilting his head like a therapist trying to decide how to phrase advice kindly.
“I don’t usually talk about that,” Bucky said.
“I don’t usually let people behind the bar,” you replied.
Fig chirped like an alarm.
“Five minutes is up,” you said.
Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how a bird was even trained to even have a perfect internal clock, “How—“
You ignored him and lifted the lid, gently removed the sachet, and handed the mug back to him. “Moment of truth.”
He cradled it in both hands and took a careful sip.
Then another.
He closed his eyes.
“…Okay,” he said, eyes opening again. “That’s… nice.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but this feels… good.”
Fig chirped proudly once, then flew back to his perch.
Bucky set the mug down, but didn’t back away from the counter.
“So… how do I know if it’s actually working?”
“It works differently for different people.” You shrugged. “But it usually calms people down enough to doze off.”
He nodded, “You ever drink it?”
You hesitated, patting the bench next to you as you sat. “Not lately.”
And as he sat down beside you, sipping tea while the shop filled with the smell of brewing herbs, you couldn’t help but think: Maybe you didn’t mind letting this one in.
—
Bucky came back a few days later and said the blend was “doing something,” which for him, apparently, meant actually falling asleep. He looked better. Still guarded, sure — but the edges were blunting.
He came alone at first. Always late morning or just before closing. He brought his mug. You helped brewed his tea.
He never asked for anything else.
But he lingered every time. And each time, it got a little longer.
By week two, Bucky was coming in more days than not. He was always watching you in that not-trying-to-stare way that somehow made the staring worse.
You noticed he always sat at the same stool, second from the left, near the side table that housed your pothos.
You didn’t tell him it was your favourite spot, but you started making tea for two without asking.
You sat down next to him and started talking about your day.
Fig, meanwhile, hopped over to Bucky’s elbow and gave it a single approving peck. You paused mid-sip.
“Did he just…?”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “He’s warming up to me.”
“Must be the mug,” you said. “Or the absurd amount of honey you put in your tea.”
“I like sweet things.”
You glanced up and looked away.
By week four, Fig had officially defected.
He no longer dive-bombed Bucky’s boots.
He started landing on his shoulder.
And once, he let Bucky feed him a dried goji berry by hand without biting him.
“You’re a traitor,” you said, crossing your arms.
Bucky grinned. “He likes me.”
Fig preened like a smug little demon and settled into Bucky’s scarf like it was his new throne.
“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered playfully, sweeping behind the counter.
Then came the day he walked in with Bob Reynolds.
Bob had been a customer before Bucky. He loved your rosehip tisanes. He said they calmed the void in his chest, whatever that meant. He said it also helped with his cravings.
He greeted you, his usual dandelion-yellow hoodie bunched at the elbows. Then glanced back toward Bucky with a half-smirk.
“This the one who keeps you smiling when you’re supposed to be restocking the chamomile?”
You gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve been talking to Fig, haven’t you.”
“Bird’s got opinions,” Bob said, shrugging.
Bucky, behind him, tried very hard not to react. You caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth anyway.
They sat, ordered. Bob teased. Bucky endured it with the long-suffering patience of someone who was painfully aware of the dynamic forming in plain sight.
And it wasn’t just Bob.
Next came Yelena— a regular customer who insisted your “spicy blend” was the only thing that ever helped her relax. She strolled in one rainy Tuesday, spotted Bucky already at the counter, and raised one finely shaped brow.
“Oh,” she said, flicking her hair back. “You’ve been domesticated.”
“I came for tea,” Bucky muttered.
“You came for her tea,” she corrected, greeting you with a wave and eyeing you both with curiosity and delight.
“Leave,” he said flatly, but didn’t actually tell her to stop.
You served her with a smile, and she left with a wink — but not before whispering loud enough for Fig to hear, “She’s too smart to be pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on.”
The next day, Ava came in to try a new blend.
Ava was more subtle, but no less perceptive. She came in between field assignments, ordered your anti-inflammation brew, and then paused when she saw Bucky sitting behind the counter with Fig perched on his shoulder.
She looked between you two.
Then simply said, “So… how long have you been not-dating?”
You coughed into the tea towel. Bucky didn’t even look up. “We’re not—”
“Sure,” Ava replied, deadpan. “Fig won’t even look at me, but he likes Bucky? Something must be going on.”
Neither of you confirmed it, but you didn’t deny it either.
—
Over the next few weeks, it became routine.
Bucky would try new teas. He’d ask questions. He also learned to tell the difference between the citrus tang of lemon verbena and the grounding scent of ashwagandha.
He learned how you tapped the teapot twice before pouring — a little ritual, perhaps unconscious. You learned he stirred his tea clockwise, like muscle memory.
He smiled more. Not always at you — but often because of you.
Once, Fig dropped a dried hibiscus petal into his cup by “accident.”
You knew it wasn’t— Fig knew that used correctly, only if you cast a spell on it— it could induce an infatuation spell.
Not that Bucky needed it. The parakeet knew Bucky was already infatuated.
You, seemed hopelessly oblivious to it, though.
Bucky simply lifted the mug to Fig like a toast. “Thanks.”
And Fig preened.
—
One evening, just after closing, Bucky lingered while you wiped down the counter.
“I’ve been sleeping better,” he said, quietly.
You nodded. “I can tell.”
He looked at you the way someone examines a door they want to open, but aren’t sure they should. “You put something else in it?”
You just smiled. “Just plants, Barnes.”
“That’s enough,” He nodded, but didn’t look away. he said. “You got any of that cinnamon-pear blend left?”
