hello everyone... not sure who i'm writing to specifically but this is just a Proof of Life from me.
i feel bad! i keep making promises to write, i SWEAR i want to, then life gets in the way (as it does).
currently getting in the way of me doing Literally Anything, is the person i am currently In Love with.
i think my friends are sick of hearing his name so i'll probably dump something here about him.
maybe this will strike a chord and inspire to finally write something. maybe something productive can come out of this because right now it's ruining me.
it's not unrequited, which is nice. it's maybe half-requited, which is shit. i fall too fast, too soon, and he's a lot more level headed than i am. but he has this overzealous quality about him that makes him say sweet things he maybe doesn't always mean. i can't tell anymore.
he's also perfect, we're perfect, but live a few hours apart. we spent one really great night together, refused to go to sleep for the sake of missing each other, and have talked on the phone every day since.
however. we've agreed to not go Long-Distance. the thing is- i would do it for him. gas is $6 a gallon and id do the drive, round trip, every day if he'd let me.
we agreed that a few weeks ago. probably going to reevaluate soon. he want me to meet his mother.
but then again, he could just be saying that.
ask box is wide open for those who have advice here.
content: established relationship, smallville!clark, first sleepover, soft intimacy, kissing.
you wake up before him. it takes you a second to remember why your room feels different — why the air feels warmer, heavier, like something sacred is happening quietly under your own roof.
then you see him.
clark is half on his stomach, half turned toward you, one arm bent under the pillow, the other resting dangerously close to your waist like even in sleep he’s making sure you’re still there. the early morning light spills through your curtains, catching in his hair, turning the dark strands almost gold at the edges. he looks younger like this. softer. no worried crease between his brows. no weight of the world on his shoulders. just a boy sleeping in your bed for the first time.
last night had been awkward in that sweet, fumbling way first sleepovers always are. him standing in your doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, asking your parents if it was really okay. him triple-checking that the bed frame was “sturdy enough.” him hesitating before taking his shirt off, not because he was shy, but because he was afraid of hurting something.
“i can sleep on the floor,” he’d insisted.
you’d rolled your eyes and pulled him down by the hand.
“clark, you’ve saved my life three times this month. you can share a mattress.”
now he’s here. breathing slow. safe.
you reach out before you can stop yourself, brushing your fingers lightly through his hair. it’s soft. warmer than you expect. he shifts immediately. not awake — just instinct.
his hand moves, finds your waist, and tightens gently. careful, always careful. even half-asleep, he measures his strength without thinking.
“you’re staring again,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
you freeze. “i’m not.”
he hums softly, eyes still closed. “you are.”
you smile, leaning closer. “you look peaceful.”
that makes him open his eyes. the blue is hazy at first, unfocused. then it clears, and he sees you. really sees you. and something in his expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache.
“did i… break anything?” he asks quietly, glancing toward your bedframe like he genuinely expects splinters.
you laugh under your breath. “no. you didn’t crush my house, superboy.”
he makes a face at the nickname but doesn’t argue. instead, he shifts closer, resting his forehead against yours. the mattress dips slightly under his weight. you feel how warm he is, how solid, how very real.
“i kept waking up,” he admits. “just to make sure you were still here.”
your heart does something embarrassing and huge inside your ribs. “i’m not going anywhere.”
his thumb traces absentminded circles at your hip, barely there. like he’s grounding himself.
“i know,” he says. but there’s something fragile in it. something that says he’s spent a lifetime afraid of losing the people he loves.
you tilt your chin up and kiss him. it’s slow. softer than any kiss you’ve shared before. not desperate. not hurried in some shadowy hallway or behind the barn when no one’s looking.
this one feels… domestic.
his lips move against yours carefully, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. one hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his touch feather-light despite the strength coiled under his skin.
when you pull back, he rests his nose against yours.
“i like this,” he whispers.
“what?”
“waking up with you.”
the words are simple. honest. clark always is.
you tuck yourself into him, fitting against his chest like you belong there. his arm wraps around you fully now, protective but gentle, his chin resting on the top of your head.
outside, smallville is probably already awake. birds arguing in the trees. the world turning. but in here, it’s just you and the boy who could lift tractors, holding you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. and maybe you are.
I don’t want to be your friend, I want to kiss your neck.
summary: What happens after secrets reveal themselves in the dead of night?
