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Boris Pavlikovsky | Goldfinch | From strangers to lovers
Boris Pavlikovsky | Goldfinch | After the fight with his father
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Fandoms: Stranger Things, Goldfinch, Hannibal, Beetlejuice, Heathers, Arcane, Shameless, Alice in Borderland, Dead Poets Society, Fargo, Anne with an e, and many, many others...
Music: Glass Animals, Maya Hawke, Djo, IAMX, Chappell Roan, Girl in red, Arctic Monkeys, Paramore, Panic! At the disco, Des Rocs, Get Scared, Grad!ent, Eminem, Lana Del Rey, Mother Mother, Pale Seas, The Neighbourhood, I don't know how but they found me, Call me Karizma, Slaves
Favourite writers/poets: Brodsky, Mayakovsky, Sylvia Plath, Sappho, Erich Maria Remarque, Émile Zola, Jean-Paul Sartre, Friedrich Nietzsche, Martin Heidegger, Søren Kierkegaard, Fyodor Dostoevsky and so on...
Summary: You've known Gator all your life. It's still a mystery to the two of you how you match together so perfectly. Your gentleness smoothed out his sharp rudeness. He was the ribs for your tender heart. And amidst the cruelty of this world and the wrong choices, you two are the only thing each other always has.
Tags/warnings: Gator Tillman x fem!reader, childhood friends, from friends to lovers, slowburn, аbusive Roy Tillman, minor injury.
W/C: 2,2k
A/n: Thank you for waiting! I've been experiencing sleep problems and insomnia lately, which are interfering with my brain's ability to function properly. I try my best. Really enjoyed writing this chapter...
Chapter 3. A pinky promise.
Roy always says that people get used to the good things very fast, and Gator should not give in to that desire.
But so far, Gator is only used to bad things.
Saturday morning passes... Normally. Almost. Gator sits across from his father and feels the air electrified by this theatrical calmness. Roy is in a white linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves – he does that when he wants to seem simpler, closer to the people, showing that he works tirelessly, too.
"Just imagine, eight years ago this district was drowning in lawlessness. Drunken brawls, fights, thefts. And now? Now people greet me on the streets. They shake my hand, tip their hats, they respect me." Roy says proudly.
Linda nods frequently, adjusting the napkin on the table under the plate. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for the coffee pot to pour Roy more coffee, and Gator notices it, notices how he catches her gaze, and for a second, a frightening shadow flickers in his eyes. But only for a second. Then he takes her hand, kisses her knuckles, squeezes it and places it back on the table. Linda forces a smile in return. Gator isn't always a witness to how Roy treats Linda, but he sees how she flinches at every rustle. She hates what she's become over the years of marriage. She finds Roy repulsive, his rules, this life she spends trapped in a kitchen whose walls are soaked with grease, and a bedroom that muffles any cry for help.
Gator hopes he at least makes things a little easier. But so far, for Roy, he's only a constant disappointment, a dead branch on the family tree.
"God sees diligence." Roy continues. "He rewards those who take responsibility. For family. For people. For an entire district." He smiles, and his smile is wide, white-toothed, but Gator knows it too well. It's the smile of a man used to being obeyed. He says he was chosen, that he didn't seek power. It came to the right hands on its own. Because order is always needed, and a man is needed to maintain that order. And that man is he.
Gator chews his scrambled eggs in silence. The eggs are fried perfectly today, as always. Linda made sure, because badly cooked food can ruin Roy's good mood in an instant. It's too fragile. Like everything in this house.
"Yes, order is needed," Gator forces out when the pause becomes too long.
Roy nods approvingly. "You know, you're better than a lot of boys, Gator. You don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, you speak only when asked. The neighbor's brats just run around doing nothing and yelling." Roy suddenly leans across the table and claps his son on the shoulder. Gator feels the weight. This gesture is meant to be warm, fatherly, but inside, everything tightens because Gator knows: this approval is a reward for silence.
Roy plays the part of a model family man, hiding his despotic side, and everyone else can only guess what goes on in the house and never leaves the ranch.
Then Roy goes to the stables to look at the new horses and maybe ride around the area, check on those who've crossed the line of decency. Today, Roy will take it out on someone else.
Linda clears the table and starts preparing dinner. Gator doesn't like sitting in his room because it feels like he's being punished and locked up, so he sits in the kitchen doing homework at the table where Linda is chopping vegetables for soup nearby. She takes an apple from the basket, slices it, and slides the bowl toward Gator, then kisses the top of his head.
"Are you getting everything done?" She asks, nervously stirring the sauce with a small, nervous motion.
"Yeah, math is easy! I'm almost done." Gator finishes the last few equations and closes his notebook.
"Here, take the scraps to the animals." Linda hands him a metal bowl with vegetable peels and greens tops. Gator takes it and steps outside, heading toward the goat pen because it's the closest. He opens the gate and walks in, closing it behind him so the animals don't escape. Gator walks toward the kids, which are no longer tiny. Soon they'll need to be weaned from their mothers. Their horns have strengthened, and they play, butting heads with each other or against the fence. Gator gets too close, and it was probably a mistake to interfere in their game uninvited. One of the kids, the boldest and most spirited, freezes, sniffing the bowl in Gator's hands. He holds out a handful of scraps, and the animal takes a step forward, but instead of taking the treat, suddenly lowers its head.
Gator notices the movement too late.
He falls to the ground, feeling a sharp pain in his side. The bowl lies nearby, and Gator, covered in dirt and potato peels, watches the sky spin above him as he tries to gather himself.
"What are you doing sprawled out here?" A voice comes from above. Gator turns his head and sees his father sitting on horseback, looking down at him. With contempt. "Lying in the mud like a worthless pup."
"Mom told me to take the scraps," Gator says, struggling to push himself up on his elbows. A red stain spreads across his shirt.
"Mom told you. Well, run along to your equally good-for-nothing mommy." Roy sneers with sarcasm: he's known since Gator was born that there's nothing of the Tillmans in him."You couldn't even fight back, and it's not a human, just a beast. I praised you this morning, and it's clearly affecting you negatively. I said get up."
"I... I..." Gator holds on with all his might not to cry in front of his father.
"Don't go outside the ranch today. The last thing I need is you humiliating yourself in front of the neighbors in the first puddle you find. Go." Roy tugs the reins, and the horse snorts before heading toward the field.
Gator gets up. It doesn't actually hurt that much, he was just scared. He brushes off the dirt, picks up the bowl, and heads home. He feels ashamed for adding to Linda's worries and for making his father angry. Standing in front of the door, Gator first examines the wound himself, assessing how bad it is. A shallow scratch, bleeding a little.
"Mom?" Gator calls out loud enough for Linda to hear, but not sharply so as not to startle her. He walks toward the kitchen. She's already turned off the soup on the stove and gotten out the first-aid kit because she saw what happened through the window. A frown lies between her brows, but Gator can't tell if it's stern or pitying. Gator puts the bowl in the sink and walks over to his mother, head lowered, the way he usually approaches his father. "I'm sorry."
"Show me." Gator lifts the hem of his shirt. Linda silently cleans it and puts on a plaster. She sees how Gator has wilted and become quiet. She takes his hands in hers and squeezes them. She understands Roy's anger and knows what awaits them when he returns and reproach her and Gator at lunch. Linda hopes with all her heart that he won't turn out like his father. Gator is too soft to give harsh orders and solve everything with violence the way Roy does. And even if Roy manages to drill Gator into the man he wants him to be, Gator will never be able to take Roy's place. Roy simply won't allow it. "This isn't your fault, sweetheart."
Gator hugs her around the neck, and for a while they sit like that.
"It'll heal, and I'll wash and mend the shirt. Go change. And try to stay out of your father's way today." Linda strokes Gator's cheek and returns to cooking.
Gator goes to his room and changes into a clean shirt and shorts. He decides to go outside and wander through the wasteland behind the barn, where the tall grass will hide him from everyone. He flattens the grass with his foot and sits down with his back against a pile of old boards eaten by wood-boring beetles.
He pulls his knees up and rests his head on his arms, hiding his face. The wound throbs with a dull ache deep inside. Gator sobs, because finally he can be alone, and no one will judge him except himself. Suddenly he hears someone making their way through the grass on the other side of the pile of boards.
"Gator! Where are you?" You search for him, pushing through the grass, and when you finally find him, he doesn't even lift his head to look at you. "There you are!"
"How did you find me?" He mutters, his voice trembling a little because Gator can't calm down that fast.
"I was waiting for you to come out of the house. I'm bored on my own." You notice, of course, that something's wrong with him. "Are you crying or what?" You never stood on ceremony and always asked directly, because you knew how he got lost amid poorly phrased requests and questions, expecting a trick or mockery.
"No." His voice still muffled from speaking into his knees.
You sigh, walk over to him, and crouch down to look at his face, sticking your head under the bend of his elbow. "Will you tell me?" But this doesn't cheer Gator up, and he turns away, curling into a ball. "Well, as you like." You shrug, and Gator hears the grass rustle again. He glances out of the corner of his eye, but you're not leaving. You sit a little further away and fuss with the grass, not looking at him, and it gets a little easier for him to start talking.
"Father said I'm a disgrace for our family." Gator begins, and you don't move: it seems to him that you're not listening, continuing with your own business. "Today he saw again how weak I am. He reminds me of it often, I already know it without him." The confession comes out on its own, everything that's built up spilling over. "Maybe I could have fought that goat off. I didn't have time, I didn't expect it. I'm pathetic."
"You're not pathetic, Gator." You answer. "You can learn to take a hit, but your father can hardly be fixed." That thought makes Gator pause.
"I'm tired of every step I take being wrong in advance. Even when I do what he wants." Gator sighs heavily.
"Everything can still change." You finally turn and look at him, and he no longer hides, though his eyes are a little red and his lashes are clumped with tears.
"Do you really think so?" Gator asks, because for him, all the days blur into one long nightmare that sometimes mixes with colourful dreams.
"Everything changes gradually. It's just not always noticeable right away." You come closer and sit next to him, reaching out your hand.
Gator places his palm on yours. "Us too?"
"Us too." You nod. You slip a ring made from a clover flower onto his finger. It's a little small. He looks at the spot where you were sitting, and there are many plucked blades of grass lying there, because you couldn't get it right on the first try. That's what he likes about you: you don't give up, you keep going until you get it right. He looks into your eyes, then at his hand. Gator smiles. And you laugh too, covering your mouth with your hands, and on each of your fingers there's one flower. "I don't want this to change."
"What?" You brush the hair from your eyes, tousled by the wind.
"Our friendship. I want to have our friendship no matter what."
"No matter what. Always." You hold out your pinky to seal the promise, and the clover flowers on your fingers catch on each other. You lean in, and at first, he doesn't understand what you're doing. You're dangerously close. But you just touch your forehead to his temple and nudge him jokingly.
"Hey, I've had enough for one day, have mercy." Gator smiles crookedly.
You don't answer, just pull him closer with one arm around his shoulder and hug him, because you know he needs it. And Gator flinches a little when you squeeze him, pressing too hard on the bandage. He immediately checks to see if the wound has started bleeding again. You check too, though there's not much to see since it's all covered with the plaster.
"Actually, scars are cool. I heard somewhere that scars make a man. But I think it applies to anyone. They are almost like memories." Another wonderful trait of yours – you turn bad things into good ones. Maybe that's why you and Gator get along so well, because you have some optimism he lacks, and he has the seriousness that he teaches you when you need it. "Come on, the wild strawberries in the lowlands are ripe." You stand up, and Gator hesitates for a moment before following you.
Today he'll trust your optimism.
Taglist: @dreamerjj
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Summary: Trinity is taking part in a scientific conference in France, and you've been assigned as her interpreter.
W/C: 2,8k
A/n: I finally decided to post this here. My friend loves Trinity (as much as I do), and she's also a translator (me too). She's been asking me to write this story, so why not share it with you?
More than anything, Trinity hates making mistakes.
Maybe in the past, it was just a form of perfectionism, a way to prove to herself and others that she was worth something. That viscous, sticky feeling that creeps into her mind and grows like a tumor in her brain when she realizes she didn't consider a variable, underestimated a factor, or overestimated a person she decided to rely on. And this applied to everything: a word accidentally said in the wrong tone in a conversation with Whitaker or Javadi, an incorrectly chosen route to the clinic when she wanted to avoid traffic but ended up being late anyway, a person she clearly shouldn't have fallen for because they, as it turned out, perceived their relationship completely differently. All of this meant she'd better bite off her tongue than admit to a miscalculation or an omission. At work, this turned into sleepless nights when she double-checks reports and analyses because her anxious Cancer-ascendant intuition suggests something's wrong, but logic insists everything is fine.
Making a mistake for Trinity means losing to herself, and she has no intention of accepting this defeat.
The only choice she was certain about was choosing pediatrics over surgery, which she had originally wanted.
Every day, walking into the hospital, she feels her habit of controlling everything around her stop being tyranny and become a kind of salvation. She can tell from parents' behavior that they're not telling the whole truth about symptoms, or if a patient is hiding that something is not okay. She can hear the faintest wheeze in a child's lungs that might seem normal to other doctors and conducts an additional examination to rule out worst-case scenarios.
Pediatrics took her fear of error and turned it into uncompromising dedication to her work. It unlocked her potential and best qualities: sensitivity, attentiveness, understanding. She knew from her own experience what children could go through and how important it was to be perceptive enough to spot signs in time to prevent something scarier than the illness itself.
Here Trinity realized she was exactly where she belonged.
So when she was invited to speak at the upcoming conference, she agreed without hesitation – it was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate her capabilities and present her research. And now she had arrived in Paris with the other doctors. Of course, Paris greeted her in all its splendor and perfection, but she had no time to enjoy exquisite pastries and cuisine or sightseeing. Instead, Trinity re-read and revised her speech over and over, trying to find flaws that didn't exist. Everyone kept encouraging her, assuring her that everything would go well, but Trinity couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if someone found an inaccuracy in her statistics and data, or asked a question she wouldn't able to answer.
She couldn't freeze on stage.
The conference started in just three hours, but Trinity already needed to get ready and head downstairs to go with the others to the convention hall. Besides, she was told that it was better to arrive early to meet the interpreter and find common ground, because the conference would be held in French.
Trinity and her team arrived at the conference venue. They were given badges and programs so they could check the order of presentations and were shown into the hall where they would give their speeches. Trinity stood waiting for the organiser to come over and introduce her to the interpreter.
"Dr. Santos!" A voice calls out.
Trinity turns and sees the organiser hurrying toward her, followed by a girl – presumably the interpreter. She is about Trinity's age, with a sharp gaze and a confident stride, like someone who needs to be imperceptible and indispensable at the same time.
"Allow me to introduce your interpreter. She's been working as a conference interpreter for six years and specializes in pediatrics."
"Nice to meet you." You extend your hand and shake Trinity's, noticing it's slightly damp. Trinity can't wipe her palms on her new trousers or blazer without losing face with one awkward gesture.
The organiser leaves you alone.
"So, Dr. Santos, I've reviewed your abstracts. It's an excellent work!" You start the conversation, and Trinity raises her eyebrows in surprise. "I'd like to go over a few terminology clarifications in the biomarkers section. I'm not changing anything, but we need to make sure the French audience hears exactly what you mean."
"Yes, of course, let me explain..." You and Trinity go over debatable points and highlight especially important moments that should be emphasised.
"I think it's better to translate in blocks rather than phrases so the narrative thread doesn't get lost. So speak one paragraph at a time until you've completed a thought. You'll have time to prepare the next part while I translate." You suggest.
"Yes, that's fine. I'll speak not too fast and with pauses in the right places so you know where to place accents." Trinity is nervous and crumples the edge of the paper.
"I think we're ready." You smile at her, and Trinity realises you've noticed her anxiety. "And don't worry, everything will go wonderfully."
"Thank you." Trinity nods at you, watching as you head backstage, waiting for the presentation to begin.