You turned to the jar, hand already reaching. “Always.”
“Good,” he nodded, “Because I think I’ll keep coming back.”
You didn’t turn around. “I know.”
—
Bucky came in mid-morning two months later. He hadn’t been in for a couple of weeks, and that was not unusual— Bob said he had gone on a stealth mission.
His hoodie was drawn up over his head. He didn’t say anything at first. He just dropped his usual mug on the counter, and sat in silence. Fig came over to greet his friend, but he got no reaction from Bucky.
You tilted your head in confusion, but put on the kettle anyway. This time, you brewed Jasmine with a touch of lemon balm, a whisper of skullcap.
“I didn’t sleep,” he said after a long silence. “Not… since I got back from the mission two nights ago.”
You glanced up. “What’s up?” you asked gently.
He shook his head once. Not embarrassed — just exhausted.
“This… this mission just reminded me of the worst fucking part of humanity. I did what was necessary,” he added. “I… tried the tea. I tried all the steps. I took a deep breath like you said. It helped for a bit. But once I fell asleep…”
His voice faded.
You didn’t need him to finish his thoughts. If whatever he saw in that mission was enough to shatter his mind all over again, you could only imagine how bad it got.
You poured him the tea and started making him a different blend to go.
You prepared a bit of Nightangel brew but added added a pinch of mugwort. Then a little blue lotus, for clarity. Then hawthorn, for flavour.
Bucky noticed. “That’s not the usual.”
“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”
He didn’t ask questions, just watched your hands move.
You looked up once the sachet was full.
“This is… stronger,” you said.
He nodded gently and murmured, “Alright. Let’s try.”
—
He came back the next morning, hunched deeper in his jacket.
You didn’t even greet him with a joke this time. Just took his mug and went straight to the blend. “Did it help?”
“No,” he admitted, partially scared of offending you. “Not at all.”
You frowned, wondering how much more herbal remedies you could add without it being redundant.
“Woke up sweating,” he explained, “I… Couldn’t breathe. It felt like—”
He stopped. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.
You didn’t push. Instead, you leaned on your elbows, “Okay. Then we go gentler.”
“Gentler?”
You nodded, already pulling down a different tin. “No mugwort. No lotus. Just chamomile to remind your body it’s not in a cage.”
He blinked.
“Holy basil. Rose. Passionflower. A little oatstraw.”
Bucky watched you. “Will it work?”
“For some people,” you said. “But we have to… try.”
He sat back and looked at you like he wanted to ask a hundred things.
Fig fluttered down from his perch and didn’t land on the counter this time, but directly on Bucky’s knee.
Bucky blinked, and for the first time in days, his shoulders relaxed. “Hey, buddy.”
You pushed the mug toward him, hands brushing again.
“I’ll keep adjusting the blend,” you promised with an encouraging sigh. “As long as you keep showing up.”
He nodded.
—
A month later, the bell chimed softly as the door eased open.
It was a sound that now felt like a sixth sense waking. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
The second Bucky stepped inside, Fig perked up, puffing his feathers and letting out a trill of affection.
You smiled faintly. Fig loves him. You thought. He only sings like that for me… and Bucky.
“Hey,” you said gently, eyes lifting from the tea counter where you were measuring out dried verbena. “You’re early today.”
He nodded, and walked over to his usual still. You wanted to ask if he was okay, though you never did.
That wasn’t how Bucky worked. He wasn’t made for direct questions.
“Same as last time?” you asked.
He looked up at you, then away.
You didn’t wait for an answer. You knew it anyway.
You turned to the wall of shelves, fingers ghosting over jars. Skullcap. Passionflower. Fennel. Chamomile. You’d changed the recipe multiple times since last month. Each blend tailored to soothe, to calm, to untangle knots that Nightangel couldn’t reach.
None of it worked.
Still, you went through the motions. You always did. You wouldn’t stop trying, not for him. Not when he kept dragging himself through your door like he was searching for something solid to hold onto.
You set the tea to steep and moved to lean on the counter across from him.
“Is it not working?” you asked gently.
Bucky huffed a humorless sound— a mix of a scoff and a sigh. “You’ve changed it four times. You’d think I’d be out cold for a week by now.”
Your lips turned into a frowned.
“You’re perfect,” he added suddenly, urgently. “You… you’re good at this—at what you do. But that mission… I…”
He looked up at you, and for a moment you saw the wreckage behind his eyes. “I think I’m the one that’s broken.”
You swallowed hard, the words lodging in your throat like a stone. All of your vows, all of your promises to never intervene with magic in the shop, they started to fray at the edges. He wasn’t just tired, he was unraveling.
And you were standing here with shelves full of herbs and nothing that could hold him together.
That’s when you felt it: the ache in your chest shifting into guilt, like glass under skin.
You turned away.
“I’ll be right back,” you said, going to the back room, where you store all your stock and closing the door.
Fuck, today, he looked broken.
You froze, hands trembling slightly over the apothecary jars, and your mind went to your apartment that was just across the street. Upstairs. Your real workbench was there. The hidden shelf with dried mystic root. The moon water. The preserved glass vials with hope tinctures and dream oil and truth dust.
“No,” you whispered to yourself. “No, no, no.”
But then you remembered at Bucky again—shoulders hunched, head bowed, fingers twitching ever so slightly—and your resolve shattered.
“…Just this once.”
You leaned down toward Fig, who had hopped closer on his perch and was watching you with keen eyes.
“I need to go home for a second,” you said, pulling off your apron. “Keep him company, okay? Chirp a little. He likes it.”