WC: 12.6k
warnings: 18+ slow burn, soft soul touching smut, takes place a few months after season five not exactly canon accurate (he still has his beamer), steve is picking up the pieces of his life, reader has no knowledge of upside down, moved back after the military disappears, touch and love starved steve (reader is similar), mild angst, lots of yearning, mentions of holiday sadness, smoking, one bed trope, p in v van sex, scar kissing & touching (steve has scars).
authors note: I don’t how how to express how happy everyone’s reactions and sweet words have made me. I started this the week after volume one aired in a really bad place and spent the last two months writing it and I’m sad and happy to finally let it go. I hope you enjoy it as much as part one 💕✨
✨<- part one // master list
The bright warm light that bleeds through the cracks in your blinds flutters your eyes open with its ivory glow, waking you up first. Steve’s hand is still under your shirt, the long fingers that were once sprawled across your back are now balled up in a lazy fist keeping you pressed to his chest. It’s not like your position is any better though with your face pressed into the crook of his neck, cold hands buried under the warmth of his sweater, fingers curved around his rib cage, while the others are lost in the rough hair of his happy trail.
Last night comes back to you in fuzzy memories, the deep sleep you fell into still hanging heavy like a fog. Whispered secrets, wandering hands and lips that never quite give into what they want overwhelm you as it all starts to come into focus. It warms your cheeks, as the unknown starts to twist, tightening the coil in the pit of your stomach, uncertainty making your palms sweat. Your universe tilting off its access from your spot tucked away inside of Steve’s arms.
“So beautiful.”
The words he whispered in the blue glow of midnight, come rushing back to the forefront of your mind, waking up the butterflies that flutter, stretching their wings in your chest. Glancing down at the end of your bed, the digital clock on your microwave flashes 7:06 AM in bold red numbers. You finally work up enough courage to look up at him.
His eyes move behind closed lids, lost deep in whatever dream he’s having, long lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks. A lighter smattering of freckles reveal themselves from their camouflage in the brighter light under the faintest lines of crows feet, and it makes you wonder if you’ll ever find them all.
The collar of his sweater is pulled down giving you a better look at the scar you noticed on the roof top, your heart thumping a few beats quicker. It looks fully healed but still fresh enough to know whatever happened wasn’t that distant of a memory. Its jagged edges are uneven with silver tips and a pale pink center that gets wider in the middle before tapering off at the ends. It’s hard to resist the urge to reach up and press your lips to it.
He stirs slightly like he can feel the heat of your gaze, so you muster up enough will power to slowly start to untangle yourself from him as carefully as you can no matter how much your body yearns to stay.
There's a desperate need to make him coffee before he wakes up that has every anxious molecule in your body buzzing. It turns your brain into the kind of jittery mess that has you convinced that a perfectly made cup would be the security blanket you need in case he wakes up and regrets every decision that brought him here last night.
Cause coffee will do that, right?
The cold pads of your feet move quietly around the kitchen once you’re free from the warm restraints of his arms, carefully opening cabinets with both hands so they don’t slam shut. You set two travel mugs on the counter as softly as you can, just for the coffee maker to start whirring to life with a loud continuous drip hitting the bottom of the glass pot. Steam blows out from the sides in a low whistle as the water boils going through the filter. It’s loud. So loud.
You cringe, having a silent back and forth with yourself on whether or not you should turn it off, as the rich smell of the beans fills the small space of your apartment. The heat kicks on in a loud hum, and you watch Steve begin to stir in your bed. He grumbles something you can’t understand while still half asleep before turning over with a big hand that reaches across the mattress. He’s searching for you.
He pats around the empty spot where you were not that long ago with his face still buried in his pillow. His movements freeze when he’s met with nothing but the leftover warmth on the sheets, a heavy breath exhaling through his nose before he runs that same hand down his face in an attempt to rub the drowsiness off as he rolls onto his back. Stretching his long legs with a grunt, your heart rate quickens enough that you can feel it pulsing in your wrists because Steve Harrington is waking up in your bed and you almost kissed last night.
Your stomach folds in on itself doing summersaults in preparation for the kind of unchartered territory that comes with a morning after a night like that. An unrelenting fear that after laying himself bare to you, he’d retreat back to his cave and seal it up tighter than before. Leaning against the counter trying to seem nonchalant, your canines bite into your thumb nail, the nervous anticipation of watching him slowly start to sit up bringing back a bad habit.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes with his palms, grumbling like his bones hurt. Your fingers itch at your sides with the need to run through the kind of bed head that has his hair sticking out in almost all directions. The sheer messiness of it has the corners of your lips twisting. He blinks a few times before his eyes finally focus, finding you already staring at him from the kitchen. The blush that paints his cheeks is almost instant, a lazy smile stretching across his face. That’s a good sign.