The hall quickly fills with people, and Trinity can hear the hum of English and French mixing into a single stream of noise. In the front rows sit doctors and professors, further back researchers and medical students. Trinity remembers being a student like that once, somehow convinced she would be a surgeon. And maybe today's presentation would help someone find their true calling.
Trinity hears herself being introduced, and she steps onto the stage, clutching her folder. Spotlight hits her face, and she sees hundreds of eyes turned toward her. But Trinity catches your gaze as you approach and stand beside her. You give her an almost unnoticeable nod, and Trinity suddenly feels calmer for some reason.
She begins to speak. Her presentation is dedicated to the latest research on cross-allergies. She talks about various allergic reactions, Quincke's edema, skin rashes, and itching in the oral cavity.
You translate. French flows beautifully but sounds firm at the same time, and Trinity, even without knowing the language, understands that you're correctly placing intonation, mirroring her manner of speaking.
Then Trinity presents statistics and clinical cases, concluding the presentation with a speech about future prospects and the creation of new-generation medications. She answers questions from the audience, which you translate as clearly and thoroughly as possible so Trinity can orient herself.
You both enjoy your tandem – this ideal balance.
The audience applauds as Trinity finishes her presentation. She goes backstage and slips quietly into the hall, but can no longer find you.
You step outside for some fresh air because your brain is buzzing with tension. But you're pleased with yourself, because you carry double responsibility: not to disgrace yourself and not to let down the person you're translating for. And when someone asks questions, the entire communication rests on you, and your job is to make sure it goes smoothly.
When you notice crowds of people appearing in the hallways, you realise the conference is over and everyone is heading to the banquet hall. You want to leave, but you're not one to turn down free snacks, so you follow a group of guests inside.
You stand in a corner, having previously taken a glass of a drink, which is offered by the waiters. You are used to merging with the environment, giving a voice when the situation requires it, probably it is some part of the professional deformation, and there are no people here with whom you can make small talk.
Suddenly you notice Trinity, standing alone as well. You decide to observe her for a while. Honestly, you even like her. Trinity is beautiful, in her own way, with all her sternness – not seeking attention but demanding respect. Her trousers have perfectly pressed creases, and her blazer has not a single wrinkle, although you saw her pull herself up when she tried to put her hands in the pockets out of habit. But behind that strict facade lies softness. You could tell from how tenderly she spoke about the children she'd correctly diagnosed and helped.
And she, like you, is constantly on the periphery.
Several doctors talk to her, but she doesn't seem particularly interested. Her gaze carries fatigue, more from the weight of responsibility than from the speech itself. Trinity replies briefly and is left alone again. She sets her half-empty glass on the edge of a table and walks away behind columns.
You follow her but lose sight of her. You keep turning around, scanning the crowd, and completely fail to notice someone standing in front of you.
"Oh." You look up. And there she is – Trinity. "Sorry."
"It's fine." Her expression softens. "Are you looking for someone?"
"No." And you find the absurdity of the situation a little funny. "Just observing."
"Observing whom?" Trinity leans against a column and smirks slyly.
"Just... people." You shrug, pretending nonchalance.
"And am I one of your subjects of observation?" She laughs at your flustered expression. "You're a much better interpreter than a elusive observer."
"Sorry, I don't know anyone here except the organiser and you." You step closer to Trinity so people behind you can pass by the exit.
"I'm joking. But you are a real professional at what you do. Not a single stumble, and you seem so confident." Trinity coughs into her fist, as if unaccustomed to giving compliments, which adds sincerity to her words. "You don't just translate mechanically, you feel it, I don't know how to describe it."
"Thank you. Your research is groundbreaking. I can't estimate it as a professional, of course, but as a patient, I think it's really important."
Trinity usually says "I know" or nothing at all, but you sound so warm, as if you genuinely want to talk to her longer, steering the conversation from professional to something more personal. "Actually, it's a more common problem than many people think."
"As a child, doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. They'd give me pills and send me home, and I'd keep itching for days... Sorry, I guess a rash isn't the best topic for discussion." You feel awkward.
"No, not at all. I'm glad my research turned out to be useful for someone." Trinity looks past you. "I think someone's heading our way, and I'm really not in the mood for an intellectual conversation. Would you mind leaving?"
"I was just about to do it." You both laugh and walk out of the building. Evening Paris hits you in the face: warm wind, the noise of passing cars, the smell of roasted chestnuts, and the light of streetlamps reflected in shimmering flares on the wet pavement. It has rained recently, and the air has become clean and humid.
"Where we going?" You ask.
"Actually, this is my first time here. I only know that the Eiffel Tower lights up at night."
"Seriously? You haven't been anywhere yet?"
"Well, I came here for work and spent the whole day preparing." A defensive note sounds into Trinity's voice.
"Then I'll show you the most beautiful places." You walk down the steps, and her shoulder brushes yours a couple of times.
"You must be a local, since you know everything so well." Trinity assumes.
"No, I'm from Pittsburgh too." You say, and Trinity is momentarily confused, but then realises that she was introduced at the conference. "I'm where the job is, here and there."
The showcases glow with warm yellow light, fragments of conversation and music drift from open windows, and in the park across the street, someone is playing the saxophone. Trinity slowly relaxes. She no longer adjusts her collar or straightens her blazer. Her shoulders drop, and she even allows herself to shove her hands into her trouser pockets.
Apparently, she's comfortable enough with you to not be extremely perfect.
But then two guys appear ahead. They walk toward you, too arrogantly and spreading wide, occupying almost the entire narrow street. One is wearing a tracksuit with a hood pulled over his head, the other – a leather jacket with worn elbows, holding a beer bottle. They're talking loudly in French. When they draw level with you, the one in the jacket suddenly steps sideways, blocking your path. Trinity bumps into you, staggering slightly, and stays there, pressed against your back.
"Careful, mademoiselle. Is Paris making your head spin so much you can't stand?" He speaks English with a heavy accent.
You straighten up, shielding Trinity with your shoulder, and your hand finds hers. You answer him in French, sharply and clearly. You frown, eyes narrowed.
The guys exchange glances; one mutters something and jerks his head, pulling the other back. They glance at you a few times, then walk away, and you continue on.
"I don't know what you said to them, but it was impressive." Trinity says, still not letting go of your hand.
"Such types pop up sometimes, you have to know how to put them in their place. They even apologized at the end." You smirk.
Your steps slow down on their own, as if you don't want the night to end. You reach a small square right in front of the Eiffel Tower. It looks enormous, so massive and delicate. Trinity gazes up, throwing back her head. But you've already seen the tower a hundred times, so you look at Trinity, at her clear profile, illuminated by honey-colored light. She suddenly turns to you and smiles so brightly that your pulse quickens.
"Just a few more minutes and..." All the words escape you.
At that moment, the tower lights up, and thousands of sparks flicker on all at once. It was truly an unforgettable sight: the entire city seemed to hold its breath. And when the last light at the top came on, the whole tower blazed, as if for a single spectator.
Trinity lowers her head and squeezes your hand tighter. You look at her, trying to read her thoughts.
Is she thinking about the same thing you are?
"You know, there's something here that deserves more attention." She leans in, and you meet her halfway. Your lips meet in a gentle kiss. Everything around becomes just background: the tower, people, lights. You draw back to take a breath, then pull Trinity closer again by the lapel of her blazer.
She promises herself to remember this night...
Months pass, and everything goes on as usual. After that night, nothing changed: it didn't go further than kisses, and after the walk you went back to your hotel rooms. Trinity didn't know if you'd return to Pittsburgh, but she hoped to see you in the hallway before the flight. But you weren't there, nor in the airport waiting area.
As they say, Paris is the city of love?
Apparently, love doesn't exist outside its borders.
Trinity does her morning rounds, asking patients about their well-being and any new symptoms. Chaos reigns in the corridor: people are being assigned to rooms, doctors walk back and forth with medications, and someone is being rushed to the ICU. Trinity steps into the corridor because she can see she's needed. She pulls on gloves and listens to the description of the problem: allergic reaction, Quincke's edema, breathing difficulties. And when Trinity finally looks at the gurney.
She sees you.
"Epinephrine intramuscularly!" Trinity acts quickly, without hesitation. She gives the injection to constrict blood vessels and open your airways. "Antihistamines and an oxygen mask."
You cough a few times when you can finally breathe again. A nurse brings an IV, and Trinity squeezes your hand as she places the catheter. You didn't even realise how fast it all had happened. You'd been sitting in a café, everything was fine, and then suddenly you felt it becoming harder to breathe. You called an ambulance anyway, even though you'd taken an antihistamine from the first-aid kit the waiter brought you, because you weren't getting any better. And now here you are. At first, you couldn't believe your eyes when you saw Trinity.
After all, the brain remembers the best things before death, right?
You slowly open your eyes and lie there, watching what's happening in the hallway. Trinity walks past, glances in at you, and steps into the room when she sees you're awake.
"I'd have preferred we meet again under more pleasant circumstances." She sits down on a chair beside you. "How are you? What's happened?"
"Much better now. I was betrayed by curry." You let out a quiet laugh.
"In that case, I'll have to treat you to dinner when you're discharged." Trinity looks at you, waiting for a response to her invitation.
"You saved my life. I think I'm the one who should be thanking you." You parry.
"Then you'll have to go on two dates with me. What do you think about that?" Trinity grins contentedly.
"Perfect." You squeeze her hand and smile back. "I'd kiss you, but I still can't feel my lips."
"That'll pass soon, and I have to maintain professional boundaries. I'll check on you later." Trinity leaves you and silently thanks Paris for meeting you.
Summary: Gator lost only one eye, but that doesn't make it any easier. Now he feels more pathetic and realises that his father was right about... Everything. This thought is more painful than any wound. It turned him not just into a cripple, but into a living proof of his worthlessness, making him insignificant not only in the eyes of others, but also in his own.
Summary: You're not in the mood, and Gator is very tired and doesn't seem to understand what's wrong, because he's doing everything he can. The misunderstanding between you turns into an argument, where both of you feel guilty. Will you be able to fix everything you've said to each other, or is this really the end?
Tags/warnings: angst, soft!gator, (mean?)reader in a bad mood, abusive Roy Tillman, difficult childhood, a little bit of intimacy, breakup(..?)
Tame me (sorry, I bite)
Summary: You've known Gator all your life. It's still a mystery to the two of you how you match together so perfectly. Your gentleness smoothed out his sharp rudeness. He was the ribs for your tender heart. And amidst the cruelty of this world and the wrong choices, you two are the only thing each other always has.
Tags/warnings: childhood friends, from friends to lovers, slowburn, angst, hurt/comfort, аbusive Roy Tillman, domestic violence.
Chapter 1. You came when I was begging for a friend.
Summary: Gator lost only one eye, but that doesn't make it any easier. Now he feels more pathetic and realises that his father was right about... Everything. This thought is more painful than any wound. It turned him not just into a cripple, but into a living proof of his worthlessness, making him insignificant not only in the eyes of others, but also in his own.
A/n: A couple of weeks ago, I had sleep paralysis because of anxiety and stress. I've never experienced it before, and it was very, very scary. I think it is something that could often haunt Gator under certain circumstances. And... Thank you so much for 50 subscribers! You mean a lot to me, thank you for your support! 🤲🫀✨
Gator has been sitting on a chair in the bathroom for several minutes now, unable to pull himself together to change his bandage.
He lost half of his world, and now it seems even flatter and duller. The remaining eye is like a mud-stained window in a prison cell, through which he can only see grayness and despondency. Every time he looks in the mirror, an ugly reminder of his failure stares back at him. There, beyond the silver surface, lives a stranger, a crooked freak whose single eye gleams with furious hatred. Gator hates his reflection. Hates this gaping void under the bandages, because it stares at him more intently than any healthy pupil, sucking out the last remnants of his self-respect.
Yes, he could ask you for help, but all he can manage is to snap at you. The words fly out of him like barbed wire, wrapping around you in a coil. Asking you for help would mean admitting that his maimed hands aren't even enough for a bandage. Gator was always clumsy, even without the cast on his arm and everything else... His head spins and aches because his brain still hasn't adjusted to the loss of one eye. On the very first day you picked him up from the hospital, he walked straight into a doorframe and split his eyebrow open, bleeding. That was the first and last time he let you help him, cleaning the cut and covering it with an adhesive plaster. He didn't like that feeling. Because calling you means plugging the last crack through which his pride still seeps. He'd rather let the wound fester, let the infection spread and devour him alive, than grovel to begging. After all, the decay inside has already begun, and now he spews venomous words, that he knows full well, hurt you, and you silently walk away, with your eyes downcast.
Gator stands up, a little unsteady, and braces himself against the sink. He's used to everything around him letting him down, and now he has to get used to his own body doing it. With one angry motion, he rips the bandage off his eye, leaving red sticky traces of plaster on his brow and temple. He opens the antiseptic bottle and soaks a cotton pad with it.
Looking in the mirror is unbearable. Instead of an eye, there's a hole, a pit, a hollow, a crater, surrounded by uneven flaps of skin crusted over. A second mouth, screaming silently. Gator runs the pad along the edge of the wound, with slow, perverse cruelty, as if teaching himself another lesson in pain. When the pad turns brownish-red with blood, he tosses it into the sink. Then he takes gauze, squeezes out some ointment, and presses it to his eye – or rather, to the place where it used to be – to fix it with a plaster. His fingers tremble, and the stiffness from the cast only makes it worse. The plaster sticks to his brow, the gauze slides sideways, exposing the rough edges. It all bunches up in folds. Gator crumples the bandage again. The scab on the wound cracks, and a drop of blood runs down near his nostril, like a crimson tear.
He leans closer to the mirror, and it fogs up from his breath. Gator is too absorbed and lost in himself to hear you enter the bathroom to pick up the laundry. He can't see you because his peripheral vision has become significantly worse. He only realizes you're standing behind him when he hears your short breath.
Gator flinches, turning his head, and in the mirror his gaze meets yours. He sees your eyes widen as they involuntarily drift across his face and settle on the place where the void gapes. He sees your brows draw together and a crease form between them – the precursor to sympathy. And Gator almost reads the entire palette of emotions on your face: from curiosity to shock. He never let you see him without the bandage, made you wait in the hallway, didn't let you enter the treatment room with him at hospital, and at home he hided in the bathroom to keep you from interfering.
His legs bend, and you step forward to catch him, but he braces himself against the shelf and waves you off, and you retreat toward the door. His whole body shakes with a nasty tremor. Gator covers his eye socket with his palm, and with his other hand grabs the cap from the antiseptic bottle and throws it – not at you, but close enough for you to understand the seriousness of his command. The cap bounces off the floor and lands at your feet.
"I told you to leave! Get out! Go!" Gator slams the door in your face, nearly catching his own fingers.
The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot.
He's never really angry at you, at least, not genuinely. Sometimes he pretends to grumble if something bothers him or if you're not paying him enough attention. He hates begging. But if something is given to him – he takes it. And right now, he's only angry at himself, at the fact that you saw him like this. He's useless. He can't drive you around town anymore because navigating space is too hard, let alone getting behind the wheel. He can't go to a restaurant with you, can't even step into a café, because all eyes would immediately turn to him like he's some bizarre curiosity. Rumors spread incredibly fast. He's not even a handsome accessory to show off to your friends anymore. Gator knew he was good-looking, enjoyed the attention from women. But more importantly, he knew you liked him, even though he pretended to hate it when you called him "my pretty boy" or something like that.
He's good for nothing.
Gator sits on the floor, his back against the door. He covers his head with his hands. The weight of the cast presses down, as does the silence after he heard your hurried footsteps in the hallway. He pushes you away again. Gator rubs his face, pressing on his eye socket. He deserves the pain, only pain and nothing else. Everything is ruined, and he wants to make it even worse, so that nothing can be fixed. Tear out his other eye, break his other arm, maybe even his legs.
His life is broken.
He is broken.