Fig flapped once and gave a peep of approval.
You slipped out the back door and jogged across the street to your apartment above the bakery.
Inside, you didn’t light a single lamp.
You moved directly to the old armoire that served as your private altar, opening the false panel and pulling out the worn wooden box. Inside: the forbidden things. The ones you kept under lock and key. Your grandmother’s spoon, etched with runes. The jar of dried starblossom petals. A tiny, sealed vial of liquid desire.
You were going to infuse his latest tea blend with… magic.
It wasn’t that it was dark magic. It wasn’t evil. It was just… potent. And dangerous if used carelessly. You had vowed never to use your craft in the shop.
Never to enchant something as intimate as tea.
But you remembered the first time Bucky came in, Since then, he’d been a constant.
And now he was in trouble, and this was the only way you could help.
You whispered the spell as your fingers worked fast, blending more herbs with practiced care: blue lotus for dreams, rosehips for warmth, passionfruit for clarity, and just a bit of the liquid desire.
The spell would draw from his desire, not yours, showing him not what he feared… but what he wanted most— perhaps peace. Or comfort. Perhaps he wanted to be back in the forties. Maybe he just wanted a life on the farm.
You closed your eyes and sealed it with breath, steadying the tremble in your hands.
“Just this once,” you whispered aloud.
And you were going to tell him, right?
—
When you stepped back into the shop, it felt warmer. Or maybe that was your guilt heating up your skin.
Bucky looked up from where he sat, with Fig perched on his shoulder and nuzzled his hair. You paused, surprised—and not surprised at all. Fig never did that to anyone but you.
“I told him not to get too attached,” you said softly, setting the new cup on his table.
“Well,” Bucky replied, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “I’m getting attached, too.”
To you or the bird, you weren’t sure.
You watched him look down at his hands as you handed him the pouch.
It was darker than your usual blend, its surface flecked with starlight-like shimmer. You hoped he wouldn’t ask.
But Bucky just leaned forward, hands clutching the bag.
You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the entire I’m actually a witch confession, but then he said…
“I don’t even wanna know what’s in it,” he muttered. “I just want peace.”
Your fingers brushed his as you sat beside him. “Are you sure?”
Bucky nodded.
You hesitated. Then, said. “It’s on the house today.”
He looked up.
“…Thanks,” he said. “Really. You—”
His gulped like he wanted to say something else, but the words got stuck.. “You always know what to do.”
You watched him slip the tea into his coat pocket, rising slowly.
The bell above the door gave that same gentle chime as he left.
—
That night, in the new Avengers Tower, on the other side of town from your tea shop, Bucky sat on his bed and drank the tea.
The first time in weeks, his body eased against the sheets instead of bracing for war.
And when he dreamed, it wasn’t of screams or steel or blood.
He dreamed of a cosy shop with a parakeet singing in the corner.
—
You were still tying your apron when the door burst open the next morning.
The bell above the tea shop was a frantic, startled chime — not the usual gentle ring. Before you even looked up, you knew it must be him.
Fuck. Did he know? Could he tell something was… different?
You turned just in time to see Bucky push through the doorway like he’d run the entire way here. He was breathless and flushed. His hair was messy, jacket unzipped, like he hadn’t even thought to fix himself before coming straight here.
“Bucky—?” you began, eyebrows lifted as Fig flapped his wings in greeting.
He didn’t stop walking until he was at the counter.
“It worked.”
You froze, one hand still on the apron’s tie. “What?”
“The tea,” he said. “It… worked. Last night. I—I actually slept for the first time in… weeks.
There was relief in his voice.
Your heart clenched behind your ribs.
He let out a shaky breath, glancing toward the floor like he didn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud. “Usually I either have nightmares or… nothing. But last night, I… I dreamed.”
He looked up at you, and your throat went dry.
“I dreamed of here,” he said softly. “Of you.”
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. What?
You nodded slowly. “I’m… glad it helped.”
But you knew exactly what that meant.
The spell you used hadn’t just offered comfort. It hadn’t simply calmed his nerves or quieted his thoughts. It had shown him his deepest desire to get rid of the terrors.
And he dreamed of you.
“I-I don’t mean to be weird,” he said suddenly. “I just…,” he added, so softly you almost missed it. “Didn’t want to wake up.”
You should have told him then. You should have told him what you’d done. That you’d bent your own rules for him. That you’d taken a tiny vial of liquid desire and dropped it into his cup.
That his dream wasn't a coincidence.
But your words wouldn’t come out past your throat.
Because a part of you was afraid that if he knew, he’d doubt the dream. That he’d think it was a trick. That he wouldn’t believe that what he saw was already true.
So instead, you forced your lips into a tight smile and said, “That’s good.”
“You were behind the counter in the dream. Laughing,” he said. “You were wearing that pink cardigan you always say you’re gonna throw out.”
You blinked, unaware he remembered your little neither-here-nor-there conversations. “I… still have it.”
He smiled faintly. “Fig was there, too. He kept trying to eat my scone.”
Fig gave a soft chirp and fluttered down to land on Bucky’s shoulder again, completely unbothered.
Bucky huffed a surprised breath, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“Traitor,” you muttered fondly toward Fig.
Bucky shifted on his feet.
“Can I come back tonight?” he asked.
You smiled, but hesitated. “Of course.”
—
That night, just after closing the shop and wiping down the counters, you stared at your phone.
Bucky had said he’d be back. He wanted to come back.
And you—being you—had gone and messed everything up with your damn heart and your emergency vial of dream-altering magic.