“Good morning.” He croaks before clearing his throat, face going a deeper shade of crimson because of it.
“Morning.” You squeak, unable to stop the rambling that follows “I’m making coffee — you know, since I promised. I didn’t want you to wake up and not have it, I was just trying to be a good host, but I wasn’t expecting it be so loud I’m really sor —“
“Thank you,” he cuts you off, offering a life line. “You’ve been an amazing host given the circumstances. Feels like — what are those places called? A bed and, and-“
“Breakfast?”
“Yes!” he snaps, nodding with excitement pointing at you, “that!”
“I don’t have breakfast for you though, just coffee.” You pout, hearing the last few drops fill the rest of the pot.
“Same thing.” Steve shrugs, throwing his sock covered feet over the side of your bed, finally running a hand through his hair before standing up.
“Definitely not, but I appreciate your blind support.” You giggle, turning around to turn off the machine taking a deep breath through your nose. Why does it feel like your heart is trying to climb its way out of your throat?
You busy yourself with pouring coffee, secretly thankful to give your nervous hands something to do to distract yourself. The floor boards creak with each step he takes, slow and steady until the wood groans right behind you. Even if it wasn’t for your frozen foundations giving him away, his left over cologne would be enough to tell you that he’s close. The silence that falls between you is charged with the remnants of last night, a burning question dangling in front of you like an eye sore.
What does this mean?
”Don’t mind me, just making sure you’re putting the right amount of sugar in there.” His voice comes out low right next to your ear.
Goosebumps pebble along your skin from the warmth of his breath that fans down the side of your neck. Gentle hands playfully grab at your hips just soft enough to feel his finger tips. It’s timid and unsure, but it's still enough for butterflies to break from the knotted cocoons of your nerves, your lips curving up in the kind of smile that you try to hide ducking your chin down.
“Don’t worry, Steve. I’ll put in half the bag.”
He snorts, the tip of his nose a whisper against the shell of your ear. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the growing urge to just turn around and do what you should have done last night. Kiss him. You don’t though, and by the time you’ve made up your mind he’s giving your hips a gentle squeeze before letting you go.
”I’m gonna go check out the damage and start digging my poor girl out.” Steve sighs, backing away with a card of his hair and you already miss the feeling of him being close. “Can’t have the boss late for work.”
”How about I pour your coffee down the sink?” You turn around with a sarcastic smile that quickly turns into a real one at the wide grin that splits his face in two. The gold in his eyes shimmering in the sunlight.
“Hmm, I think you like me too much for that.” He winks, making your face go gaze meeting the ground.
”There’s the confident guy I knew from high school.” You manage to tease through the nerves that tighten, constricting in your chest but you’re proud of the eyeroll you get in return despite it.
There’s a weird normalcy in the way he shuffles around the apartment in his wrinkled jeans searching for his shoes and coat. Like the secrets shared in the silver glow of the moon are kept hidden under the blankets of stars that disappear once the sun comes out. Everything feels different in the light of day, and the reminder of reality bounces off the blinding reflection of the snow outside.
Steve comes back in the kitchen once his coat is half way zipper up, white teeth gleaming when he sees you already holding out his tumbler for him. Nike covered feet close the distance between you in just two long strides, long fingers brushing with yours when they wrap around the warm metal of the cup. He crowds your space just enough for your back to hit the counter, the smell of leather and coffee invading your senses.
“Thanks, honey.” He breaths, staring down the slope of his nose with a vulnerability in his eyes that feels an awful lot like testing the waters.
Looking up at him from under your lashes, you reach up, pulling the zipper of his jacket all the way to the top.
“Anytime, handsome.”
Maybe those secrets aren’t so hidden after all.
———
Steve’s car creaks and groans with every turn, the plastic of the dash expanding in the heat flowing freely from his vents. The metal of his keys clink as his tires drive through the sloppily plowed roads. It all sounds so loud in the silence that’s settled between you, as words beg to come out from behind sealed lips that won’t let them. Fingers yearning to intertwine but settle for resting just close enough to feel the warmth emanating off of them.