Gator stands up, tries to reapply the plaster, no longer even trying, just somehow. When he's done, he steps into the hallway, where semi-darkness greets him. You didn't turn on the bright lights, only the dim lamps that don't sting his eyes. Everything feels draped in a mourning veil, because something in him truly died.
Gator walks quietly to the bedroom. You're not here, but you've thoughtfully drawn the curtains so the morning sun won't shine in his eye. Now the curtains in your home are almost always drawn. He lies down on the bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin, hiding from everything around him.
A few minutes later, he hears you enter, stopping at the threshold. He's turned away, and you can't see if Gator is asleep. You take a few steps toward him, and he deliberately shifts to let you know he's awake. You lower yourself onto the bed, but he says nothing, and you take that as permission to lie down beside him. He knows that if he gives no sign, you'll go sleep on the uncomfortable couch. You shouldn't suffer because of him.
"Goodnight." You whisper, with the wrong intonation, because you wanted to add something you usually use to smooth over his bad moods: "sweetheart," "darling," "dear." And he almost feels your hand hovering over his side, ready to stroke him. But you say nothing, do nothing. You just lie down on the very edge and turn off the lamp.
The room plunges into darkness, and Gator falls asleep almost immediately.
But he doesn't know when sleep stopped being sleep.
At first, there was darkness, thick and dense. He walks through a space where there is nothing – a pristine, primal void, where the only sound is the hollow echo of his footsteps.
Gator walks forward until he notices a person. He's sitting, hunched over, hands resting on his knees. He doesn't move at all. Gator steps closer, cautiously reaches out, and shakes him by the shoulder. The instant Gator touches him, the man lifts his head.
And he has no face.
Where it should be, there's just a white, empty oval with blurred outlines, like an unfinished sculpture with just hints of facial features.
Gator doesn't immediately realize who it is, but he recognizes him. The build, the shoulders, the shape of the face.
It's himself. What's left of him.
Gator recoils in horror, falls onto his back, and wakes up.
But the darkness still lingers before his eyes.
Gator tries to focus his gaze, to make out anything: an object, a silhouette, a shade, a glimmer of light. But nothing changes. Only emptiness.
Did he go completely blind?
He tries to open his eye, but his eyelid won't obey, not a single muscle in his body works, and he can't move. Gator tries to shake his head, force his eye open, but nothing happens.
He doesn't feel that his body belongs to him – he's become a prisoner inside it. He can't see anything. Can't hear anything. Can't do anything. And it's so strange, to be trapped inside yourself, not in a skull, but somewhere deeper, in the subconscious.
It's all over.
He's lost everything.
And with that thought comes relief. He no longer has to do anything, no longer has to pretend or act as if anything can still be fixed. Everything is finally broken.
Maybe God heard him. Heard that he didn't want to look at himself. Now he won't see at all. Not you in the morning, bathed in sunlight, not your face, not your smile. And he doesn't need to see anything else in this life. Only you. And now he's going to poke around the corners like an old, blind dog that needs to be taken out into a field, tied to a post, and left there to die, because he doesn't deserve anything else. If he were you, he'd do the same thing to get rid of him.
He's no longer human – a monster, that faceless creature mimicking the most depraved human manners, lying in the dark, waiting for his body to decide it's time to stop.
And yet, somehow, he keeps trying. Gator almost catches that thread, which slips away again and again the moment he clenches his fist.
And at some point, Gator doesn't understand how it happens, his eyelid twitches, as if someone yanks him painfully back to life when he already had one foot in the grave.
Gator opens his eye.
The room is no longer pitch black, just dark, with a faint light from the streetlamp reflecting off the shiny surfaces.
He doesn't have the strength to get up. He turns his head and sees you. You're asleep, lying on the very edge, as if afraid to disturb him with your presence, afraid to take up too much space. He tries to reach you and shoves his heavy arm in the cast into your shoulder, and you flinch.
You immediately understand it wasn't an accident – he called you – and you turn to him. Sleep goes away without leaving a trace.
"Gator?" Your voice sounds anxious. You take a pillow and tuck it under his head because he's been tossing. "What has happened? A nightmare?" You touch his chest, but don't embrace him, so as not to overwhelm him.
"I thought... I couldn't see anything." He hears his heart pounding wildly under your hand.
"Look at me, can you see me?" You touch his cheek and turn his head toward you.
"Yes. Yes, I see you." His throat tightens, and he can't hold back anymore. Gator loses his composure, his lips trembling, tears streaming from his eye. He'd clenched his teeth, clenched his fists, never let himself spill out all the pain building inside. "I thought I'd never see you again. I don't know what it was. I couldn't move, couldn't... I was scared." The last words sounded like a foreign language, so unfamiliar to him. He'd never admitted to himself, let alone anyone else, his fears.
"Oh, Gator. Come here." He reaches for you, and you hug him under his arms. His body helplessly softens in your arms. "It must have been sleep paralysis. It happens. I'm here with you." He clings to you, afraid you'll vanish and this will be just another dream.
"I've never been so scared. Even when I lost my eye. I'm trying... trying to handle things on my own, to do even the simplest things without your guidance and supervision, but... Everything is so difficult now." He wants to say everything he's kept silent, so you understand why he hurt you so much, that it wasn't intentional.
"Gator, I told you I'd help anytime. You can call me, remember?" You stroke his head. And that touch, filled with tenderness, makes him cry even harder. He yelled at you, drove you away, got angry, threw things at you. This can't go on if you decide to stay. He can't keep letting you endure his outbursts just because you pity him.
"And then what? When your leave is over and you have to go back to work? Because I can do nothing now, and you know it perfectly well." Gator wants to let go of you, but his hands won't obey, and he grips the edge of your T-shirt tighter, crumpling it. "You deserve someone you don't have to fuss over, someone who can leave a room without crashing into a doorframe and pour their own tea without spilling it."
"Stop it, stop it, don't say that!" You're crying now. You understand Gator is trying to protect you from himself, but it's backfiring, and he's cutting to the bone. You can't bear to hear him devalue himself.
"No, don't cry over me. I'm not worth it." He wants to wipe your tears, and they drip onto his cast. "I don't know what to do. I'm afraid of losing you. But I'm even more afraid that if you leave, then I'll have nothing left."
"You think I'm only with you because I pity you?" You look him straight in the eye, then bury your face in his shoulder. Gator strokes your back, and finally he can hug you properly, freed from the paralyzing fear.
"Honestly, at first I did think that..." Right now, he wants everything to be honest. He's ready to turn himself inside out. Gator knew few people stayed. Some of them – only for a while. Then they leave, abandon you, when they think enough time has passed so it doesn't look like one of you is guilty.
"I'm crying because it hurts to see the person I love suffering and going through all this alone. It doesn't hurt because of what you say or do. It hurts because of how you treat yourself."
"I thought if I pretended I didn't care, you wouldn't see how scared I was. If I pushed you away, you wouldn't realize something was wrong with me." Gator sniffled, the bandage slides off his eye. "I can never be again the person you fell in love with..."
"Gator, you can't go back to being your old self, but you can keep fighting. You always get back up. Even when you fall. That's the strongest thing I've ever seen. You act like you're immune to pain, but I know you endure it. And you won't make things worse for me if you tell me what's going on inside you." You run your hand along his cheek, where the tape has peeled a little, and kiss him just below his eye. "I love you."
"I love you too. I'm sorry about today. And for everything before, for how I treated you." You hug him tighter, and he kisses your forehead several times. He missed your touch, because he'd kept you at arm's length all this time.
"We'll both try, and it'll work out. We'll talk if something's wrong, even if it isn't easy. We won't take offense and stay silent if one of us doesn't like something. We'll get through everything together, okay?" Gator nods at your words. "Let's change your bandage." You wipe away your tears and give a weak smile. He tries to smile back.
"Yes, okay." He wants to get out of bed, but you stop him.
"I'll get everything, stay here." You pat his shoulder, and he stays sitting in bed. He thinks about your reaction in the bathroom, about you having to see that void again and be horrified. You'll see him again. See him like this. Ugly, broken, half-empty.
He hears you return. Your steps are light but steady. You come into the room, carrying the antiseptic bottle, gauze, ointment, and scissors. You sit beside him on the bed, tap your fingertips on his knee to get his attention, and smile. Gator sits across from you and leans forward slightly so you can reach.
"May I?" You ask, touching his face to remove the bandage.
"Yes."
"Good. There we go." You peel off the tape much more gently than he did. "Oh, Gator, there's a little blood here. What has happened?"
Gator purses his lips. He doesn't want to lie to you or look more pathetic. "I wasn't very careful today."
"It's okay. It's fixable." You assure him. You dab at the eye socket, noticing how Gator tenses, nails dig into his palms. "Does it hurt?"
Gator quickly shakes his head. It's not the antiseptic that hurts – it's how much you do for him. "I'm sorry you have to fuss over me."
You smile at him, cupping his face in your hands. It makes his heart clench. "Never apologize for something that lets me be closer to you." You lean in and kiss him around his eye, on the bridge of his nose, his temple. He rubs his nose against your cheek, unsure if you'll want to kiss him on the lips. But you do. You press your lips to his. And Gator freezes. He hasn't kissed you since the day he came home from the hospital, wouldn't allow himself to. And now, finally, your lips touch his softly, almost weightlessly. He doesn't try to press harder or deepen the kiss. He just enjoys feeling the warmth of your breath, your fingers still resting on his cheeks.
His heart skips a beat – and then starts to beat faster, stronger, louder.
Summary: You've known Gator all your life. It's still a mystery to the two of you how you match together so perfectly. Your gentleness smoothed out his sharp rudeness. He was the ribs for your tender heart. And amidst the cruelty of this world and the wrong choices, you two are the only thing each other always has.
Tags/warnings: Gator Tillman x fem!reader, no use of y/n, childhood friends, from friends to lovers, slowburn, angst, аbusive Roy Tillman, domestic violence.
W/C: 1,8k
A/n: I passed all the exams perfectly! This means that I can post chapters more often! maybe two a week – on Mondays and Fridays approximately. The chapters are going to get sadder and darker, to be honest... Be ready to cry soon...
Chapter 2. Ceasefire.
Summer passed the way the most important things always do: impossibly slow when you're inside them, and dizzyingly fast when you look back.
It turned out that everything is twice as good when you do it with someone, and with your appearance in Gator's life, the world gained a few more colors.
He showed you where the blackberry bushes grew in the shaded lowlands. Gator left you waiting nearby while he crawled deep into the thicket, reaching for the ripest berries. You helped him pick the thorns out of his scratched hands, and then you ate the berries together, and the juice stained your palms and lips purple.
You brought him a slice of fresh apple pie, still warm, and sometimes you even invited him home, but he preferred sitting on the porch, hiding behind the sheer curtains where lost moths crawled along the fabric.
And then summer crumbled beneath your feet into golden leaves.
To be completely honest, Gator was actually glad to go to school, though the worry about his mother never really went away. But Roy was at work during those hours, which meant nothing could happen while Gator was not at home. Roy drove him to school, and Linda picked him up. And if during the ride with Roy he just nodded silently at his lectures, with Linda he chattered brightly about how his day had gone.
At school he wasn't very sociable, but you faithfully followed him everywhere, even when he hadn't asked for company. You sat with him in art class, and during breaks you two were sitting under a tree or walked holding hand. At lunch you always sat together, and you'd often share something tasty with him – things his father skimped on, spoiling Gator only on special occasions. But it was more like throwing a bone to a dog for good service.
Then winter holidays began.
It means chaos everywhere, more of Roy's shouting if something, in his opinion, goes wrong, maybe a trip to Gator's grandfather, who isn't much different from any other man in the Tillman bloodline. Gator wants to believe he is different. Not just in name. But on the other hand, Christmas means gingerbread, spiced cocoa, and the scent of pine in the house.
What a pity that they feel like a family only on holidays. The rest of the time it's just a poor parody.
Gator is getting ready for a walk; he's seen you through the window, playing in the snow. He pulls on wool socks and boots, his hat slipping over his eyes as Linda adjusts his scarf.
"Not for too long. When your father comes back, you need to be home." She watches as Gator puts on his mittens. "Don't lose them, alright?"
"This time I won't take them off!" Gator shouts and runs outside.
You're standing there, your tongue slightly out, trying to catch falling snowflakes. He likes you. This realization grew all summer long, like dandelions through cracks in the asphalt. You're funny, and with you everything becomes a hundred times easier. He doesn't know yet that only with you he will feel real. You are the reason for that feeling he doesn't know how to name. It's something that isn't in any book he's read, or in any conversation he's eavesdropped on while hiding behind the living room door.
And giving it a name would mean beginning to possess it, to tame it so it would nuzzle under his hand, wanting to be stroked. Then the feeling would stop being wild, thorny, untamed. Its freedom would be replaced by understanding and acceptance. And Gator doesn't know if he wants that feeling to become understandable, because if it becomes understandable, it will be just a word you can say and forget, like forgetting a poem that once touched your heart, but now the book of these sonnets gathers dust on the shelf.
As it is, it doesn't fit into bland words – it's too big to be childish, and too honest to be naive. Gator is afraid that if he embraces it, even imagines it for a second, it will supplant everything else that is in him. So Gator prefers to think of its existence somewhere outside his world, where everything is familiar, dull, predictable, like a school schedule memorized by heart by mid-September. And still, children don't know words to express something so complex in a few sentences. Not to mention, even most adults have problems with it.
But Gator tries to show you his affection, how much he appreciates you. He picks the most beautiful rose from the garden, brings a cookie he's hidden in his sweater sleeve, and you don't care at all that a woolen hair is stuck to it. He slides his intact wax crayons over to you when yours break, and gives you his jelly at lunch.
The snow creaks underfoot like broken glass. Gator, unfortunately, can't come up with a better comparison. He scoops some snow into his palms, making a snowball to throw at you. You spend too much time with your head in the clouds, but he doesn't get upset when he has to get your attention. You have a bright head and clear thoughts. Impossible ones. Gator's dreams are probably impossible too, though completely real. He wishes Roy wasn't so strict and angry, did not hurt his mother, did not to hurt him, in the end.
A snowball hits you, scattering into white dust across your coat. "Hey, who attacks without declaring war?" You exhale a cloud of steam that immediately dissolves in the air. Gator prepares for his next attack and bends down to make another snowball. But you're quick – he barely has time to straighten up before you jump on him, and you both fall into a snowdrift.
"You don't like losing too much." Gator turns his head to look at you. Your cheeks are pink from the biting frost, and a strand of hair has escaped from under your hat. Your laugh sounds like icicles falling from a roof. Clear and loud. Gator smiles too. That same smile he hides from everyone, and he doesn't understand why only you know how to bring it out.
"Here, take these, as a truce." You pull off your glove and reach into your pocket. Gator sits up and extends his hand. You put several colorful candies in his palm.
"Thank you. I don't have anything for you..." Gator somehow got used to the idea that if you do something for someone, you always have the right to ask for repaying the debt in return. That's why his father always tells him not to do anything for nothing.
"So what? You don't need to." You stand up and offer him your hand to help him to stand up. He sits there, bewildered. "I don't do it so you'll give me something. I do it because... I don't know. To make you happy. Like the pastor said about selflessness? I'll get my reward anyway for being kind." You brushed the snow off him, and Gator wiped the wet clumps from your back.
"I need to be home when my father gets back for dinner." Gator warns in advance, so you won't be too upset when there's little time left.
"Then let's go quickly. I want to show you something." You walk out the gate.
"Where?" Gator walks through the snow, sinking from time to time, though he tries to step in your footprints.
"You'll see." You slip through a hole in the fence and head toward the barn. "Come in. Be quiet." You close the door behind you and walk over to the cages where the rabbits live. Inside it's warm, smelling of fur and hay. You approach the biggest cage and gesture for Gator to come closer. He steps up and peers inside.
"Oh, they're..." Gator looks at the tiny baby rabbits squirming next to the big doe-rabbit. "Vulnerable."