So instead of texting what you wanted (which was: come back, sit with me, let me explain the dream wasn’t real but also definitely was)...
…you typed: Not feeling great. Raincheck?
You hit send before immediately grabbing the emergency sling ring from under your floorboard, called to Fig with a sharp whistle, and opened a portal to Kamar-Taj.
The sky through the portal was blazing orange at dusk. Fig fluttered through first with a defiant chirp.
You stepped into the cool stone corridor just as a familiar voice groaned from around the corner.
“Speak of the devil.”
Stephen Strange rounded the archway, Wong at his side with a tray of your tea.
You blinked. “Why were you talking about me?”
“We need to place an order.” Wong held up a scroll and payment. “Three jars of moonstilled chrysanthemum, two of dreamroot, and that thing with the dried violets that makes people cry for two hours.”
“Well double the payment if you can get it done,” Strange promised, already walking away.
You didn’t follow him immediately. You were still trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.
“I need a hypothetical ethics consult,” you said suddenly.
Wong stopped and raised a brow. “Oh.”
You followed them both into the dim library room they used for absolutely everything, where Fig landed atop a shelf and immediately started pecking at a crystal ball.
You dropped into a floor cushion, rubbed your eyes, and began.
“Let’s say… hypothetically… someone who runs a completely magic-free tea shop made a promise to never use enchantments on the drinks they serve.”
Wong was already frowning. Strange narrowed his eyes.
“But let’s say—still hypothetically—that someone they care about is clearly not okay. We’re talking not sleeping for weeks, barely holding it together, that type of stuff.”
“I already know where this is going,” Wong muttered.
“And so the hypothetical tea shop owner makes a completely irrational, heart-dumb, reckless decision and enchants one tea blend with dream magic. The kind that reveals the drinker’s deepest desire and blocks out trauma-based nightmares.”
Strange folded his arms. “Uh huh.”
“And,” you went on, your voice getting smaller, “let’s say the person drinks it, sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, wakes up saying they dreamed of… the person who gave him the blend.”
“Still sounds hypothetical,” Wong said sarcastically.
You stared at your hands. “Is that unethical?”
Strange stared at you. “That’s it? That’s the ethical dilemma?”
“I enchanted his tea, Stephen. I interfered with his subconscious.”
“You gave a traumatized super-soldier a warm nap and a vision board,” he deadpanned. “You didn’t scramble his brain or bind his will to a blood pact.”
“How did you—?” You furrowed your eyebrows, unaware your personal life was their business.
“You are one of the best potions witch in the northern hemisphere,” Wong deadpanned, “do you really think we don’t keep tabs on your more… influential customers?”?l
“Fine,” you snapped, “but back to the question—“
“He’ll be fine,” Strange dismissed.
You frowned. “But he didn’t—“
“Did you cast an obedience charm?”
“No!”
“Corruption sigil?”
“No!”
“Memory trap?”
“NO!”
“Then,” he said, leaning back with an insufferably casual smile, “it sounds like you did what every good magic-user has done at least once: you broke your own rule to save someone you care about.”
You stared at him. “So… it’s fine?”
“No. It’s weird.”
Wong agreed. “You witches are odd sometimes.”
You scowled. “That’s not helpful.”
“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to stop Dormammu and make sure no one drops reality into a blender.” He waved his hand. “This? Not even in the top fifty ethical dilemmas I’ve heard this week.”
“It feels icky!” you said, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to influence him!”
Wong raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think a man like James Barnes is so fragile he’d fall in love because of a dream?“
You opened your mouth. “But—”
Strange held up a hand. “Let me guess. You’ve read three books on ethical divination, one essay by an excommunicated greenwitch, and now you’re spiraling.”
You blinked. “…Yes.”
Wong shoved extra currency for the order it into your hands.
“Tell him the truth if you feel bad, but don’t act like you’ve done dark magic just because you caught feelings.”
You stared. “I knew I should’ve joined a coven. At least they’d have a Code.”
Strange rolled his eyes. “Please. Most covens barely agree on how to bless water. One time I watched three hedge witches almost fistfight over which moon phase was best for making lavender oil.”
From your shoulder, Fig gave a loud, scolding chirp.
You glanced at him.
“What?” you muttered. “It was just a passing thought—”
He chirped again, this time louder. His little clawed feet gripped your shoulder tighter.
Wong chuckled. “Sounds like your familiar’s insulted.”
“M’sorry,” you muttered, giving Fig a sideways look. “I didn’t mean to imply I needed anyone else but you, bud.”
Fig gave a dignified huff and fluffed his feathers.
“I wasn’t actually going to join one!” you hissed.
Fig preened pointedly.
“I just panicked.”
He chirped again as you said your goodbyes opened the portal back to your shop.
—
Later that night, you returned to your apartment.
You half expected Bucky to be waiting outside, but was disappointed when there was only the empty street and the patter of rain on cobblestone.
Inside, the tea ingredients sat untouched on your back shelf, tucked away again.
You made yourself a cup of tea and sat with Fig in the dim shop light, wondering if he was still dreaming of you, or if the magic had already faded.
But still a thought whispered. If you were his greatest desire… what would yours be?
You hadn't asked that question before.
Not seriously.
Because you didn't want the answer.
But now you stood, and walked to the back shelf where the last vial of desire sat sealed under moonlit paper, humming faintly with dormant power.
No.
Nope.
Maybe?
Fuck.
Just this once.
You quickly dropped the same dose into your tea and casted the spell.
You carried the cup back to your seat, Fig watching you from the counter with glassy eyes.
“This is dumb,” you whispered aloud. “This is so dumb.”