Your gaze wanders in his direction, nervous teeth digging into the fat of your bottom lip. His brows are furrowed, eyes staring out at the road like he’s concentrating but you know after these past few months that's not what’s happening. You wonder what kind of thoughts are racing through that complicated head of his as he runs long fingers through his hair, getting caught on a knot at the end that he works out. A deep breath pushing out through his nose.
“I’m sorry you had to sleep in your jeans last night.” You half joke, willing your tongue to work, mouth relearning how to form sentences breaking the silence.
He looks over at you, confusion painting his features before realization dawns on him and he finally joins you back in reality with a soft laugh.
”It wasn’t so bad.” He shrugs with a lopsided grin, “I mean, am I ready to take them off and not wear pants for the next 24 hours? Yes.”
Your laugh bounces off the foggy windows, echoing in the small space of the car, the sound of it brightening his face, freckle covered cheeks pushing up high.
”Honestly, I don’t blame you.” Smirking, you try to ignore the way warmth spreads through your body at the mental image that tries to worm its way in.
”Yeah, Robin’s just gonna have to deal. I’ll let her take my turn at picking the movie tonight or something, she won’t care about anything after that.” He chuckles, shifting gears letting the tips of his fingers brush your knuckles. Electricity buzzes on every inch of your skin because of it.
”You guys have movie nights?” The idea of them having a weekly tradition swells in your chest, curling the edges of your lips.
”Yeah, it was something we started when we worked at Family Video together a few years ago. It just kinda stuck, probably one of the only things that kept us sane during lockdown, honestly.” He explains with a pretty shade of light pink dusting the apples of his cheeks, removing another rock from his wall in the light of day. “For those two hours every night we could escape to anywhere we wanted.”
”What’s your favorite movie?” You question, trying not to make a big deal about it despite it feeling anything but.
“Oh easy, Top Gun.” He snorts like it’s a no brainer, “Danger zone? Are you kidding? Another classic.”
”I’m going to assume that you two have very different tastes in movies as well.” You tease, giving anything to be a fly on the wall in their apartment during a fight about what to watch even though you already know he gives in every time.
“Oh god, it’s even worse with movies.” Running a hand down his face he sounds exasperated like he’s having war flash backs.
The gold in his eyes dances, shimmering with the emerald that surrounds it at the giggle he gets from you. He turns onto the main road that leads to the station, a brief moment of silence settling in the warm space of his car at the realization of the limited amount of time left with each other. It creates a desperate need that claws at the back of your throat to keep the conversation going because you aren’t sure what comes after this.
The unmistakable intro to Take Me Home Tonight comes out muffled from his speakers, catching in your ears at the same time. Steve's head snaps in your direction, his mouth formed into an excited ‘O’.
”How can anyone hate this song?!” He argues turning it up, head bopping and fingers tapping on his steering wheel.
”They have no taste, clearly” You agree, breaking out into the kind of laughter that has your ribs sore as he starts to belt along with the song both passionately and off key.
”I see why you work the soundboard.” Narrowing your eyes playfully, you meet his gaze a little flirty from under the thickness of your lashes, baiting him.
”Pfft, this town wouldn’t be able to handle me on the mic. That’s why I work the soundboard, honey.” He winks, turning the music down, pink tongue poking out to wet his lips.
”Yep, I’m sure that’s it.” You agree sarcastically, doing your best to ignore the pang of sadness that hits your chest when his tires crunch along the winding entrance of The Squawk. “Maybe we can work in your own show this summer then.”
His smile freezes, squinting his eyes, giving extra focus on the road.
”Well, no, don’t — don’t do that.”
“We could use the boost in listeners.” You press, getting sick pleasure out of watching him squirm biting back your laugh at the glare he sends your way.
“Wow, that sounds like the kind of idea a station manager would have.” He counters, pulling up next to the WSQK van that blocks your practically buried car.
”Wow, are you always this annoying in the morning?” You sigh, fighting off the way the corners of your lips twitch but he sees it, letting his own curve up celebrating his win this round.
“That’s not a nice thing to say to the guy who’s about to spend the next hour digging your car out.” He chastises, turning off his engine reaching over to squeeze your thigh with a pout.
He looks at you from under his lashes, tying knots in your stomach, the warmth of his hand bleeding through the denim of your jeans. Unfortunately, just like the rest of them, you don’t know how to back down from a challenge.
You lean forward on the arm rest, invading his space, catching the quiet hitch in his breath. He doesn’t move away, the hungry gaze returning from last night flicking down to your lips dilating his pupils. The hand on your thigh dares to move up just enough for your lashes to tickle at the tops of your cheeks.