"They're not even a month old yet. But you can already hold them." You open the cage and pick up a rabbit that wiggles its paws, then you bring it over to Gator. He cups his hands like in prayer, and you place the rabbit in his palms. It's snow-white, tiny, with neat little ears and a heart beating very-very fast.
"So soft." Gator strokes it, and the rabbit sniffs his hands.
You look at them. "It looks like you."
"Why?"
"Funny. Your nose twitches the same way." You flick Gator's nose.
"Definitely not." He presses the rabbit to his chest with one hand and wipes his nose with his mitten.
"Like right now, when you're pouting." You smile and nudge his shoulder. "Actually, you could take one home later. This one seems to like you."
Gator frowns. He'd like to, but his father would say he turned the house into a zoo. Animals don't belong there. Besides, Roy considers animals worth having only if they're useful as horses, chickens, or hounds. But a rabbit... Roy would wait a couple of months for it to grow up, and then serve it for dinner. Gator can almost smell the roasted meat, like the hares his father hunts, served with mashed potatoes.
"I can't. Father would be against it." He gives the rabbit back to you and shoves his hands in his pockets.
"Then you can come here. If you want." You stroke the mother rabbit, who doesn't even move, only slowly closes her red eyes, and then you close the cage.
"Really?" Gator still can't get used to your openness and kindness. Everything good in his life was either mockery or pretense. And unfortunately, this feeling will stay with him his whole life. This distrust of the world's simplicity and of people, this constant doubt, because if someone reaches out to you, it's only to hit. You're the first one who handed him a candy.
You nod in reply, and you both step out of the barn. The snowfall has intensified, and the flakes have grown large, made of several snowflakes stuck together. It's better to go home, because the trees in the distance are already impossible to make out, and the world is slowly shrinking to five meters around Gator.
"I'll walk you part of the way." You grab the edge of his coat and don't let go until he stops. You don't ask why Gator always goes quiet when you approach his house, but you understand something instinctively. And he needs these few minutes to remember that he's a Tillman, not just Gator. "See you tomorrow!" You wave goodbye.
"But tomorrow's Sunday," Gator reminds you, because their family go to church that day, and Roy insists they spend time together, as a family should.
"And? We always see each other anyway." You shrug and turn toward your house.
This is starting to become a habit – one he'll find very hard to break.
Tags/warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, soft!gator, a little bit of intimacy, mentioning of abusive Roy Tillman
W/C: 3,3k
A/n: I passed all the exams perfectly, there's only the English exam next Monday, but it's not that scary. Thank you to everyone who reads my works and leaves comments, you make me very happy! You can also suggest new ideas for such short fanfics. Feel free to write to me! This week I will also post the second chapter of "Tame me"!
Time stood still.
You lie there, afraid to move, with the hope that someone will turn over the hourglass, and Gator will enter the room and kiss you again.
But nothing happens. The distance between you two increases every second.
You shouldn't have said that because it's not true. You wanted him to see how lonely you were. Instead, you showed him that he's not good for you, even when he tries so hard. He did nothing to deserve such treatment. On the contrary, he tries to do everything not to be like his father.
And it is very difficult to set free from such shackles as Roy.
He broke Gator, and he, wounded, came to you so that you could help collect what was left.
But you broke his heart. No. You didn't just broke, you tore it out of his chest, trampled on it, spat in his face, and told that he did not do enough. That his love, which he was so afraid to show you, turned out to be fake. You made him doubt the only thing he was absolutely sure of.
You get up, look out the window, roam the rooms, where everything, of course, reminds of him, and go into the kitchen. There is a pan of stew on the stove. The one he keeps asking you to cook.
This was the first time you stayed with him for an entire weekend. You had already been dating for several months when Gator decided to invite you home, with a mixture of anxiety and joy. This was the step that would make everything too real to back off later.
Oh, that's a whole story behind it...
He picked you up after work, he was ready to buy everything you wanted, or rather, you either put it in the cart or looked at a pack of chips or crackers for more than five seconds. You stopped by for your favorite burgers and milkshakes. Gator was a little worried, afraid that you might not like something, or he, as usual, would ruin everything. He had never had a long-term relationship, and this attachment frightened him, causing some new, previously unexperienced feelings.
You were simply anticipating the specialness of this evening.
Everything was great. You thought on his territory he would be more assertive and open, but he was sitting on the sofa, occasionally glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You were sitting next to him with your legs stretched out, wearing only his old t-shirt, which you unceremoniously dug out from the back of his wardrobe. You lightly poked his thigh with your foot, drawing his attention. He looked so confused, as if he had not been taught how to act casually.
"Your shoulders are tense again." You said and opened your arms for him. He carefully lay down next to you and you intertwined your legs with his and then kissed him softly. This made Gator melt. He gently slid his hands to your waist, pinning you against the back of the sofa. You continued to kiss and you giggled as he breathed on your neck and accidentally ran his fingertips over your ribs, because your shirt had ridden up from your squirming.
“I don’t...” He became embarrassed as his gaze trailed further down the curve of your hips. Gator was about to pull his hand out from under your t-shirt, but you stopped him.
"You can take it off." You immediately blushed. “But then yours too.”
Gator is used to intimacy as something physiological, more as a need and a way of release than to express his feelings, especially, when he is in love. He had a lot of one-night stands, the memories of which blurred the very next day. No names, no faces.
But with you everything was different, not because he wanted to let off steam, but because he really liked you. Gator wanted to please you if you would let him, and he was patient, waiting for you to come closer.
He took off his shirt and you looked at him. It was surprising that you haven't seen him like this before. A couple of long scars on the side, a bullet mark on the shoulder. You knew that his work was not easy: it left traces not only on the body, but also in the head. You leaned closer to kiss them if he didn't feel confident enough, being so vulnerable in front of you.
"No, tonight it's about you, okay?" Gator shook his head and intercepted your kiss. You still didn’t understand whether he was shy or really sincerely wanted to do something only for you. He broke the kiss to take your shirt off. Gator was very gentle, looked straight into your eyes, and it was not easy for him to resist. You lie under him, with a happy smile on the face and flushed cheeks.
He had never felt such warmth. This was some other level of intimacy for him.
Gator lifted you up to place his hands on your shoulder blades and pulled you against his chest. He breathed noisily into your neck, pressing his lips to your pulse point. You shifted to get into a comfortable position, but he thought there was something you didn’t like.
"Everything is fine?" His eyes darted over your face, looking for any sign of discomfort.
"Yeah, there's not much room on the sofa. Not that I'm complaining..." You stroked the back of his head and neck. Gator got off you, and you stood up, while he was looking for the TV remote control to turn it off. You were about to go to the bedroom, but he grabbed you under the hips and carried you to the bed. He covered you with a blanket, although you thought that Gator would pounce you as soon as your back touched the bed.
Nothing like that followed.
You were lying on your side, and he pressed his lips to the top of your head. Gator held you tightly, afraid to even loosen his hands.
How hungry Gator was just for touching.
You raised your head and met his gaze – gray, faded from constant anxiety, but now there was such a warm, timid light burning in it that your heart ached. He looked at you as if you were a miracle he didn't dare believe in.
"I love being with you." You said it very quietly.
Gator didn't answer. He closed his eyes and you saw his eyelashes flutter. He was afraid. He was afraid of everything – that he was unworthy, that he would be too demanding, like his father, or that he would not be able to give you what you deserve. But he was silent because the words were too loud for this moment.
And then you reached out to him, kissed the corner of his lips, and he flinched as if from an electric shock. His hands tightened on your waist, he rolled over, loomed over you and kissed, slowly, deeply, putting into this kiss everything he had never had courage to say out loud.
He pulled away, touched your forehead with his and froze. His breath mixed with yours, and it was the only thing that existed in the world. You hugged his neck, feeling how his fingers dug into your skin, how he greedily inhaled your scent, how he held on to you. Gator was so big, so strong on the outside – and such a small, scared boy on the inside who just wanted to be loved. Not for anything. Not in spite of something. But just like that.
You two lay there, heart to heart, which were learning to beat in unison. His hand stroked your side and your fingers combed through the short hair at the back of his head.
He fell asleep first. His hand still lay on your waist, and his face was turned towards you – calm, defenseless. You looked at him and thought that there was something incredibly pure in this broken, wounded man. He did not know how to love for show. He knew how to love until it hurts. To the point of wheezing in the chest. Until his fingers tremble.
And you knew that you would never allow yourself to betray him.
Or at least you have thought so.
That morning, you woke up with him, although he tried not to be too noisy. You cooked him breakfast, made coffee and, God, packed him food to take to work! You even walked him to the car and waved after him.
He didn't believe that this happiness happened to him.
You cleaned his house, went to the store and started cooking dinner. You thought he would be glad. And when Gator came home, you asked how his day was and kissed his face faster than he could answer. It was a big surprise for him that you were waiting for him so much. Usually no one was waiting for him. Nowhere. Even in the house where he grew up. And now you are here, and he came to a clean house that smelled of food. You sat him down for dinner, hugging him along the way and crawling under his arm. You placed a steaming plate of stew in front of him. You weren't a culinary genius, but your cooking wasn't terrible, in your opinion.
"Just like my mom's." That's what he said when he tried it. Gator suddenly fell silent, apparently he himself did not expect his thoughts to escape. He changed the subject because he had never talked about her before. He only mentioned that she died early and that his father was the only one left with him.
Now he also had you. But...
At the moment you're standing in the kitchen, staring at a pot of cold stew, your fingers gripping the edge of the countertop. He left, and there, in the night, he was sitting alone somewhere. And you don't know if he'll come back to give you a second chance. You run back to the bedroom and hastily throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater before running out of the house. You should try to fix everything.
Gator wakes up with his whole body numb and his teeth chattering from the cold, because the engine is turned off in the car and the air is already saturated with night dampness, which makes its way into the car interior. He doesn't know how much time has passed, he lies in the back seat, bent double, and feels how the salon skin has eaten into his cheek, leaving a red mark on it.
He sits up and runs his hands over his face. His eyelashes are stuck together, there are grains of salt on his cheeks. Gator looks at his watch. Half past three. For almost three hours he has slept here, like a beaten dog that was kicked out of the house. He opens the door, goes outside, and the night air hits his face, sobering him, returning to the reality from which he so wanted to escape.
His hands no longer shake. He pulled himself together. He knows how to do it. When he has to go on a mission. When he has to look his father in the eyes. When he needs to put on a mask of impermeability so that no one sees how everything inside him is falling apart.
He gets behind the wheel and takes some painkillers from the glove compartment because his headache is only getting worse. Gator swallows them without washing them dowm, not only because there is nothing to drink, but because their bitterness is not felt on the tongue, compared to your words stuck in his head. He tries to turn on the phone, but it is dead. Perhaps he would feel a little better if he saw one missed call from you. He would have hope that at least a little, but you are not indifferent to him. Gator decides to go home, because he has nowhere else to go.
He parks at the entrance, noticing that the light in the first floor hallway is on. Gator turns off the ignition, and silence envelops him again, thick and viscous. He hesitates, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He's afraid that you'll ignore him instead of yelling and getting angry. His father always punished him with indifference. Like he doesn't exist. He is afraid.
But he must try.
The door opens and he immediately sees you. You are reclining on the sofa. In the sweater that used to be his, and those stupid, but your favourite, jeans that have become a little bit small for you after washing them. He always helped you take them off.
He wouldn't have left if he knew you were going to look for him. You probably wandered around the area, visiting his favorite places, until you realized he was nowhere to be found. He looks at you. Are you sleeping. Your eyes are closed, your breathing is even, and only the tense wrinkle between your eyebrows shows how worried you are about him.
Gator mentally scolds himself for putting you in danger. As a sheriff, he knows what happens on the streets at night.
He doesn't want to bother you and goes into the kitchen, turning on the light above the stove. The plate and glass of juice are still on the table. He pushes the chair back, lifting it so it doesn't creak. Gator takes a spoon and starts eating, he is terribly hungry, his stomach has been cramping from hunger for the last few hours. Even cold, your stew is incredibly delicious.
You open your eyes and immediately notice that someone has turned on the light in the kitchen. Gator is back. He didn’t wake you up, didn’t hug you, didn’t kiss you on the forehead, as he always did. You are sure that he doesn’t want to see you anymore, so he locked himself in the kitchen, trying to hide. This is his home. Not yours. And it's you who needs to leave if that's what he wants. You get up from the sofa and head to the bedroom to pack your things. You pull out your suitcase that you came here with and hastily throw things into it. Several hangers fall on the floor.
Gator hears the sound and looks out into the living room. You're not here. He quickly walks up the stairs and sees you standing in front of a shelf of books, some of which he gave you and some you brought, choosing which few you can take with you.
Everything inside Gator is compressed into a tight knot, because this is happening, like in his worst nightmare. His gaze stops at the suitcase, which lies open on the bed, like a wound on his soul that will not heal.
You're leaving.
And he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to stop you, because he has no reason to ask you to stay. You are not his property. You are a person who has the right to leave.
But he'd let you do anything to him if only you'd stay.
Pull out his teeth so he can no longer bite.
Cut out his tongue so he could only nod silently.
Sew his eyes shut so that he doesn’t even dare look at you.
You turn around and see him standing in the doorway. He lowered his arms and head, guilty, lifeless, ashamed. But you think he's angry and you need to hurry. You put three books in your suitcase and turned back to the wardrobe.
"I'll be leaving soon." You say this as an excuse for being slow when what you really want is him to stop you. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to pick up the rest of my things, probably when I find a new place to live...” You stammer, you have no idea where you’ll go, because before moving in with Gator, you lived in an apartment that you have already rented out.
For Gator, the thought that you will have to mindlessly walk around the towu in search of a hotel is unbearable, and he can spend a couple of days in the car or at work if you don’t want to stay in the same room with him. "I can leave. Give you space. I won't forgive myself if something happens to you. It's the middle of the night and... I'll leave. Stay here, in safety." Every word is a slap in the face to himself. He is about to leave, although every cell in him screams otherwise. Everything is for you. So that you don’t wander around the streets where shadows are chasing you, don’t spend the night next to dubious strangers in hotels.
You're confused. You thought he hates you after all the words you have said, but despite this, he offers you his home. To make you feel comfortable first of all. “I... I thought you wanted me to leave...” You're on the edge to cry.
"I thought you didn't want to see me." Gator raises his eyes, and there are tears in them, not a drop of aggression or discontent. "I would never kick you out, no." There is so much pain and hope in them. You see his hand twitch, but he is too shackled to touch you, as if you are a vision that will disappear if he touches it. So you drop your things and take a few wide steps towards him.
You hug him tighter than ever.
"I'm so sorry, forgive me. I didn't want... I wanted you to see how insufferable it was for me to be alone all the time. Without you. I wanted attention. But instead, I told you so many things and didn't think about how it could hurt you." You cry in his arms as he clenches your sweater, desperately clinging to you.
“It's my fault, too, I thought everything was fine just because you didn’t complain on anything. I didn’t see, I didn’t see anything except my work and errands. I let you down so much. And when you told me all this, I realised...” He swallows his tears and continues. “I realised that I has already crossed the permitted line. It seemed to me that this was the point of no return, and you...” He sobs, and you also shiver in the ring of his arms.
“I said it in the heat of the moment. It’s all a lie, my biggest lie, Gator.” You lift your head and look at him, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
"I will become what you deserve. I will be better, I promise, just don't leave me. Please." He rubs his cheek against your hand, closing his eyes. “Please... All my life I have never needed anyone as much as I need you.”
Everything in your chest shrinks, tears, melts.
"You're already the one I need, Gator. We're here. No one left. We still love each other, right?"
"Yes, of course, I... I love you." He squeezes your hands. "Even when I was silent, I still loved you."
Gator should have loved you all this time in a way that suited you. If you need words, he will start saying them, these three treasured words. Even if no one taught him this, you will teach him. And you, too, constantly tried to figure out what he loved, but he didn’t care in what form your love would be packaged. He greedily absorbed every crumb of what you gave him in the form of kisses, hugs, and unexpected meetings. Your love was wrapped in every birthday gift and every lunch bag you packed for him at work.