Fig let out a chirp. Not scolding, but more like, Then don’t do it. But if you’re gonna, stop whining and sip.
You sughed before raising the cup and drinking.
—
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
But when you opened your eyes… the world was a warm amber, flickering like candle glow.
You were standing behind the tea shop counter, apron tied snugly around your waist, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Fig was perched beside the cash box.
And there he was.
Bucky.
Sitting in his usual spot, back slightly hunched, cradling a steaming cup in both hands. He was in a navy sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his metal hand glinting faintly in the light. He was looking at you like… you were the best part of his day.
And in the dream, you weren’t hiding.
You smiled. And he smiled back.
—
You woke up on your bed with a gasp.
Fig flapped in surprise, his wings fluttering.
You sat forward on the couch, pressing a trembling hand to your chest, breathing coming fast.
Fig chirped, and he knew… you had your answer.
—
The next morning, you had an early customer who ringed the bell in five minutes before opening.
Even before you turned around… you knew it was him.
Here goes nothing.
You expected Bucky to slink in, like he usually did.
Instead, he stood just inside the door with a bouquet of flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.
They were… wild flowers — your favourite — wrapped in recycled newspaper like he’d tried to make it not a big deal.
Oh.
He looked… terrified.
His hair was still a little damp from the morning drizzle, jacket open over a plain black henley, boots tracking faint footprints on your floor.
“Hey,” he greeted.
“Hey.”
“Can I…” he started, “can I talk to you?”
You nodded once. “Of course.”
He approached slowly, as if he was afraid to break a fragile thing. Maybe himself.
“I wasn’t gonna come,” he admitted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Did a bit of thinking and… I was scared I freaked you out.”
Your heart thudded painfully. “You didn’t, I promise.”
He looked at you with that wide-open gaze that always undid you.
“I kept thinking about it,” he said. “About why I dreamed of you.”
Your fingers curled against the counter. Fig, on his perch behind you, let out the softest warning trill.
Bucky went on, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I thought maybe you… I don’t know. I… I thought maybe I’ve been seeing too much of you.”
You opened your mouth—but Fig flapped a hard THWIP of wings.
“But then I realised,” he admitted sheepishly. “I could never have too much of you.”
You met his eyes. “You… what?”
He hesitated. “I think… I’ve felt like this for a while now.” He lifted the flowers slightly. It was awkward, sweet, almost bashful.
“I don’t want it to just be a dream,” he said. “I want it to be real. I want us to be real. So…”
He took a deep breath.
“Would you maybe go out with me?”
For a good five seconds, you only stared at him.
You should tell him.
You almost did.
But then Fig let out a pointed chirp from behind you.
Not yet, he seemed to say.
So, you smiled—nervous, but sincere.
“Sure,” you said, trying to play it off as casual.
His brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t believed you’d say it. “Yeah?”
You stepped around the counter, closing the space between you. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And for the first time since you met him, you saw the weight on his chest loosening.
He held out the flowers, finally, with a shy smile. “I’m not great at this… anymore.”
“You’re doing just fine.” You chuckled, taking the bouquet from his hands. It was wild and imperfect and beautiful, just like your magic.
—
The day say he took you out, it was raining again.
Thankfully, it was the good kind, the kind that gave the streets that shimmer like everything’s been kissed by silver. You’d always loved nights like this, when the world felt like a mystic secret.
Bucky had offered to pick you up at your place.
You told him to meet you at the shop instead. It felt right. It felt like you now had gone full circle.
When he arrived, you were already waiting in the doorway with a tiny umbrella, saying goodbye to Fig, who was tucked into his little cosy corner. He wouldn’t shut up, not until Bucky knocked on the door, and you were convinced he sensed what kind of night this would be.
Bucky looked unfairly good. He adorned simp clothes — a dark sweater and stormy-blue jacket he’d worn a few times — and that nervous smile you had come to crave.
He held out a hand.
“You ready?”
You nodded.
—
The place you chose for your first date wasn’t fancy.
It was a tucked-away little bistro down the block, with candles flickering in mismatched holders and tables close enough to each other to hear laughter, but not close enough to interrupt it. You were seated by a window, and Bucky was across from you.
Going on a date with Bucky felt daunting at first. But now… that you were actually in it… it felt natural.
You had both eaten, talked, laughed a little — but it wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and your dessert had arrived that the room shifted.
Bucky had been watching you all night.
Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing every little expression, every gesture.
Like he wanted to know you.
Your fingers curled around the ceramic mug in your hands.
“Can I tell you something?” you said, voice quiet.
He leaned in slightly. “Of course.”
You hesitated, before looked him straight in the eyes.
“You said you dreamed of me. Of… us.”
His mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, not quite not. “Yeah.”
“It was… because of tea I gave you.”
“Worked like magic,” he confirmed, almost wry.
“Bucky, I’m trying to tell you…” You swallowed hard. Fuck, here goes nothing. “That it wasn’t a normal blend.”
The silence that followed was short enough, but it made your heartbeat pick up. His brow ticked, and he set his desert spoon down carefully. “Okay…”
“I don’t normally do this,” you started, sighing. “I never do this. I have rules. You know I make regular blends—“
“Regular?” Bucky chimed in, furrowing his eyebrows.
“—for sleep, anxiety, energy,” you continued anyway, “but that night, you said that you hadn’t slept in weeks. and I—” your voice caught, “—I panicked. I didn’t have anything in the shop that would worked that I didn’t try already.”
The night flashed before your eyes — the hollow look in his eyes, the way his voice had been almost brittle.