”You’re right,” you breathe, trying to regain control. “That wasn’t very nice of me, can you forgive me, Steve?”
You swear the faint sound of a whine slip from the back of his throat, the tip of his nose nudging yours, the coffee on his breath fanning against your lips.
”I think I can, but I need something from you first.” He whispers, the hand on your thigh moving up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb resting at the corner of your mouth tilting your chin.
”Yeah? And what’s that?” The desperation in your voice is undeniable, every thought leaving your brain when his top lip gets dangerously close to brushing against your bottom.
He was going to do it, he was going to kiss you.
A loud smack on the driver side window breaks you both apart so quickly that your back hits the hard plastic handle of the passenger door.
”Jesus Christ!” Steve yells whacking his knuckles on the stick shift, elbow bumping hard against the steering wheel.
He turns around to see who the culprit is, anger flaring his nostrils and the daggers in his eyes sharpening coming face to face with none other than Keith who scoffs at his glare waving him off. He signals for the boy you almost got to kiss for the second time in 24 hours to roll down his window. They stare each other down in a silent challenger before Steve begrudgingly obliges.
”What do you want, asshole? You could have broken my window just now.” The amount of venom in Steve’s question is enough to put an army down.
”Shut up, don’t be such a drama queen, Harrington.” Keith bites, and you really start to understand why he was banned from secret Santa.
”What’s up?” You cut in to relieve the tension as Steve’s lips curl in, muttering insults under his breath.
Keith scrunches his nose at the former king in a mixture of annoyance and disgust, mocking him before bringing his attention back to you.
”My cousin’s gonna be here soon, so if you don’t want any dead air, I suggest you come inside, like now. He’s the guy who plows the roads so he’s on a pretty tight schedule. ” He explains almost like it's something to brag about, and Steve’s face twists into a sarcastic sneer, butting in.
”Oh your cousin plows the roads? That checks out because I was just thinking about what a shit job it was on the drive here.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to operate a snow plow, I’ll make sure to tell him, I know your opinion really matters to him.” Sarcasm drips from every word flipping Steve off.
”Okay! I’m going in now.” You interrupt loudly, unbuckling your seatbelt, putting an end to their bickering. The heat that was simmering just under your skin from the silk of his lips cooling down.
Steve huffs out a loud irritated breath through his nose, eyes finding yours with the kind of longing inside of them that threatens to swallow you whole because he knows the moments lost.
And it’s all Keith’s fault.
”You can go do your job now, she said she’s coming in.” Lashing out, he shoos him away with his hand like a dog.
Keith makes another face at him, flipping him off one more time for good measure before heading back up to the station. Steve watches till he disappears mumbling a sting of curse words after him.
”God, I really hate that guy.” He huffs rolling his window back up.
”Really? I couldn’t tell.”
This gets Steve to laugh, the anger rolling off his shoulders as you zip up your coat, gearing up to venture outside. He glances at your lips one more time before finally accepting his fate, opening his car door. You want to grab his hand and drag him back and say that he can, that there’s still time, the moments not gone. It’s never going to be gone. Keith can wait.
Instead, you follow him out into the cold.
”Thank you so much for doing this again, Steve.” You say with a small smile as you walk around to his side, trying to hide the nerves that come back like a tidal wave because outside of his car feels like a different world. “I probably would have ended up in a ditch.”
”That’s okay I would have gotten you out of it, even if you did.” He teases with a wink, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.
You finally look at your car, heart sinking when you see just how buried it really is.
”You really don’t have to dig it out if you want to go home. I mean look at it! That’s crazy. I can always do it when I get off later.” You start rambling, guilt eating you alive.
Steve grabs your hips pulling you to him with gentle strength as he leans his back against the door. Cedar and a little bit of sleep mix with his leftover cologne, calming the nerves that kick your heart rate up, as your hands slide up the cold leather of his coat hooking your arms around his neck. Steve bends down just enough to press his forehead to yours the heat of his breath fanning against your already cold bitten cheeks.
”Don’t worry about your car, I’m gonna take care of it.” He whispers, hazel eyes following the lines of your face, memorizing it for when he can’t stare at you anymore. “I want to talk about - we should talk about last night at some point.”
”Yeah, I agree.” The words are shy coming out, looking at him from under your lashes.
One of his hands leaves your waist to cup the side of your face again, pulling away just enough to tilt your head up, the pad of his thumb catching the pout of your bottom lip. He holds your gaze like he’s trying to communicate it to you without words. You know what he is trying to say because you want to say it out loud too, but you can’t.