Tags/warnings: angst, soft!gator, (mean?)reader in a bad mood, abusive Roy Tillman, difficult childhood, breakup(..?)
W/C: 2,3k
A/n: This song is ideal, literally perfect for Gator, i cried so much while writing this... Thank you for the appreciation of my latest work about childhood friends, it's very important for me, I'm extremely glad you like it. I have exams soon (the German exam is on Saturday, and I was writing this instead of preparing...yeah...), but I will be back with new chapters!
The clock is approaching midnight, and Gator quietly opens the door, trying not to wake you. He has seen through the window that your bedside lamp is on, but sometimes you fell asleep reading, while waiting for him. Gator knows he's not good at being careful, but since you moved in, the steps of his heavy boots has become almost silent.
The house smells of food – the meal he loves. Actually, he loves everything you cook. Not just because before you appeared, he ate clumped-up pasta and burned steaks, bloody inside.
Gator takes off his shoes and hurries straight to the bedroom to see you. He was supposed to have the day off today – you two rarely had matching days off – but his father had urgently called him, and he didn't dare disobey. After all, Roy was the law itself.
He looks into the room and, seeing you're still awake, steps in and immediately reaches across the entire bed to press himself against you.
To be honest, you've been counting on this day off. You haven't gone anywhere for so long, and living together has begun to feel more like being neighbors than an actual couple. Gator's alarm clock woke you up in the morning, and although you tried to fall back asleep, today he'd been making too much noise in the kitchen, as if on purpose. Your mood lifted a little when you saw he'd left you half an omelet, with tomatoes, just the way you like it. But the bitterness of having to spend the whole day cooped up within four walls, instead of doing something romantic, maybe going to a restaurant or the cinema, didn't go away, and all that was left for you was to do housework.
"Hey, baby." Gator says softly, kissing your cheek. "How was your day?"
"Fine." You shrug your shoulders indifferently and put your book aside. Of course, you have the right to be in a bad mood – it happened less often, much less often, than with Gator, who comes home from work irritated. He has never taken it out on you, but he shows his temper. Usually you have enough patience, but it couldn't go on forever, and sometimes you had to remind Gator that you have feelings too.
Today was the day your patience ran out.
"I changed the bedsheets, by the way." You say flatly, without the usual warmth in your voice, like a dog that doesn't wag its tail at the sight of its owner. Your gaze falls on the crumpled blanket where Gator has pressed his knee.
"Oh, sorry. Didn't notice." Gator gets up from the bed. You have rules – a few, but important. No street clothes in bed. If you cook, he does the dishes, and vice versa, though that's never actually happened.
"Of course. You never notice anything." You adjust your pillow to lie down. Now, when he's back, you can sleep peacefully, sure that he's not lying in some alley with a cracked skull. Despite everything, you worry about him, and it seems to you that he should understand that perfectly well.
"What?" He stands on the rug with the look of a guilty child who doesn't even understand what he's being scolded for. "Did I do something wrong?" He looks up at you. So exhausted, so lost.
"No. Nothing." You turn away, feeling something furious begin to boil inside you, something he doesn't deserve.
But Gator is persistent, and he walks around the bed to squat beside you. "Did something happen?"
«Something». He never understands what's wrong unless you shove his face in it, like a misbehaving kitten. It's not Gator's fault that he grew up in a family where he had to guess moods, make non-obvious logical connections, and tiptoe around his father. But he still keeps doing it. And that makes you angrier than anything in the world.
"No, nothing happened, Gator." You frown, and once you've started, it's hard to stop. "You could at least say 'thank you'."
"Thank you..?" Gator is confused, but he already lowers his head guiltily. He reaches out to touch your shoulder, but you flinch, and his fingers hang in the air.
"For that I sat here all day like I was tied down, while you dealt with other people's problems on your, no, our day off. I made dinner that got cold two hours ago, and I reheated it twice, thinking you'd be here any minute. For..." You trail off, feeling your voice begin to shake. You hate it when your voice trembles. It's weakness. And Gator already thinks you're too soft.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's just... My father said it was urgent..."
You snort, feeling that excuses only irritate you more. "There's always something. Always urgent. Always someone more important." You sit up on the bed, wrapping your arms around your knees. "You know what I thought about today? You come in – I'm asleep. I wake up – you're already gone. We only talk about what to buy at the store and which TV channel we can both agree on in that one free hour after work. And damn it, Gator, I'm tired of just being a part of your routine."
He's silent. That's the worst thing about him – he's silent when he should speak. Gator stares somewhere at the floor, just as Roy trained him. Because every word he ever said was immediately thrown back in his face as a slap.
"I don't know what to say to make you being less angry." He finally forces out. "I know I'm an asshole, and you deserve better. I'm really tired today. I have a bad headache, and I don't want to keep fighting with you. We can talk tomorrow and..." He does get exhausted after shifts, and the only thing that helps from his headache, not pills, it is when you slowly stroke his head. But you're tired too.
"Enough!" The tears you've been holding back all day finally break through, but they're not quiet tears, they're angry, burning ones. "You're starting to feel sorry for yourself again! Instead of just saying you were wrong. But no!"
Gator sits there, fists clenched, breathing deeply, like before diving into icy water. And the next wave crashes over him.
"You don't love anyone, Gator." You look at him, and he catches your gaze. In it is your frozen resentment. He loses his balance and falls to his knees from the unexpected sharpness of your words. "Only yourself. Your work. Your habits. And I'm just... a convenient addition. A warm body in your bed, always there when you need it."
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Gator never lost the gift of speech – he always found words, awkward, rough, but he found them. He's disarmed before you, completely vulnerable, even though he hasn't even taken off his vest yet.
"What, nothing to say? You're always silent when it comes to your feelings. Because apparently, they don't exist." You stumble, because the last word burned your tongue, but you swallow it and continue.
"Loving means choosing a person, let me remind you. Being ready to go against yourself for them. And you can't even say a word against your father. You let him humiliate you, pull your strings, and when it comes time to choose between me and some 'urgent' matter, you choose him without a second thought!"
At that moment, everything in him breaks. Everything he had.
He offered you his heart on a platter. And you took it in your hand and smashed it so easily.
"You don't love me." You repeat it, and this time your voice doesn't shake. "You love the idea of me. That I wait. That I don't leave. That I'm here. With you, who's never actually here."
He grinds his teeth so hard the muscles bulge at his cheekbones. His hands are shaking, and you notice because he's clenching them into fists, trying to stop the tremor. "Do you really think so?"
"I know it."
Gator closes his eyes. He takes a seizure breath, and you see his shoulders drop. And when he opens his eyes, there's so much pain in them that for a moment you can't breathe. Because it's not anger. It's not aggression. It's something completely different. Something you've never seen before.
"My whole life..." He speaks slowly, too quietly, muttering under his breath. "My whole life, all I've done is hate myself."
You look at him and understand what you've done. You sewed up his wound and just tore it open yourself.
"My father... you think I don't know he uses me? You think I don't see how he tests my loyalty? Since I was a child, I heard what a worthless piece of shit I am, that I'm nobody. That I'll never be worthy of this last name. And I believed him." He laughs, but it's a bitter laugh. "Because otherwise I wouldn't have survived. If you hate yourself enough, his pain doesn't hurt as much. It's your own."
You want to say something, but Gator suddenly raises his hand, and you fall silent. He puts his hand on the nightstand to brace himself and stand up. He saw you flinch – maybe you thought he was going to hit you. Gator would never do that.
"You say I don't love you. That I love only myself." He looks at you, and his eyes are wet, but he's not crying. "I hate myself so much that every day I wake up surprised I'm still alive. I hate my job because it turned me into a mindless, willless killing machine. I hate my voice because it's too rough, like I'm giving orders not just to my subordinates, but to you too. I hate my hands because I hold both a weapon and you with them."
You don't move. You freeze, letting him speak.
"And then you appeared." His voice breaks into a whisper. "You walked into my life and just... said I was good. Because you believe in that. That I'm worthy. Without any conditions. That you're not afraid of me. And you know what I felt?" He pauses, and in the silence, you hear only his spasmodic breathing. "I got scared. Because if I'm good, I have to stand up to my father. That means I have to stop hating myself. But how? How should I stop doing what I've been learning for 30 years?"
You want to take back every word. Pull this boy to you and never let go. You were supposed to be his home, but instead, now he has one more enemy.
"You say I don't love you. But I love you so much that it overshadows all my hatred for myself. It's the only feeling that's stronger. I'm not running from work. I'm running to you. Because when I'm next to you, for a second I forget how worthless I am. I just... I just breathe." He suddenly stands up, and you see a tear on his cheek, reflecting the lamplight like a spark. You don't have time to say anything before he's out the door. You hear him grab the keys from the hall table, open the front door, and it closes with an almost silent click.
The house becomes quiet.
You sit on the bed, still in the same position, clutching the edge of the blanket. You wanted him to hear you. You wanted him to understand. But you didn't want him to leave.
You wouldn't still be here if something didn't work for you. You knew what you were signing up for from the beginning, you saw what he could be like with you. And love blossomed. Slowly, invisibly, but it was worth it. And your favorite ice cream was always in the freezer, even before you moved in with him. You knew words didn't come easily to him, and you could count on one hand how many times he'd said he loved you. But damn it, you'd need all the stars in the universe to match his countless actions that screamed his love for you. He loves taking baths with you, when instead of wet kisses, he breathes into your neck or the back of your head, inhaling your scent, or presses his lips to your collarbone. You love the weight of his huge body pressing down on you, your intertwined bodies becoming one, because he wants to prolong the moment just a little longer. And when you kiss him on the lips, he leans in, following yours, to get another kiss. In his car's glove compartment, there's always at least one of your lipsticks and your sunglasses, and on the back seat, his jacket that's just for you, because you get cold in the evenings.
These thoughts make you miss him already.
Gator gets into the car, his hands shaking so badly he can't get the key into the ignition on the first try. He punches the steering wheel with his fist, but the pain doesn't make it any easier. The engine starts with a low rumble. He pulls out of the driveway without glancing in the rear view mirror. Because he knows that if he looks back, he'll want to turn around immediately.
He drives without a destination. Streets flash past the window, streetlights smearing into yellow streaks. Gator knows this city like the back of his hand, he patrols it every day. But right now everything feels extraneous.
He pulls into an empty car park. For a few minutes, he sits there, trying to pull himself together, then climbs into the back seat. He lies down, curling up. There isn't much space, and he pulls his knees to his chest. The fake leather of the seats doesn't warm him, it clings to his body with sticky claws.
Finally, Gator lets himself break down. Silently, only his shoulders shaking. He bites his lip not to make a sound, even though no one can hear him here. Gator is too good at crying quietly.
Summary: You've known Gator all your life. It's still a mystery to the two of you how you match together so perfectly. Your gentleness smoothed out his sharp rudeness. He was the ribs for your tender heart. And amidst the cruelty of this world and the wrong choices, you two are the only thing each other always has.
Tags/warnings: Gator Tillman x reader, no use of y/n, childhood friends, from friends to lovers, slowburn, angst, аbusive Roy Tillman, alcohol consumption, domestic violence.
W/C: 1,7k words
A/n: I do not know what it will turn into later, because I literally came up with this idea two days ago and I really like it. I haven't written anything like this before, so it might look weird, but I'm trying. I just thought it would be cool if Gator had someone he wasn't afraid to show his softer side to, someone very close and special to him. He really needs a person who understands him and won't judge, but whom he's afraid of spoiling and involving in his problems. I hope I can explore his character, because he got me hooked. Each chapter will show an episode from Gator's (and reader's, of course) life, and with each chapter he will grow a year or two older. Yes, I've signed my own verdict for a lot of chapters...
Chapter 1. You came when I was begging for a friend.
Gator hates Mondays.
He tries to stay awake all night, but he falls asleep anyway, and he is woken by the loud slam of the front door – his father has left for work. This is not what a child should be doing. He's six, he should be kicking a ball around the backyard and drawing cars.
Instead, he runs into his mother's room to check if she's alive.
Saturday and Sunday are no better, because anything can happen when Roy is drunk. Weekends turn into a minefield where every step could be the last – for a plate, for a vase, for something inside Gator himself that breaks quietly, without a sound, and can never be glued back together.
Gator slips quietly into the room and moves closer to the bed. He stares intently at how she breathes. She is breathing. Good. Her hair has fallen over her face, but the bruise on her face can no longer be hidden so easily. It's spread into a purple stain, like an inkblot on a clean sheet of paper that someone tried to erase but only smeared. Gator lies down on the side of the bed where his father sleeps, pressing himself against her back. Linda flinches.
"Oh, it's you, dear." She turns to him and pulls him to her chest. "Good morning." Linda kisses his forehead, and he feels the roughness of the healing scar at the corner of her mouth.
"Good morning, Mom." He hugs her back tightly. "Does it hurt?"
"No, no. Don't worry about me. Go to the kitchen, I'll be down in a minute." She forces a smile, and Gator obediently heads to the kitchen. He takes a bag of frozen peas from the fridge to put it on his mother's bruises.
Tonight, he'll pray for them to heal quickly.
Linda cooks oatmeal, grates an apple, and sprinkles cinnamon on it, pretending everything is fine. As if she didn't think yesterday that she might not wake up. She leaves the dishes in the sink to wash later, because her hands still trembling. She goes back upstairs in the bedroom to lie down. Gator follows her, not demanding attention, but observing.
"Gator, go outside and play." Her voice is broken, she doesn't want to cry in front of her son. Maybe being alone and collecting her thoughts will help her get through this day, and tomorrow will be a little better. She repeats these words to herself every day.
Gator goes out into the yard, looking around. The air smells of dew and the freedom he doesn't possess. He almost always walks alone. Sometimes he finds a lonely foal grazing just like him, and Gator brings an apple in advance, so the foal will follow him everywhere, begging for treats. And Gator pretends they're friends and have a great time running through the meadow. He tells him what happens at home, what's going on around them, but he has to hurry before the last apple slice is eaten, then the foal, snorting, runs back to his mother, who's waiting for him and worried about him. Gator is left alone again. By himself. By himself at six years old – that's too much "by himself" for such a little one.
When his mother isn't sick and his father isn't raging, Gator asks God for a friend. He whispers so quietly as not to awaken the evil. Because the evil sleeps lightly in this house. It always wakes up hungry.
He steps out the gate and makes a few circles around the garden until he finds a ripe apple and picks it. He walks across the field. The grass tickles his bare ankles, and the wind ruffles his hair like the nonchalant elder brother he never had – not painful, but not gentle either. The horses have gone far today, and in the distance, all that's visible are brown and gray dots, slowly moving closer to the horizon. Gator sighs sadly and decides to head to his favorite place – a large, shady oak tree with thick bushes growing nearby, where he can hide. This is his refuge. And not only from the summer heat.
As he gets closer, his attention is immediately caught by a bright spot visible through the green foliage. Someone intruded here!
Sooner or later, every child reaches a point in life when they realize the world doesn't revolve around them.
Your parents had long dreamed of owning a farm; they both grew up in the countryside, and when they moved to the city, they were overcome with a longing for the land and labor. No one asked you. Who cares about a child's opinion? And so you had to say goodbye to your friends, your favorite parks in town, the glowing phosphorescent stars on the ceiling. The night before you left, you made one last wish. You don't remember what it was. Maybe it was simple: that where you were going wouldn't be so lonely, that you'd find there someone.
And it turned out not to be so bad. It's more spacious here, brighter, there are plenty of flowers and animals, if you're patient and attentive enough. But at the same time, it's empty, too quiet. The wind doesn't carry children's laughter, only the rustling of the spikelets. No one rings the doorbell to invite you out for a walk. You're not sure there's a single living soul nearby. The neighboring ranch terrifies you with its silence and isolation.