“So I… ran across the street to my apartment. And I used a spell.”
Bucky blinked, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “…A spell. Like actual magic.”
“Yes.”
You could see him process it, in the way a faint crease formed between his brows, the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.
His voice came quieter. “You didn’t tell me.”
You felt the blood rush to your ears. “You… didn’t want to know.” You explained, looking down in guilt. “Remember? That night, you said you didn’t want to know what was in it.”
“It sounds like you put something in my head,” he said, not unkind, but blunt.
Your stomach turned. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
“It’s a spell meant to ease nightmares. It doesn’t control, doesn’t twist. It just… reveals.”
He sat back slightly, studying you. You could see the flicker of wariness in his eyes, and it made your chest ache.
“Reveals what?”
Fuck.
“Their… their greatest desire,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Oh.
He leaned back, his expression warping. It wasn’t anger. But you couldn’t quite place where it fit.
“And what I saw in the dream… was you.”
“Yes.”
The candlelight flickered between you, catching the edge of his metal knuckles where his hand rested on the table.
He ran a hand over his face. “You’re an actual witch,” he said finally, looping back to the fact.
“…Yes.”
“Like, sorcery?”
“No. Sorcery’s learned. I was born with it. I work with potions.”
He shook his head, staring down at the table. “I should’ve guessed. Wong’s walked out of your shop before. And Fig… I swear he talks sometimes.”
Your nodded. “He does.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You know I’ve had my mind messed with before. That dream… it didn’t feel wrong. But it was still… I don’t know. I don’t like thinking someone else had a hand in it.”
You stared at him. “You think I made you see me?”
“I think you gave me something that made me see something I didn’t know I wanted,” he said quietly.
Your chest tightened. “It can’t create anything that isn’t already there.”
He looked at you like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know if he should.
“And you?” he asked. “If you drank it, what would you see?”
You hesitated. “…I did.”
His brows lifted slightly.
“And?”
“I saw you.”
That landed between you like a dropped stone disturbing a waveless ocean.
Bucky’s eyes darted away. His shoulders shifted restlessly. “I… I gotta go.”
Your stomach dropped. “Bucky—”
“It’s not—” He stood abruptly, fumbling for his jacket. “It’s not that I’m... I just… I need to think.”
The chair legs scraped so against the worn wood floor as he moved back.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
He hesitated a moment longer, looking at you. Then he nodded once, like he was answering a question only he’d asked himself, and turned toward the door.
You just sat there in the glow of candlelight, your hands curled around the cold desert spoon.
—
Bucky didn’t knock as he reached the 177A Bleecker Street.
He figured if Strange really didn’t want visitors, the Sanctum Sanctorum would’ve swallowed him whole the second he stepped on the stoop.
Instead, the door creaked open on its own, and there was the sorcerer himself, one brow arched in that perpetual look of annoyed judgment.
“Barnes,” Strange said dryly. “You’re a long way from Brooklyn.”
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Needed to… talk to someone who’d get it.”
“‘It’ being…?”
Bucky hesitated. “…Magic.”
That actually earned him a flicker of genuine curiosity from Strange. “Alright.”
The Sanctum smelled faintly of incense and something older, like paper and storms. Strange led him down a long hall and into a high-ceilinged library, gesturing to a pair of mismatched chairs in front of a low table.
Strange said, flicked his wrist to summon a cup. “You like Earl Grey?”
Bucky followed him inside, glancing around the vast space. “Not much of a tea guy lately.”
“Oh, right,” Strange said lightly, leading him toward the library while sipping the brew. “You’ve already been drinking something far more potent.”
Bucky stopped in his tracks. “…You know?”
Strange turned with the faintest smirk on his mouth. “Barnes, I know exactly who runs that little shop you’ve been visiting. I also know exactly what kind of magic she works with, who’s been there. She’s supplied Kamar-Taj for years. Her blends are high-quality, magical or not. Wong swears by her migraine remedy. I’d trust her brewing over most trained potion masters I’ve met.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “So you know she—”
“Gave you a desire spell?” Strange cut in. “Yes. And judging by the fact that you’re here, I’d say it worked.”
Bucky’s teeth clenched. “I saw her. In the dream.”
“You’re afraid it was compulsion.” Strange said, like he’d been expecting this. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah. After what I’ve been through—”
“I know,” Strange cut in gently. “But no. It wasn’t compulsion.”
Bucky looked up. “How can you be so sure?”
Strange leaned back in his chair, watching him with that unsettling kind of stillness. “Because she came to Kamar-Taj the day after she found out you saw her. She was rattled. Wouldn’t stop apologizing. Wanted to know if it was unethical. Told me she never, ever uses magic in her shop. That she only did it because you looked like you looked like shit. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”
Bucky froze. “…She said that?”
Strange nodded. “She didn’t want to change you. She didn’t even want to risk revealing herself to you. She just—” He gestured loosely, as if the right word was somewhere in the air. “—couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that.”
Bucky swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the tea cup.
“What she used,” Strange continued, “wasn’t suggestion. It wasn’t manipulation. It’s a mirror. It brings forward what’s already there — a truth you’ve either ignored or haven’t admitted to yourself. It reveals. And revelation, in this case, is a gift.”
Bucky’s brows drew together. “So it was me.”
“It was always you,” Strange said simply. “She just cleared the fog.”
Bucky stared at the steam curling from his tea. The memory of that dream — the sound of your laugh, the warmth in your eyes — burned fresh in his mind. He’d told himself it was too vivid, too convenient. But if Strange was right…
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low.