I like you.
Leaning forward he presses a kiss on your forehead that lingers just long enough to make you want more.
“You better go in before the village idiot throws a fit.” He rolls his eyes with a dry laugh, finally letting you go.
“He really is the worst.” You finally agree with the dread of having to see him again, inside.
“We’ll talk soon.” He sticks his hands in his back pockets, the shyness from before coming back at the thought of confessing what you both already know is true.
“S-sounds good.” Stuttering, the bubble the two of you have been lost in the last twenty four hours finally pops, the real world waiting for you inside the double doors.
“Have a good shift, honey.” He smiles, giving you one last look that feels like he’s trying to take a mental image of you right here in this moment.
”I hope you throw those pants away when you get home.” You call out walking backwards, enjoying the red that paints his cheeks despite his laughter.
He waves at you one last time, watching you walk to the double doors and out of sight.
——
Christmas Eve Night
The wheels of the rolling chair squeak as you push yourself around the small space of the studio room. Billie Holiday’s album Solitude spins on the record player, the needle landing on Blue Moon. The first keys of the piano float through the speakers, soft brass mixing with her bittersweet timbre. You stare at the small Christmas tree in the corner of the common room, the colorful lights twinkling just like the ones strung up around you. The shimmering red gift bag that sits on Steve’s soundboard taunts you to over think what’s inside of it hidden under the fluffed green tissue paper.
Boredom has the feeling of self pity trying to burrow itself inside of your thoughts because this was how you were spending Christmas Eve. Alone at work. It was a joke made last week that was only meant to rile Robin up but it quickly became a reality, cause it turns out Keith really does have family out of town. Successfully giving both her and Steve another reason to hate him.
You twirl around in the chair fighting the way your mind wanders to The Wheeler’s and the fact that Nancy is most likely there sharing her grand adventures from Emerson. An even meaner part of your brain imagines Steve listening to them with that same enamored look in his eyes that swallowed you whole just a few nights ago.
Questions you don’t dare to ask float through your brain faster than you can concentrate. Has she seen his scars? Does she have them too? Deep down you know the answers. Pushing the thought of them together out of your mind, you work hard not to dwell on the way you’re clearly trying to hurt your own feelings. She left and will leave again because she doesn’t want him, at least, not like that.
It was Steve you weren’t too sure about.
You hadn’t been alone with him since the car ride back to work that morning. The past few days around the station have been nothing but near misses and stolen looks with shy smiles after getting caught. Perfectly made coffee with fingers that brush handing Steve his mug. Hazel eyes holding yours like maybe if he stared hard enough the two of you could communicate telepathically. But you already know what he’s trying to say.
We need to talk.
Yesterday he almost made it to your office with the kind of grin twisting up his full lips, like he was finally going to get what he wanted. In fact he made it so close to the doorway that your stomach flipped on itself, just for a frantic Robin to intercept him. Foiling yet another attempt to get to you.
The song reaches its last note, cutting the record off bringing you back to reality, and giving you something to do besides over-think. Gentle fingers slide Frank Sinatra’s Nice ‘N’ Easy from its cover, lifting the needle to start it from the top. That Old Feeling’s melody bursts from the speakers with deep baritone and powerful strings. A small smile playing at the edges of your mouth at the much nicer thought of Steve listening in, wondering if you’re playing it just for him.
You were.
A flash of brown catches in the corner of your eye as you put the Billie Holiday album back on the shelf. Freezing, your heart thumps wildly as all the worst episodes of America’s Most Wanted you’ve ever watched come rushing back. You try to mentally count how many seconds it would take to lock the door from where you’re standing before gathering enough courage to turn around. Dramatically preparing for death, you aren’t expecting to meet the hazel eyes you haven’t stopped thinking about on the other side of the glass.
Steve smiles, snow flakes sticking to the ends of his hair that looks like it was styled with the utmost care tonight. That big swoop curling over his forehead just begging to be pushed back, your fingers itching to do it. He’s got your favorite sweater on, the thick woven cream one with his brown leather coat on top of it. It’s paired with light washed jeans that wrap tight around the legs that were tangled with yours a few nights ago. His usual white Nike’s covering his feet.
You can’t stop the curve of your lips, no matter how nonchalant you wish you could be, butterflies erupting when his teeth gleam just the same. Finally pushing the wild strand back, he starts to make his way towards the door with a messily wrapped present in his other hand. The round shape of it not doing his skills or the red Santa printed paper any favors.