You just need to survive the summer, a long, boring summer, and then you'll go to school, where, as your parents promised, you'll make new friends. You cling to this promise like to a straw.
Meanwhile, you're sitting under an old oak tree, leafing through a book with bright pictures.
Gator makes his way through the bushes and sees you. Sunbeams dance on your hair, and you squint in the light. You're wearing a dress with ruffles and tiny flowers – a real bait for bees. He's never seen you before and immediately knows you're not from around here. Maybe you've come for the holidays because a couple of days ago his father mentioned that someone bought the neighboring farm.
You look up, hearing a rustling sound. "Hi." You put your book down and stand up, brushing the hem of your dress.
"What are you doing here?" Gator pauses, placing his hands on his hips to seem more serious. His voice is fake-angry, like a toy gun that's broken and won't fire, but makes a frightening noise. "This is my place."
"I thought it is nobody's. Everyone's." You blink in confusion. "It's just a tree."
"This isn't a tree, it's my headquarters! And this is definitely not the place for girls." Gator continues to frown as you calmly shrug and walk away. You have no desire to look for troubles, especially since this place might have its own rules. You're sure you can find another place that's just yours. At that moment, Gator catches himself thinking he resembles his father, but he brushes it aside like a pesky mosquito and settles on a low tree branch, leaning his back against the trunk.
Regret seeps through the hastily constructed dam of anger. He was rude. He did what he does best: pushing away.
Gator jumps down from the branch as the sun begins to beat down on the top of his head. "Whatever." He mutters under his breath and kicks a pebble. And the feeling of loneliness inside him claws even harder, like a chick breaking through the shell of an egg. He doesn't like it. He tries to distract himself, picking blades of grass, drawing with a stick in the sand, bothering a bug that can't roll over and makes a funny buzzing sound.
Gator thinks about how indifferent you reacted. Usually, girls immediately whine or ask a bunch of unnecessary questions. But not you. You didn't cry, didn't call him names, didn't argue. You left. So simple. Although, he would have left too if someone as nasty as he said something like that. He's learned to be tough, because the soft ones get hit first.
And yet... There are many trees, and you are only one.
His potential friend, even if you leave at the end of summer, in a month, in two weeks. Even if it's tomorrow.
Gator goes looking for you. He looks at every tree and bush from all sides. He notices you lying on the grass among the trees on the hill. He rises and at first simply stands over you, shifting the apple from one palm to the other behind his back. It burns in his hands, and he feels as if if he doesn't hand it over now, it will burn right through his palms.
"What, is this tree yours too?" You look at him reproachfully, and now you definitely don't intend to go anywhere else. There's no anger in your gaze. There's weariness. The same weariness that comes from those who have become accustomed to the world being unkind. You both know it. Just in different ways.
"Nothing here is mine." He looks down guiltily, digging his foot in the ground. He sheepishly hands you the apple. "Take it." And that gesture says it all. It's «I'm sorry», «Don't go», and «I don't want to be alone» – all at once, wrapped in that red skin and juicy flesh. Gator doesn't know how to apologize, but he's not such a fool as to do nothing.
You smile. And in that smile is every careless summer he never had. All the light that couldn't penetrate the thick curtains of their house. All the dreams he'd almost buried. You smile, and inside him, where only pain lived side by side with his mother's care, something green suddenly blooms. Small. Fragile. But alive. Hope.
Gator sits down next to you on the grass. Grass dig into his palms, but he doesn't feel it. He wants to say something important. Something so that you stay.
I can't stop thinking about Gator, who returns home late, in some tiny rented apartment, where there is only what he needs. Almost Spartan conditions, a minimum of things and space, as his father tought him. There is not a single thought in his head. He just wants to cross the threshold of the house. He's too tired. The day squeezed him dry, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste. He felt too many emotions during this long, exhausting day. Mostly negative. Gator got angry, started screaming, felt irritation boiling under his skin. Everything he had been so desperate to release into the outside world was growing inside him exponentially.
Loneliness is a trap from which he cannot escape. His prison, where Gator voluntarily confined himself.
A bunch of keys clangs onto the nightstand in the hallway. The uniform jacket flies to the floor, followed by the rest of the clothes, leaving a trail all the way to the bathroom. He turns on the tap without waiting for the water to warm up. The icy streams hit the shoulders, but are no longer invigorating as before. It's just cold. Water washes away styling gel from his hair and road dust from his face, washing away the urban camouflage. The main thing is not to look up it the mirror. Gator doesn't want to meet the reflection, where sunken eyes with dark circles, sharp angles and misshapen cheekbones await.
Mirrors always lie.
He switches the tap from cold to boiling water. He has already accustomed himself to such scaldings. Patience, clenched teeth that seem about to crumble from the pressure. Some would call it self-torture, but for him it was a test of strength. Gator calls it endurance.
Pain became his only cure.
He knows that it is wrong. But what in this world could even be called right?
Gator gets out of the shower and immediately turns on the TV. Any channel, any program – it doesn’t matter. If only it weren't quiet. The oppressive, burdensome silence reminds him that he is alone. And stupid family films, with their fake laughter and coziness, create the illusion that there is someone else in this room.
He lies down on the sofa, slowly curling up. He doesn't even notice how his body takes on the familiar embryo pose. He wraps his arms around his shoulders as if in an attempt to protect his inner child, to hide his broken heart and ugly, unholy soul. Gator is a threat. And he attacks himself every night. He closes his eyes for a moment, and his mother’s face appears before him. It's her hand on his shoulder. It's her lip print on the top of his head. It all feels too real, like he's back in his childhood.
Gator shudders and sits up too quickly. His head is spinning. The movie has ended, and the fights without rules begins.
Dice clatter on the table. The final battle is in full swing. Time is running out, they’re in a hurry.
“Damage?” Dustin asks, flipping through his book.
“Eight.” Mike replies, showing the dice.
Will is somewhere else right now. He tries not to even breathe, but not only so that the paper decorations don't fly off the table. Will doesn’t want to fall out of this world where he is an all-powerful sorcerer, back into being just a boy who’s afraid of his own shadow.
“Your turn, Will. Try to give us a chance to win.” Mike places the dice into his palm, and Will, avoiding eye contact, weakly moves his hand and throws it. Mike sees it but doesn’t ask anything. Not now, when Lucas is arguing with Dustin about the rules, and outside the window it’s getting dark so fast, as if someone turned the world’s brightness down to minimum.
Only Will is silent.
“A chance…” He thinks. “Did I ever have a chance?”
He looks at his sorcerer figure. It stands right in front of a gray, almost black, blob with rotten teeth. The monster is missing three out of twenty lives. Will has only one left. The game has become too real. He doesn’t like it.
Three failed dice rolls in a row lead to death.
Dustin and Lucas have left, and Will, as usual, stays over at Mike’s. Karen puts more food on Will’s plate without asking. Everyone around is rushing to feed him. Will looks at his plate, where a mountain of mashed potatoes is sliding to the side. It is soft, with bits of butter.
“You’re so thin, dear.” She says with that gentle persistence that’s impossible to refuse. “Eat, eat.”
Will nods. He picks up the fork.
He’s already eaten one portion, although every bite was difficult – not because it wasn’t tasty, but because there hasn’t been any more space inside for food. There’s a kind of emptiness that can’t be filled, even if you eat to the point of nausea. But when Karen looks at him like that, with pity and care at the same time, arguing is useless. And he doesn’t want to upset her.
She’s good. She’s trying to help.
Will brings the fork to his mouth and chews. It’s heavy, as if he’s swallowing not food, but glass. Every bite is a truce he makes with his own body in order not to faint right at the table.
Next to him, Mike is picking at his food, but Karen pays no attention. Mike is her son. Mike can allow himself not to finish. But Will is a guest; he eats every last crumb, because he hates throwing food away. Because sometimes at home there’s nothing for dinner… Mike doesn’t evoke in Karen that anxious, almost morbid curiosity with which she examines Will’s wrists when he reaches for a glass.
So sick. So fragile.
‘How does he even hold on?’ is written in her gaze. And Will hates that gaze. Hates being examined, being felt up with eyes, having diagnoses assembled from him that he never asked for.
But his hand grips the fork tighter and continues moving mechanically.
He tries to be a good boy.
Because good boys don’t refuse food when they’re fed. They don’t complain that their stomach hurts. They smile, say “thank you”, and leave feeling they did everything right.
Joyce always says: “Be a good boy, Will.”
He tries. He tries so hard that something inside cracks, like an overtightened string.
But the pain never comes suddenly.
It slowly crawls out of nowhere.
And then it takes Will into a coil.
Tight, suffocating, perfectly fitted to the size of his lungs. The snake curls around him somewhere at the level of his ribs, and every breath becomes a feat. Every exhale – a small death.
The ouroboros.
Will first saw this symbol in a history textbook, in a paragraph about mythology – a snake biting its own tail, an endless cycle without end. Back then, it seemed like just a threatening drawing. Now he knows: this is his life.
The beginning is always the same. Morning. He opens his eyes and immediately remembers that he is what he is. Will Byers. The strange boy who gets teased at school. The son who will never be good enough. The friend who feels too much, wants too much, and is too afraid to ask for anything.
At night – the peak. The circle tightens so much that his bones creak. He lies in bed, curled up in a ball, feeling himself like a snake trying to hide from himself. Tears flow silently. He hates himself for crying, for being weak, for not being able to be normal.
Then morning comes. And everything repeats all over again.
They go down to the basement to finish cleaning up. Mike is as cheerful as usual after a D&D session; he and Will always discuss the future story developments to prepare for the next meeting.
“I’m sorry we lost the battle today. You never know what the dice will show.” Mike says, putting cards into a box.
“It would be pointless if we always had luck on our side.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll resurrect your sorcerer next time.” Mike gives Will an encouraging nudge with his shoulder. “Dustin has some holy water in reserve.”
“Don’t bother.” Will says without thinking and freezes.
The words hang in the air like a wrong note. Too sharp. Too honest.
“What?” Mike turns to him, not believing that Will has said that.
“N-nothing.” Will feels his cheeks start to burn. “I am joking.”
“Why? Don’t you want to play with us anymore?” In Mike’s voice there is not resentment. Something else. Closer to fear. As if Will just said something that could destroy not only the game, but their friendship.
“That’s not it.”
“You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” Mike says quietly. His tone is more serious than usual for a child.
Will is silent.
He looks at his hands. Thin fingers, pale skin, small scratches on his knuckles – where did they come from? Will doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember so many things. His brain wipes away the traces of trauma, erases away the most terrible skeletons of memories in closets. Sometimes it seems to Will that his life is a tape from which bad pieces have been cut out and clumsily glued back together, and now it is tearing in the most inappropriate places.
“I want everything to disappear.” The words come out light, almost weightless – like soap bubbles that pop before ever reaching the ceiling.
“So that… the world would cease to exist?” Mike asks, remembering yesterday’s show about black holes, where everything also disappeared.
“Not like that. I mean… so that I wouldn't be there.” Will whispers.
“Will…” Mike is stunned. He looks at Will and, for the first time, doesn’t seem to know what to say. His lips part, close, open again, but there’s no sound. He’s helpless. And it shows. For him, disappearance is equivalent to the end of everything, a void that has a fairly plausible scientific explanation, when everything contracts to a single point and then explodes, turning into interstellar dust. But for Will, it was something else. Not the end of the world, not the annihilation of the universe, but his own absence.
“As if I’m a mistake. Just a mistake and nothing more.” Will pulls his knees to his chest, hugging himself. He balls up, the way he does every night when Lonnie staggers down the hallway and bumps into walls half-asleep.
The more Will tries to be a part of this world, like everyone else, the stronger the feeling that he remains unnoticed. Will fails, over and over, again and again. Strange, unwanted, alienated.
Existence on the edge, between visible and invisible.
Will has almost disappeared.
He doesn’t know yet that in a few years, the whole town will talk only about his missing. Exactly what he wished for.
Will seems to dissolve into air, becoming part of the ghostly background that no one notices, because no one wants to see what doesn’t fit into the usual framework. Or they do see him. But only those who want to mock him for not being like them.
“Is it because of your dad?” In most cases, Mike doesn’t need to guess why Will is crying, because the reason is his father. Mike replays in his head all the times he was at Will’s house and witnessed Lonnie’s cruelty. Will is afraid to even say a word in his presence, not to mention that he instinctively slouches, pulling his head deep into his shoulders, like a turtle retreating into its shell at the slightest danger.
“That too,” Will nods.
Lonnie is a yellow-purple bruise hidden under a sleeve. Will doesn’t look this sad when he’s not around. He can be himself, without fear of a sudden cuff to the head for any gesture his father finds too girlish. But when the bruise is accidentally pressed, everything goes dark before his eyes. Mike doesn’t ask when Lonnie is coming back. He understands without words, because…
The smile fades away as quickly as tears appear.
Lonnie is too drunk again, too fierce and unstoppable for Joyce to calm him down. A mad dog breaks loose. Everything always starts according to the same scenario: Lonnie pushes the coffee table with his foot, he'll be lucky if it turns over right away, because otherwise he'll sweep everything off it. A colorful drawing by Will, several successful polaroids that Jonathan has forgotten to hide, taken with a miraculously intact camera. It pisses him off even more. He wants to smash everything to smithereens, to wipe off the face of the earth, so that nothing will remind him of what he never had and, most likely, will never have. Lonnie sees nothing but chaos, which corresponds to what reigns inside him.
Because it seems to him that even if he puts his two sons together, he still wouldn’t get a real man.
Will doesn’t need superpowers to unfailingly guess his father’s mood by the sound of his footsteps in the hallway. Almost always the same – heavy, loud, and he doesn’t care one bit if his children are sleeping.
Or if they’re even home at all?
Lonnie would be better off if he didn’t have such a worthless son. It would make things easier, because…
Joyce will blame herself for years for not noticing her own son’s absence until eight hours later.
Jonathan will torment himself for not being able to take better care of his younger brother.
Mike doesn’t yet know how much pain he will unconsciously cause Will.
He doesn’t yet know that one day, standing in the pouring rain, when the world narrows to a single point – to Will’s face, contorted with despair – he will say words that can’t be taken back. They won’t be said out of malice, but out of fatigue, out of his own pain, out of the inability to be what others expect of him.
But Will will remember every word.
He will play them over and over in his head, like a stuck record, trying to understand what he did wrong. Where he made a mistake. Why did they stop loving him – if they ever loved him...
In Mike’s memories, that rain never ends either.
As well as his self-loathing.
He will hate himself. For every moment he turned away, when he didn’t notice, when he chose someone else. He will hate himself so much that it will almost eclipse everything else.
But he will never know the main thing.
It’s better if he never knows how many times Will cried at night, curled up on the edge of his pain, gasping desperately in futile attempts not to heal, but to survive until the dawn breaks.
He won’t know that Will learned to hate himself long before anyone else gave him a reason to.
But right now, everything is different. Next to Will is that same Mike he so desperately needs. His best friend, who notices the slightest changes and doubts. That Mike who will be ready to jump off a cliff when some clueless idiot threatens Dustin with a real knife; who will run after Will to admit his mistake; who will put his heart into Will’s trembling palms.
He sits nearby, and his shoulder still touches Will’s shoulder. At least something warm, real.
Will wipes his tears with the sleeve of his stretched-out sweater, which used to belong to Jonathan.
“Come on,” Mike calls, getting to his feet and reaching out his hand. “Let’s go to my room.”
Will looks at this hand and thinks: “I wonder, how much longer can I hold on to this thread?”
But he takes it.
Because he’s still trying.
Because inside, somewhere deep down, under all the layers of pain and fear, lives a tiny spark of hope, somewhere under a pile of ashes from dead dreams.
One day he won’t feel like a mistake.
One day he won’t cry at night.
One day he’ll wake up and understand that life isn’t eternal pain.
But it won’t be soon. Not soon at all.