“Barnes,” Strange said, faintly exasperated, “I’ve seen enough true desire reflections to know one when I hear about it. You think I’d be this calm if she’d tampered with your mind? I’d have half the Masters here dismantling every floorboard in her shop, and she’d lose both her shop licenses and the potion license.”
That startled a small, reluctant smirk out of Bucky. “…Guess you would.”
Strange’s expression softened just slightly. “You trust her, don’t you?”
Bucky looked down at his hands and nodded.
Strange sipped his tea, watching him. “I assume she didn’t tell you because she knows your history. And, if I may, she’s probably terrified of hurting you.”
Bucky’s voice was quiet. “She was.”
Strange tilted his head. “So… are you going to let this stop you from being honest with her now?”
Bucky was quiet for a moment, then stood up abruptly. “…I gotta go.”
Strange didn’t stop him. He just smiled faintly, as if this had been the plan all along. “Send Fig my regards.”
Bucky paused. “You know about Fig?”
“Of course,” Strange said with a wave of his hand. “That bird glares at me every time I visit. He thinks I’m trouble.”
Bucky huffed, almost laughing as he pushed the door open.
—
Bucky didn’t go back to the shop immediately, even if his body wanted to.
He told himself it was because he was busy with mission reports, training schedules, and repairs to his gear but really, he was avoiding you.
He walked the length of Manhattan twice the next day with his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down. The streets were loud, crowded, and full of people brushing past without a second glance. It should have been easy to get lost in it, but no matter where he went, his mind kept circling back to the same thing: why you hadn’t texted or called.
You probably wanted to give him some space.
So on the first night, he didn’t dream at all. Just tossed and turned until dawn, chasing sleep that wouldn’t stick.
—
The second day, he tried distracting himself.
He hit the gym, hard. He ran on the treadmill for a run until his lungs burned and the machine short-circuited from overuse. He did all his laundry. He cooked for the first time in weeks. It was a simple scrambled eggs and toast, but still ended up not touching most of it away.
When Yelena and Bob brew their teas, their custom blends that you sold them, and wondered if they knew you were magical.
Probably not.
The truth was, he wasn’t mad at you the way he thought he’d be.
It was the memory of the look on your face when you’d confessed. You were not defensive, not smug — guilty. And perhaps, he realised after a bit of thinking, that what hurt most of all was how you thought you had to hide your identity from him.
By nightfall, he’d found himself outside your shop without meaning to. The lights were off, the CLOSED sign swaying gently in the summer breeze.
He didn’t knock, knowing you’d be in bed by now. So he just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the faint reflection of his own tired face in the glass, before walking away.
—
The third day, he gave in.
The tin of tea you’d given him, the one from that night, was still in his cupboard. He’d been avoiding it like the plague, but now he set it on the counter, staring at the label you’d written in a looping script.
It felt strange, making it again. He’d seen you brew tea so many times, the careful measure of leaves, the way you swirled the water just right, but he never really brewed it like you.
It was never… just right.
Still, when the steam rose, it smelled like your shop.
It smelled like… safety.
Bucky wrapped his hands around the mug, sipped, and sat at the shared kitchen table in the new avengers tower.
Within a few minutes of finishing the tea, he walked back to his room. He didn’t fight the warmth creeping in.
—
In the dream, he was standing in your shop again, the light golden through the windows, Fig chattering softly from his perch.
You were behind the counter, head bent over a notebook, and when you looked up, your whole face lit up like you’d been waiting for him.
You were brewing a potion for Strange, completely in your element, while Fig greeted him.
—
When he woke, he sighed in content before he could stop himself.
Fuck.
The dream hadn’t been a trick. He knew that now.
Magical or not, he’d missed you. He missed that feeling of being wanted without needing to earn it, that place felt safe just because you were there.
By the time he set the mug in the sink that morning he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to let four days stretch into five.
—
Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about you throughout the day.
And if you were really his own greatest desire, then… hell.
It took him the entire day, though, to actually go through with meeting you.
—
When he did decide it was time, your shop was already closed.
So he walked across the street where he vaguely knew where you lived.
He didn’t know your exact apartment number. You’d never given it to him, and he’d never asked. But he remembered you saying once that you lived “across the street, in the building with the green awning.”
The lobby was quiet. Bucky found the elevator, pressed the button, and stared at the rows of doors when it dinged open.
Second floor.
No names on the mail slots. Just numbers.
Great.
He started with the first one on the left.
He knocked once, waited and got no answer.
Second door — same thing.
Third door, he heard footsteps, but it was an elderly man with a newspaper, blinking at him in confusion before Bucky apologised.
By the fourth door, Bucky was starting to think maybe he’d have to knock on every single one in the building.
He lifted his hand…
…and something small and peach streaked past his ear.
Bucky looked, catching sight of a familiar flash of feathers before it landed on the hallway railing.
“Fig?”
The parakeet chirped impatiently before taking off again, fluttering halfway down the hall before stopping to glance over its shoulder at him.
Bucky frowned. “You want me to follow you?”
Fig chirped and waited just long enough for Bucky to catch up before darting toward the far end of the hallway, and up a couple flights of stairs before finally settling on a specific door and tapping his beak against it like he was in on the plan.
Bucky stared. “You… showed me the way.”
Fig seemed to say, duh.
He raised his hand and knocked.
You opened the door in an oversized sweater, hair messy, blinking like you’d just changed into cosy home clothes.
“Bucky?”
He had a whole speech planned — something about thinking things through, about needing to talk, about not wanting to leave things hanging between you — but it all died in his throat the moment you looked at him like that.