“What? Do you just appear anytime someone plays Frank?” You tease to try and hide just how happy you are to see him when he steps inside the sound proof room, the amber of his cologne immediately hitting your nose.
“Yeah, you didn’t know? I thought that’s why you did it.” He plays along with a straight face, earning the kind of giggle from you that has his eyes sparkle with something that makes your thighs press.
“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Nan— The Wheeler’s?” You try to correct, the jealousy you thought was snuffed out sneaking into your words. Steve catches it, his gaze narrowing slightly.
”I went and said hi to everyone, hung out for a little bit,” shrugging, he sets his gift down next to yours, looking at his name scribbled in your handwriting on the tag before leaning back on the desk, holding your eyes in his. “Then I came to where I really wanted to be.”
He says it with the kind of confidence you can’t mistake for anything else.
“Besides, what’s the point of going to a secret Santa gift exchange if mine is stuck at work.” He winks, revealing that the mess of a wrap job is indeed for you.
”Well, I guess it works out.” You say a little breathless, your eyes admiring how handsome he looks in the low light, not exhausted from holding everything together for once. “Since you were mine too.”
“I didn’t want to assume when I saw the bag, thought maybe you just liked me that much, cute handwriting by the way.” His left cheek pulls up in a lopsided grin, enjoying the eye roll and fake huff he gets from you in return.
”So nosy. Way to ruin the reveal.” Your tongue pokes the side of your mouth to try and stop the way your smile won’t stop growing. “And if I remember correctly, I’m not the one who said there’s no one who works here that’s worth ten bucks.”
“You and I both know I meant Keith.” He argues, running a hand through his hair, “god, I really hate that guy. Even more after tonight.”
”You hate Keith for having a family?” You snort, watching the way the corners of his lip twitch at the sound.
”Is there something wrong with that? It’s inconveniencing me, I’m trying to you know — do something here and because of him you have to be at work.” Scoffing, he crosses his arms like it’s a completely justified reason.
”What exactly are you trying to do here, Steve?” Looking at him from under your lashes, he squirms a little under your gaze before regaining his confident charm.
”Well, you’ll have to abandon your post and follow me to the van to find out.”
“I’m not surprised that it’s you of all people asking me not to do my job.” Sarcasm rolls off every syllable, and you wonder if he notices the way all the blood rushes despite it.
”Listen, I know the boss, she really won’t care.” Steve smirks, a full bellied laugh shaking his shoulders when you flip him off in response.
“You’re lucky I just started this record.” You point asternly, before finally giving in. “We’ve got like an hour. Tops.”
—-
The van is already running when the two of you step outside, the low hum of the engine cutting through the wind. Snow crunches under your converse, thick and heavy just like the flakes that fall steadily from the dark lavender sky. The serene scene of the woods that surround the station is breathtaking, making you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had a white Christmas.
“Wait, how long have you actually been here?”
The puzzle pieces slowly begin to slot together as you cross your arms in an attempt to protect yourself from the sharp wind that hits you like knives, cursing the split second decision to not grab your coat.
”Maybe like an hour — hour and a half?” He says from a few steps ahead of you, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Hey, do you want my jacket?”
”What? Steve! An hour and a half!” You gasp, swatting his arm, shock painting your features, ignoring his second question because he’s already shrugging it off before you can say no.
”Hey! It’s fine, relax!” He laughs, making a dramatic show of rubbing the spot you smacked before turning around to drape the leather over your shoulders.
It takes every ounce of will power not to press your nose into the collar when the warmth of it envelopes you. He tugs the sides of the jacket for good measure, winking at you down the slope of his nose before continuing his path to the van. A soft glow shines through the small square windows of the back doors, the yellow light shimmering in the snow. His long strides stop once you get close enough to feel the heat emanating from the engine, turning to face you with rosy cold bitten cheeks meeting your gaze down the sharp slope of his nose. He traps you in the mossy green forest of his eyes, keeping you there as the tips of your shoes brush against with a soft squeak. The pads of his fingers search for yours, tugging you closer when he finds them.
“I did this because I wanted to.” He whispers, reassuring the nervous way you tug your bottom lip between your teeth taking it all in.