For now, he just takes Mike’s hand and steps forward. One small step into the darkness. But with Mike it’s not so scary. He lets Mike lead him, hiding behind his back.
Mike goes up the stairs and doesn’t even suspect that he’s saving Will. He’s a paladin. They don’t let the weak die. They throw their shield between a monster and a friend. They make oaths and keep them, even if the oaths kill them.
In the real world, there are no swords or magic.
But there are hands that hold your hand. There are footsteps that echo yours. There is a person who walks with you into the darkness because they think you shouldn’t go alone.
How to cleave this ouroboros asunder? How to defeat something that has no beginning or end? How to pull a friend from the jaws of an invisible monster?
He doesn’t know the answer.
But he knows that paladins don’t retreat.
Even when there’s no weapon. Even when there’s no plan. Even when the only thing left is presence and a promise not to leave.
Mike squeezes Will’s hand tighter.
He doesn’t say “everything will be okay.” Because that would be a lie, and paladins don’t lie.
He doesn’t say: “I will save you.” Because he doesn’t know how.
I don't know what this is, but I need to share! It's so sickeningly sweet that makes my teeth ache.
Robin and Nancy live together, and of course they're dating. They have a lovely two-room apartment with high ceilings and a ton of things to make this place cozy.
Nancy is happy to wake up next to Robin, and she's definitely a big spoon!! Robin likes to sleep in the fetal position, preferably with one of Nancy's arms resting on her side. And sometimes her hand slides lower...
In fact, Robin feels a smidgen of insecurity about her body. When she gets dressed in the morning, she can't help but glance at herself. She's tall. And um... Freckled. She still has that awkwardness in herself that she'd hoped would fade with adolescence.
Nancy is truly a woman. Her woman.
Her features are refined and graceful. She's not shy, scurrying around the apartment in nothing but stockings and that translucent bra embroidered with pink flowers. Nancy drives Robin crazy. With every move she makes. And Nancy knows it.
Nancy slips out of the bathroom in just a towel or nothing at all, leaving wet footprints on the floor. And each time, Robin has to break away from her work for something more important. She follows closely behind. Tangles her angularity until it meets Nancy's soft curves. Sometimes it's loud. Marks on the cleavage between her breasts. Nancy's hand in her hair. Half-moon marks from a firm grip on her hips. But silence suits Robin, too. Nancy sits at the dressing table in her underwear, and Robin simply kneels before her or sits on the floor to rest her head on Nancy's lap.
Nancy has never been so in love. She melts in the care Robin surrounds her with. Nancy can only smile when Robin helps her have a bath or dress after. Nancy raises her arms, and Robin puts her oversized T-shirt on her, then kisses her nose. One time, Robin brought her a cheesecake she'd forgotten after dinner, and they shared a spoon.
In late spring and summer, the nights are muggy enough that Nancy can sleep naked, curled up in the sheets. Robin likes the feeling. She could call it skin-on-skin, but she's always in pajamas, or more rarely, just a T-shirt. She needs another layer, a protective barrier from the outside world, to keep herself from feeling vulnerable. Nancy is tiny, and looks cute when the shirt hits mid-thigh, but Robin... Long legs. Long arms. A long face. Robin runs her fingers down her cheeks, stretching the skin, and sighs heavily. She takes a quick shower, washing the last of her mascara. Robin steps onto the rug, but her towel isn't on the hook.
Nancy should be in bed by now, so Robin puts on her boxers, turns off the light, and steps out of the bathroom. She takes two steps down the hallway, bumping into something in the dark.
"Ow."
"Shit, Nancy, I'm sorry. I thought you were in the bedroom." Robin covers her chest with her hands.
"I took the dirty mugs to the kitchen, otherwise we won't have anything to drink coffee from tomorrow morning." Nancy gropes along the wall and turns on the light. She's a little surprised to see Robin like this. Nancy chuckles. "You know, I've seen you, like, a couple of times."
"I forgot my towel." Robin purses her lips; she feels a little cold, and the hot drops on her back have cooled.
"Is that it?" Nancy comes very close, looking into her eyes. "Come here." She pulls her close, and Nancy's sweet silky nightgown soaks up the water.
"Nancy, I'm wet." Robin tries to pull away, but Nancy's nightgown clings to her skin.
"When was that ever a problem?" Nancy smiles, and Robin giggles. "But seriously, you don't have to hide from me. You're beautiful. Very beautiful." She seals her words with a kiss and slowly backs into the bedroom.
Robin sits down on the bed, grabbing Nancy under the hips so she can sit on her lap. They kiss, but mostly just rub their noses, their foreheads touching.
"I want to take care of you tonight, okay?" Nancy pushes Robin's shoulders down, and she falls back against the pillows, her eyes wide. "You're scrumptious, baby." Nancy kisses her way from her jawline to her cheekbones, then down to her neck and lower. She finds Robin's hand and intertwines their fingers. Goosebumps rise on Robin's skin. She laughs as Nancy kisses her below her navel and flattens her palm on her stomach. Open-mouthed kisses on her thighs, and tomorrow, over a leisurely breakfast, she'll admire the marks, coloured like forget-me-nots...
Robin breathes heavily, trying to blink away the sparks dancing before her eyes. She sits up in bed, scanning the room for her T-shirt. Nancy takes her wrist and tugs it back.
"Stay like that. You don't need it tonight. Not only tonight, you know."
"Just admit you want to stay warm against me all night." Robin lies down next to her, tracing each of Nancy's ridges with her fingertips.
"One doesn't interfere with the other."
A ray of sunlight creeps through the curtains, running from the wall to the bed, and by ten o'clock it reaches Robin's shoulder. Nancy is already awake. She looks at Robin's freckled back, counts the moles on her shoulders. She nuzzles her neck, inhaling her scent — bergamot and tenderness.
Robin feels Nancy's breath and turns toward her, eyes still closed. Perhaps nature was right when it created her this way. And she has no doubt that now, under this sheet, Nancy considers her the most beautiful woman in the world.
Finally, I had time and inspiration to write it, thank you for this idea! 🤲🥨✨ (https://www.tumblr.com/la-plum-sefue1/806030084510302208/will-cries-to-max-one-time-while-theyre-hanging?source=share)
I See Her In You
It's been four months.
Four months without El.
Four months since she... left.
Will wonders where his ability to distinguish colors has gone, because from that moment on, everything has become gray, as if someone erased the colors from the rods and cones in his eyes. He didn't just lose his sister; he lost a third of his heart, because the other two belong to Jonathan and Joyce. As a child, he adored books where people found each other among chaos and became family. El was his newfound family. Or rather, the Byers became family for her.
That day hit Max like an avalanche. Escaping with Holly, returning from a coma, saving the children from Vecna's clutches, and... the death of her best, her only friend.
She couldn't even wipe away the tears, because she couldn't even raise her hands.
Without realizing it, Will and Max instinctively gravitate toward each other. Perhaps they understand why, but they don't say it out loud. The thought doesn't require voicing. But it binds these two tightly, like an invisible knot around their pinkies.
Max is packing her overnight bag. She's already speeding around her trailer in her wheelchair, barely bumping into doorways. Almost is the key word. No, she can walk, but... it's hard. And not so much hard as painful. She hates her slowness, the way her muscles ache after five minutes of walking with support, the way her skateboard gathers dust uselessly lying under the bed, teasing her every time she drops something on the floor and bends over to pick it up.
Max hears the sound of a car pulling up and two short honks. Steve is here. He's still their elder brother. Now, of the five of them. He stomps on the rug by the front door, shaking snow off his boots, and steps inside.
"Have you seen it? Snowdrifts as tall as me... Is anyone even going to clear them?" He breathes on his hands, rubbing them together to warm up a little. February frosts spare no one.
"I doubt it. I'll be lucky if the trailer doesn't get snow up to its roof.." Max pulls up to Steve, getting her wheel stuck in the matted folds of the carpet. "I'm ready."
"Great. Let me carry you first, and then I'll put the wheelchair in the car?" Steve asks, feeling a little guilty that his car is too small, but it's all he can afford after losing his cherry-red BMW. Who knows what intergalactic space she's conquering now?
Steve has gotten so used to it that he leans mechanically so Max can wrap her arms around his neck, and then he plows through the snow like an icebreaker in the North Sea. Feeling the warmth of the car, Max relaxes her shoulders. She doesn't even notice how tense she feels, as if her body is expecting another strike. Max understands how much of a hassle she is, even though everyone tries to convince her otherwise. Her mother works two jobs, trying to cover the old hospital bills and the new ones for physical therapy and checkups.
"Should I fasten you?" Steve asks solicitously.
"I can do it myself." Two months ago, this would have seemed impossible.
"Okay. Then we're going to the Byers'." Steve turns on the radio, and Robin's cheerful voice comes through the speakers.
"Your chatterbox is at her post as usual, which means the next hour will fly by faster than summer break before high school."
"Why didn't you tell me you were on shift? I would have picked another day."
"Robin's doing just fine on her own. I'll be back there when I drop you off."
She loves the Byers' new house. It's a little sad that she was last there only for the housewarming party. Her friends are doing everything they can to keep her from feeling cut off from the rest of the world, but she's still trapped within the four walls of her trailer. Trapped in her head, alone with guilt and fear.
Steve pulls up to the house. Max tries to push away her dark thoughts; after all, she's here to finally have some fun, like she used to. The path to the house has been cleared, apparently by Hopper. The light turns on in the hallway. Steve first carries the stroller to the porch, knocks on the door, and comes back for Max. Will opens the door.
"Max!"
"Hi." Max smiles as Steve sets her into a chair.
"Can you handle the rest of this without me?" He hands Will the bag with Max's things.
"Yes. Thanks, Steve." Max waves goodbye, and Will rolls her stroller into the house. It's warmer here than the trailer. It smells of bakery and cinnamon.
"We can watch TV in the living room and then have dinner. Mom made lasagna and baked apple pie." Will stops by the couch.
"Sounds great." Max tries to stand up, leaning on her arms, but Will rushes to help.
"Let me?" He reaches out to grab her under the arms. Max nods, clasping her hands behind his neck. Will lifts her, and Max waits for him to drop her onto the couch. He holds her tightly, resting his head on her shoulder. "I miss you."
His words make something inside him clench painfully, yearningly.
"Me too. This is all I can do now." Max weakly hugs him back. She wants to run or skateboard again until all the air is out of her lungs, fight for the best seat on the couch and the TV remote control. Laugh carefree and make sarcastic remarks. But for now, all she can do is avoid causing more trouble. And she'll definitely never tell anyone how she fell out of her wheelchair a couple of weeks ago while moving to her bed because she forgot to put the wheels on the locking mechanism. It hurt. But being a burden to her loved ones hurt even more. It took a lot of effort to get onto the bed so her mother wouldn't see her like this, because she'd definitely think Max needed a sitter.
Will carefully sets her down on the couch.
"Firmly? Or too soft?" Will beams at her.
"Calm down. I'm not made of porcelain. Sit down already." Max doesn't like people fussing around her. It's not that she's unworthy of attention, but sometimes... it feels like she is.
"Okay. Fine, I'll be right back." Will hands her the TV remote and goes into the kitchen. Max shrugs and turns on the TV.
"Would “Garfield in Heaven” be okay?" Max yells, unable to find a comfortable position on the couch, sinking into the soft cushions.
"We'll watch whatever you want." Will returns with a tray containing two mugs of cocoa and a few slices of pie. "Not comfortable?"
"Honestly, not really..." Max sighs.
"What if it's like this?" Will puts a pillow behind her back and covers her legs with a blanket. "Okay?"
"Yes. Thank you." She takes the plate with the pie and takes a bite. "M-m… Very tasty."
"I'm glad." Will sits down next to her, and Max tugs at his sweater sleeve to move closer. She likes to feel warmth, to feel people, especially after she hasn't felt anything at all for a long time, not someone else's touch, not her own toes. So when Max finishes her cocoa, she allows herself to squeeze Will's forearm and rest her head on his shoulder. And everything is so leisurely and natural. They eat, laugh, and talk. As if there's nothing scary behind, nothing uncertain ahead. But the pain in her knee brings her back to reality.
"What's wrong, Max?" Will notices her discomfort.
"My knees. They still hurt if I stay in the same position for too long." She throws back the blanket and rubs her joints.
"Will it help if you straighten your legs?"
"It usually helps." Max thinks Will will suggest she put her feet up on the coffee table, but he takes hers and places them on his.
"Will that do?" Will smiles, stroking her kneecap.
"Have you always been this adorable?" Max ruffles his hair.
"Maybe." He chuckles softly. "We need to spend more time together."
"I'd love to... but..." Max purses her lips guiltily, but Will squeezes her hand reassuringly.
"I can come over after school, if that's okay with you. Lucas does it almost every day, and I don't want to disturb you two." Will tickles her palm with his thumb.
"You can come over whenever you like, Will. You'll definitely be more useful than Mike, who can't explain Spanish. And I won't even mention geometry."
"I thought you are keeping him for his literature assignments?"
"Ha, that's the key to our friendship. And I'm choosing the better of his two masterpieces. I've never gotten anything lower than a B."
And they laugh, almost genuinely.
"Want dinner?" Will asks.
"Perhaps we should go to the kitchen?" Max is about to get up, but Will stops her.
"We've already broken all the rules and ate dessert before the main course. Let's eat here, since everything is allowed today. I'll bring it."
Max declines the second helping Will insistently offers, apparently after he touched her skinny legs. She immediately turns her attention to the actors in the silly comedy, trying to figure out which one Will likes best. His flushed cheeks satisfy her more than the answer to her question. Insanely cute.
"We can go up to my room." Will turns to Max as the credits roll. "I'll carry you."
"I don't think that's a good idea unless we both want to fall down the stairs." Max shakes her head.
"Wait, you thought you'd sleep here?" Will looks at her in surprise. She thought so, actually...
"Well... The couch isn't so bad."
"I made it up for you on my bed. And if I carry you on my back, it's pretty safe." Will gets up and sits down by the couch, letting Max cling to his neck. He stands slowly, holding her under the knees. "See, it's okay. If you're scared, you can hold on to the railings.”
Max holds on tightly to Will, clutching his sweater in her fist. Will leans forward, because he'd rather they fall forward on him than backward. But he's sure that won't happen. He opens the door to his room and walks over to the bed, setting Max down.
"Easy as pie. I'll get your bag." Will leaves, and Max looks around his room. On the nightstand are a pile of knick-knacks, including old D&D figures and dice, drawings – black and white, not in color – and photographs. Will with his mom and Jonathan. A photograph of their party. A photograph of El.
El.
Max picks up the photograph to look closer. The only photos she has of them together are a single series of four photos from their shopping mall walk. Nothing else. Then the Byers left, and then she fell into a coma. And then…
"I miss her." Max looks up and sees Will. She didn't notice his return. He sighs and sits down next to her.
"Me too." Max nods. "She was the only girlfriend I had here."
"You were to her, too. And I always dreamed of a little sister, and that day she just appeared, and then Joyce took her. I tried to be a good brother to her. Because to me, she was the best."
"Will..." Max strokes his back, noticing the tears in his eyes.
"Sometimes I think I can still feel her." Will whispers, staring at a spot on the ceiling to keep the tears from falling. His voice is muffled, barely audible. "Like a phantom pain. Like she's somewhere close, but she's not."
Max tries to swallow the lump in his throat. "I know that feeling. I have dreams about her eyes. The way she looked at me... at the very end."
Why are they here, and she's not? Why did she give everything she had away, and they were left to pick up the pieces that couldn't be reassembled? Max tries, even if she knows it's useless. Her hands are cut senselessly, stupidly. She wants to pick up something and throw it at the wall. To make a loud sound. To drown out, even for a second, the silence in her head or the incessant thoughts. There's no other option.
"I'm drawing." Will answers, just as quietly. "I think I'm gradually forgetting her face. Everything seems so false, fake, different. Not her. Not the same."
El struggled, and they simply... exist. Trying to survive another day, only for the next one to come, just as gray, joyless, and empty.