“I… uh,” he started, then glanced down the hall toward Fig, who was still perched like a tiny feathered soldier. “Your bird sold you out.”
You blinked, then looked past him. “Really?”
The parakeet chirped triumphantly.
“Traitor,” you muttered at him, but when you looked back at Bucky, your voice was gentler. “Why… are you here?”
He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I drank the tea again.”
Your brow furrowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I still saw you. And… I missed you.”
For a second, you didn’t say anything.
“I had to knock on four doors before Fig found me,” he said with the faintest trace of a smile. “Was ready to go through the whole building.”
Your brows lifted. “You were going to knock on all thirty four apartments?”
“Would’ve found you eventually.” His voice was certain, and you had the feeling he meant more than just your apartment.
“I… didn’t want to think I needed magic to want you.” His jaw tightened briefly before he shook his head. “Turns out, I didn’t. I already did.”
You didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath until it left you in a rush. “…Bucky—”
“I’m glad you told me,” he said.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Fig chirped once, as if in approval. Then, as if even he understood, took off into the night without a backward glance.
Then Bucky smiled, knowing Fig had given the two of you privacy, and stepped closer. “So… can I come in? Maybe stay awhile?”
Of course he did.
—
Five months later…
At first, Bucky thought it was part of a dream — a faint tug at his hair, an insistent pressure at his shoulder. Then came a high-pitched noise he thought his brain had conjured up.
Then it happened again.
He cracked one eye open. The dawn light was shining through the curtains, and sitting on the pillow two inches from his face was Fig with his feathers puffed, letting out the same shrill little chirp again and again, like an alarm clock with wings.
“…No,” Bucky muttered, rolling over and dragging the blanket higher. “Go away.”
But Fig wasn’t having it. He hopped onto Bucky’s shoulder, gave him a surprisingly firm nip, then chirped louder.
Bucky groaned. “Kid, it’s not even nine.”
From beside him, came a muffled laugh.
You were half-buried in pillows when your head just enough to see your parakeet perched proudly atop the former Winter Soldier, who looked far more beleaguered by a six-inch bird than by any mission briefing.
“Morning,” you said sleepily.
That got Bucky moving.
He turned immediately, pressed a slow, unhurried kiss to your lips, then mumbled against your skin, “Much better alarm clock.”
You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re supposed to be up.”
“Not if I don’t wanna be.” He tucked himself against your side, burying his face in your shoulder like he could hide from the world. “Why’s Fig got it out for me this time?”
Fig chirped something emphatic.
You stretched, still smiling. “He says John Walker sent him.”
That made Bucky sit up, blinking. “…What?”
“Mmhm.” You yawned, brushing your nose against his. “Fig’s just doing his job. The one you said he should do.”
Bucky cracked an eye at the bird. “He’s been doin’ it a little too well. I can’t get away with anything these days.”
Fig puffed up, chirping smugly, and hopped off the bed. You stretched, rolling onto your back.
To be fair, Fig knows the route to the Tower better than any GPS by now.
Because before Fig became Bucky’s wake-up call, he’d been your little courier. After that night, you’d send love letters, and Fig would ferry the between the tea shop and the Tower.
You could’ve just texted, of course, but it was different with physical notes. It was tangible, permanent, and Bucky loved it because he could tuck in a pocket and reread on long nights.
The others at the Tower teased him relentlessly for it. Alexei once caught him tucking one of your notes into the chest pocket of his jacket before a briefing, and the cutesy-laughter didn’t stop for weeks.
Not that he cared.
Still, that’s how the team had learned what you were, too. Somewhere between the delicate wax seals, the faint scent of herbs clinging to the envelopes, and Fig swooping in and out like he owned the place, they figured you were a witch.
Oh that, and Strange barged in while Ava and Bob was in one day with a little dragon-like creature, begging for a magical anaesthetic mix that could knock it out enough for Strange to surgically remove a magical thorn from its spine.
And oddly, once the word was out, it wasn’t a scandal. Everyone just sorta accepted it. You supposed that had seen weirder things.
From the bedpost, Fig let out another bossy chirp.
“Living room, Fig,” you called gently. “We’ll be out in a bit.”
The little bird gave a final huff (or as close as a bird could manage) and fluttered off, leaving your bedroom.
Bucky shifted closer again, wrapping you in his arms and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Y’know,” he started. “We could use a witch on missions.”
You snorted, swatting his chest. “Oh sure. What am I gonna do, force-feed an evil secret agent truth potion?”
“Could work,” he said, deadpan.
You gave him a playful look. “I have a shop to open in an hour.”
“Mean,” he whispered, but he didn’t let go of you.
You brushed your hand through his hair fondly. “Clingy.”
“Yeah, well,” he admitted, not a single filter between his mind and his mouth as his metal arm rubbed gentled circles on your hip, “I love you.”
The words landed between you so naturally that you almost missed it.
This was the first time he ever said it.
You blinked at him. “What?”
He blinked back, suddenly aware of what he’d said. But then he nodded. “I… I do love you.”
Oh.
Wow.
“I love you too.” You smiled
And a grin emerged across his face. It was boyish and almost shy, and it was worth every bit of the waiting.
He kissed you again, nothing rushed, before Fig’s chirp echoed from the living room.
“Your alarm clock is impatient,” you muttered against his lips.
Bucky groaned into your mouth. “Can’t even enjoy sayin’ it for the first time without him chirping in.”
Fig chirped again but this time he flew out of the window, as if saying, I’ll tell Walker you’re going to be late again.
As his hands found your hips, you realised, boy, was he going to be very late.
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