Max thinks about how she's become fixated on what she's lost – speed, independence, carefreeness. So much so that she's lost sight of what she has left. Life. Crippled, painful, but, nevertheless, life. And sitting next to her is a person who understands her value like no one else, who also experiences the pain and suffering that continues to haunt him.
"I appreciate you so much." Will turns to Max, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You're the closest thing I have left of her. You took care of her, showed her things I knew little about, but which were important to her. With you, she learned what she liked, how to make friendship bracelets, how hard it was to walk in heels when you're thirteen, which horoscopes in magazines were the funniest. And she came over and told me all of this afterwards. I've never been happier for her when she said you were having such a great time together. She missed you in California."
"I... I didn't know she told anyone." Max hugs Will's neck. "We were just fooling around. It was summer, and we were bored. I thought it was just about me, you know, to forget about the problems at home, about everything that was going on. She's a superhero girl, and I... I'm just Max."
"It was a real life for her, the kind she never had before. You taught her how to be a teenager. You gave her those memories." Will pulls back to look at Max and sees that she's crying too. "No, Max, don't cry, come on, Max." He wipes the tears from her cheeks, but they continue to flow.
"But you're the one crying!" Max smiles bitterly and nudges him in the chest, smearing the tears and sniffling. "She wouldn't have liked it anyway." She leans back against the pillows and pokes Will in the side with her toe. He turns, and Max pats the empty space on the bed next to him. Will lies down next to her and holds out his hand.
"I love you." He's still sniffling and buries his face in Max's shoulder. “Thank you. I'm serious, thank you, Max.”
"Oh... I love you too." She moves a little closer, and they lie in silence for a while. "Tell me more about her?" Max asks, her voice breaking slightly, but Will's grip tightens on her hand.
Trinity thought it was hard for anything to get worse than her very first day here.
Turns out, it could.
Today.
Two hours after her shift, having finally filled out all the patients' medical records, she returns home. Murphy's Law always stalks her, waiting somewhere in the bushes, while her patience rapidly approaches zero. Every other traffic light is red, and the horoscope is wrong when it says it's the perfect color for a Scorpio. She prefers purple: it suits her hair and her fair skin. And red... She sees too much red every day. Blood is red, ambulance lights are red, a 'caution, danger!' sign that should be hung around her neck is also red.
Whitaker has already left for Amy's farm and locked the apartment. He is so paranoid, as if they have something to steal. Trinity fumbles with her keys for a long time, annoyed, and tosses them past the basket onto the shelf. She takes off her sneakers, scrunching up the heels without bending down to untie the laces. She needs a shower now. Or better yet, to crawl out of her skin. Trinity undresses and steps under the stream. She doesn't like hot water hitting her hair or head, but if she slouches a little, the water pours directly onto her seventh cervical vertebra, running down her body. She'll just stand there for ten minutes, boiling in the water, like the ramen she could be chowing down in bed with Yolanda, if she'd chosen her. What plans could she possibly have? Were they so important that Yolanda would give up Trinity? They would have watched the fireworks, maybe kissed in the car afterwards, and barely made it to the apartment door.
But no.
She doesn't need a chew toy today, she wants to have carefree fun with someone else this evening. Trinity wonders if Yolanda ever needed her at all? Not to vent the stress of a hard shift in a furious act of love that lacks any real love. Why? She doesn't know. It was hard to flaunt her body. But what if it had been her soul? It has far more scars than her thighs which Yolanda so often avoids to look at. Trinity just wants to feel normal. That she could be loved. That she is more than three minutes of trembling pleasure. That she is for life, not just for one night.
Trinity steps out of the shower, drying her damp hair with a towel. She looks in the mirror, but not at herself. She rarely wants to look at herself, especially when she's naked. A toothbrush, almost identical to Whitaker's. The only difference is that Yolanda's only used it maybe five times when she's decided to stay overnight, so it looks unused. Whitaker's brush isn't here now and won't be for the next three months, or it can never appear here again, because he'll find a new place to live. And everything will change again. Trinity likes routine, oddly enough, when everything goes as planned. She seeks stability and doesn't like it when someone disrupts her personal, established world order.
Now everything is broken.
No one is to blame for this but her. Trinity is the sole cause of her own problems. She can't hold anything in her hands, and her life is slipping away like the grass-snake she once caught as a child. The old Trinity was fearless. She wipes the fogged mirror with her hand, daring to look at herself. This Trinity is an outcast, and she got what she deserved.
Now she'll sit alone on the couch, and no one will pause the movie to ask a million questions. She only answers the ones she likes, which means Whitaker's most absurd questions. He did the right thing by leaving today. Trinity is selfish, but... It sounds like a torture to spend time with the rude roommate who's in a foul mood eight times a week.
Trinity opens the refrigerator and, finding nothing to eat, scrolls through food delivery app. She turns off her phone without choosing anything. She's fed up. Yolanda fed her for slaughter, and now she's stuffed to the point of nausea. It's a little disgusting, but it will pass. Everything passes unnoticed, one way or another, and the edges slowly blur, as if someone has run a finger along them, stopping at a point called 'death.'
She knows there's a scalpel in her pants pocket. For the last three hours of her shift, it's weighed like a handful of cobblestones. Has Whitaker noticed? He notices everything. The only one who sees right through her, so much so that Trinity sometimes becomes terrified at how well he knows her, even though she's told her almost nothing about herself.
He reaches out to stroke her, but all she can do is hiss and scratch. That's her nature.
Trinity gets up and goes to the bathroom. She rummages through her pockets and pulls out a scalpel. It feels even heavier in her hand, like a bloody gun, and somewhere inside her is the corpse of the real Santos.
She flinches at the unexpected knock on the door. The scalpel clattering to the floor, rustling its sterile packaging. Maybe Whitaker was right to be so concerned about safety?
Trinity sticks her head out of the bathroom and sees him.
Her Huckleberry.
"Oh, Trin, you are already here. Finished with the medical records?" He carefully places his bag in the entrance and takes off his jacket.
"Why did you come back?" Santos raises an eyebrow questioningly.
"You'll be bored watching fireworks without company."
"What makes you think I don't have company?" Santos snorts disapprovingly. But somewhere deep inside, that drop of hope nourishes the dry soil of her soul, and with any luck, flowers will grow there someday.
"I heard your conversation with–" He begins, then trails off, because it sounds like he's been eavesdropping. Trinity hates how he always seems to be in the right place at the right time.
"Well, no. That's not it. What makes you think I need company today?" She attacks. She doesn't want to, but she attacks.
"I... Okay, I get it. Sorry for butting in. And sorry for bothering you with questions at the hospital, too." Dennis silently goes to his room. Trinity returns to the couch. The scalpel remains on the floor. She is deep in thought. The difference is too obvious to ignore. Yolanda abandoned her, replacing with someone else. Whitaker cancelled all his plans for her. Is Trinity even worth it? He helps her after she's treated him rudely, called him names, turned away from him in public, and made hurtful jokes. And he is still here! Literally through the wall. And the wall doesn't stop him from knowing what's going on with Trinity.
She hears Whittaker pacing the hallway, and Trinity doesn't even consider what he might find when he goes into the bathroom to start the laundry. He turns off the light in the bathroom. In the hallway. And she feels as if divine punishment will befall her in a few seconds, rather than her loser roommate sitting on the couch next to her. But nothing happens. Trinity feels his gaze burning into the back of her head with regret and something tender, but not pity.
"Hey, if you want to..."
"I don't want to." It happens automatically to her. Pushing people away when she's feeling down. Responding with a snarl. She doesn't even know what he wanted to suggest her. Watch TV together? Play video games? Eat an avocado, after all?!
Dennis opens the window and climbs out. It looks out onto a fire escape. The building they live in is old, and such fire escapes are long gone, but she likes being able to get out of the stuffy room and observe life from a distance. This way, she's not afraid of ruining anything.
The steps creak as Dennis climbs several floors higher, to the roof. And Trinity resists, but it's hard to give up her feline ways; she chooses to let curiosity kill this cat. She follows him, throwing a blanket over her shoulders, because the temperature at night is lower than during the day, when patients die from heat and other causes.
The first fireworks light up the sky. She needs to get higher to see. She steps onto the roof, and Whitaker doesn't turn around when he hears her footsteps. Trinity stands beside him. For a moment, they silently gaze at the scattering of sparks among the stars. She needs to say something. Trinity isn't very good with words, but she can try.
"You were right. I like it."
"Like what?" Dennis looks at her as if he's just been born.
"Don't make me say it out loud!" She's much better at acting. She leaves breakfast for Dennis when she has a shift and it's his day off, hides ripe avocados from him less and less often, sometimes folds his sweatshirts, which are scattered all over the apartment. Trinity raises her hand like a wing, allowing Dennis to come closer. She's not doing him a favor, it's her sincerity that speaks volumes. "Okay, come here. I don't want you annoying me with your runny nose."
He probably can't believe Trinity's generosity. A little cautiously, Dennis presses his shoulder against hers. "So, I'm not annoying you now?"
"I didn't say that." She bickers.
"But you implied it." His perspicacity infuriates her.
"You've just made that up." They laugh, and though Trinity doesn't have to fake it, Dennis still suspects something.
"Trinity." He turns to her. Her heart skips a beat. "I found it."
"What?" She's still smiling, trying to hide her mounting anxiety.
"A scalpel." Whitaker speaks quietly, but it's deafening. The universe should have exploded like a firecracker. But nothing happens. She'll have to face the paralyzing fear. And somehow, in front of this freckled country boy, she feels more ashamed than when she found herself under Yolanda only in her underwear. She knows he'll wonder how he couldn't notice, blame himself for not being more attentive, even though they literally live and work side by side round the clock.
"I..." Her lungs tighten. She can't come up with an excuse. She has no excuse. She's just a weakling, unable to bear the burden of existence, the haunting traumas she can't overcome.
"It's okay. You don't have to explain anything to me." Dennis touches her hand tentatively, and Trinity doesn't snap back – it's a kind of permission – and he squeezes her forearm. "I will stay. I'm not going to move into Robbie's house or anywhere else. And I'll be here if you want to talk, or maybe we won't talk at all." Trinity looks at Dennis, and his unsightly gray-blue eyes have never been so bright. They glitter suspiciously, as if he's about to cry. And he might. Trinity takes a half-step toward him and timidly hugs. He holds the blanket with one hand and places the other on her back, but doesn't press hard, doesn't squeeze. It's strange, but not bad. It's calm, like she is in a wheat field, and all around there are silence and enveloping warmth.
They stand like that for a few more minutes, enjoying the colorful fireworks, and then return to the apartment. Dennis cuts an avocado and mixes it with spices and lemon juice for guacamole. Trinity is sitting on the couch, having already chosen the best of the B-list late-night TV shows. Whittaker hands her a bowl while he opens a package of nachos. He deliberately leaves her whole chips and eats the crumbled ones. What self-sacrifice!
Trinity sits closer than usual and rests her head on Dennis's shoulder. He tenses, not expecting such an expression of affection, but he is glad, hiding a smile.
"Relax, Huckleberry. I don't bite." She lightly nudges him in the ribs. "You are hilarious." She tries to cheer Dennis up, because he looks like a sad prairie dog. Really sad one, because of his hooded eyelids. That's touching. Trinity will tell him everything, but not today. Tomorrow. The two of them have the day off, which is so suitable for long heart-to-heart conversations.
They stay up late until their eyes begin to droop. Neither Dennis nor Trinity notices they're dozing off. Waking in the middle of the night, Trinity doesn't mind at all that Whittaker is curled up next to her.
Steve's a little worried because Robin still has no idea Ollie exists. Steve wanted to surprise her because when she graduated from college, just over a month ago, he promised her a big surprise. Back then, he and Eddie were just sorting out the paperwork and filling out all the necessary documents.
And now Ollie's here.
The house is as tidy as it can be with a small child. Food is cooked, lots of home-cooked food, because Steve's worried about Robin's cooking abilities – probably pasta and rice, alternating. He, as a real mother, genuinely cares if she eats vegetables and greens...
Steve stands near the car at the airport entrance, scanning her wide smile and freckled cheeks. Robin zips through the hall at lightning speed, not caring that everyone is watching her terrible running. But it's actually a good thing for her, because people make way for her, afraid of being knocked down by some crazy woman just before they set off on their long-awaited vacation.
Steve opens his arms, and she hangs on his neck, laughing with happiness. And Robin hasn't changed at all. She's wearing Converse, the eyeliner is smudged, but it still looks as if it were meant to be so, matte lipstick from their Scroops Ahoy days is colored unevenly. And she has the same undying sparkle in the eyes.
"I missed you." Robin admits, still holding Steve.
"Me too." He strokes her head. Her long hair is still unusual, but it suits her. Especially when she puts on her jacket and becomes not his little Bobby, but the businesslike Ms. Buckley, who teaches art and German as electives. "Get in, babe." Steve opens the car door for her, and she, like old times, takes her usual place in the passenger seat.
"Why isn't Eddie meeting me? Did you two have a fight? Are you getting divorced already?!" What's constant is that she's still a terrible chatterbox. But Steve sometimes misses her voice, which he'd happily listen to on the radio every morning.
"He... He had some things to do. He's probably home by now. Waiting for us." Steve pauses strangely, making the little lie seem less believable.
"I'll believe you. This time," Robin says, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "But if you ever need professional help, know that I had a whole semester of psychology and–"
"We're really doing well." Steve smiles.
"Oh, in that case, I hope it stays that way. I'll always be by your side, of course, but you can be a real dingus sometimes." Robin claps Steve on the shoulder.
"Thanks, Buckley." Steve says sarcastically, and Robin starts talking about some Cora... Caravan... Caravaggio and his special light.
When they pull up to the house and approach the porch, Steve asks Robin to close her eyes. She looks at him incredulously, but readily agrees when Steve mentions surprise. She trusts him that it won't be difficult for him to kidnap her.
Robin, not used to betraying her true nature, stumbles over the threshold, but Steve catches her before her face hits the floor. They stand in the hallway, looking worse than a human centipede. Eddie laughs.
"Is this a good thing, Steve? I can hear Eddie giggling!" Eddie approaches Robin, holding Ollie. Steve removes his hands from Robin's eyes and...
"Where are your curls, Eddie? What did you do with them?" Robin ruffles his hair.
"I've decided to change my image. Have you noticed anything else?" Eddie points at Ollie.
"No way! You finally listened to me and opened a daycare? I told Steve it was the best idea I'd ever had, and his babysitting skills..." Robin playfully punches Steve in the shoulder.
"No, Robin, you don't get it." Eddie interrupts. "She's ours."
"You're an aunt, Robin." Steve adds, just to make sure she gets it.
Robin stands there for a few seconds, her mouth hanging open. Too much information. She needs time to process it. She looks from Eddie to Steve, confused. "So Steve now... is a father? Well, you're fathers now, wow..." She smiles, but tears start to spill out of her eyes.
"Robs, come here." Steve hugs her. "Her name is Ollie. We haven't had her for long. That's why I couldn't come see you."
"Want to hold her?" Eddie offers.
"I need to sit down first." They go into the living room, and Robin sits down in the middle of the couch. "If you were going to surprise me with something like that, you definitely succeeded. Don't do that again."
"Are you happy?"
"I'm thrilled, Harrington! You have a baby now! It's almost like I had a baby."
"I'm warning you, she might cry."
"Give me my mini-bro!" Robin holds out her arms, and Eddie carefully hands her the baby.
"Place your hand under her head."
"Don't worry, I know how to hold babies." Robin gently holds Ollie to her chest, stroking her back. "She's wonderful."
"While Robin is here, we have a free babysitter and it's not you." Eddie whispered to Steve.
"I'm not actually deaf." Robin leaned back on the couch to get more comfortable. "But I'm prepared to sit with her for the next week."
Robin agrees to this, unaware of how many times she will be pulled by the hair and pinched by the nose.
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