Any response is lost on the tip of your tongue, the corners of your lips curling up into something shy. You meet his gaze from under the hood of your lashes, rocking back on your heels mustering a nod. It’s enough for him, flashing you the kind of smile that threatens to buckle your knees, before opening the large metal door. The rusted hinges creak so loudly it echoes into the darkness, the view inside nearly stealing the breath from your lungs.
The golden twinkle of string lights line the roof of the van, another set swooping underneath them in a curved zig zag. They paint the space in warm citrine, relaxing the dark edges the glow of them can’t reach. Everything’s cast in shadows, even softening the ugly colors of the shag rug that covers the floor. There’s a mini Christmas tree that you saw on the clearance shelf at Bradley’s Big Buy a few days ago sitting on the small table right next to a plate of leftovers from the party. The Squawk plays on the radio, Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice crackling through the bad nearly blown out speakers.
“Steve this is — this is so cute.” It comes out quieter than intended, your brain trying to wrap around the fact that he did this for you trying to take in the details of it all with a heart that feels so full that it might burst.
“Yeah?” He questions with an uncertainty that you can’t believe is there. It’s enough for you to tear your eyes away from the shimmering light, your fingers tightening around his.
“This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” You whisper, taking a step closer to look up at him. “Thank you so much, handsome.”
The endearment has his cheeks turning a pretty shade of red, perfect teeth tugging his full bottom lip into his mouth, a free hand running through his snow-covered hair.
“Let’s get inside before we lose all the heat.” He smiles, pulling your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles, the warmth of his breath soothing cold skin.
—-
You sit across from each other on the blankets he’d spread out over the rug, your legs bent slotted between his, knees knocking together every so often. Throw pillows you’re pretty sure are from his living room line the edges of the quilt on either side, while your snow covered shoes and his jacket sit discarded in the front seat to dry.
Steve stares at you with the kind of smirk that makes you feel like your body is a livewire, the ends of his hair a little wet from the snow that melted once you got inside. The pad of his thumb swipes gently on the top of your socked foot, electricity seeping through the thick cotton, tingling against your skin. The heat pouring from the vents fogs up the windows, hiding you from the outside world. Safe again.
“So who goes first?” You question, nervous fingers fiddling with the string handle of the gift bag.
There’s a brief moment where you swear panic flickers across his face, but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat. The notion that he’s just as nervous as you relaxes a little bit of tension in your shoulders, knocking your knee into his with flirty purpose.
“Ladies always first.” He says it like it shouldn’t even be a question, grabbing the messily wrapped present from his side handing it over to you. Electric currents running through touching finger tips.
Whatever it is feels heavy in your hand as you spin it around, examining the crazy amount of tape that’s plastered all over it. You make a show of shaking it next to your ear to stop him from hiding under the weight of his thoughts that has him staring at his hands, earning you the flash of teeth you were looking for.
“Don’t break it please.” He laughs, running that signature stressed hand through his hair, filling you with a sense of pride that you’re the cause of it this time.
“I would never!” You gasp dramatically, the pads of your fingers tugging on the edges of the paper. “Whatever is inside of this immaculate wrap job is about to be my favorite thing in the world.”
”Not all of us back down from a challenge and take the lazy way out with a gift bag.” He taunts catching your sarcasm with a grin that has you rolling your eyes, the corners of your lips curving up.
You fight to regain your focus on the task at hand and not the boy you haven’t stopped thinking about sitting across from you. The quick thumping of your heart pounds muffled in your ears as you slowly start to unwrap whatever it is, the heat of his stare making you squirm. Breaking the last little bit of tape holding it together with your index finger, the last thing you’re expecting is the candle that rolls into your palm.
There’s no label on the glass jar holding the sea foam green wax with a long white wick that sits slightly off center sticking out of the top of it. Curiously, you lift it up to your nose and inhale only to be met with the kind of scent that takes you to a time you haven’t stopped day dreaming about all winter long. Not a specific memory but a collection of where all your favorite ones took place. It smells like 9pm sunsets and late night drives with the windows rolled down. It’s barbecues at the lake with way too much sunscreen yet somehow not enough at all. Ice cold lemonade in red solo cups with condensation from the heat dripping down the sides, sulfur stinging in your nose from Fourth of July sparklers. It smells like summer. Your perfect summer.
”Oh my god.” You groan, taking another big huff trying to figure out how to live inside of it for the next few months. “Where did you get this?”
”You like it?” He asks wearily, cracking his knuckles, nervous eyes hyper aware of all of your reactions.
”Like it? Steve, I’m obsessed with it.” You sniff it again for good measure, and somehow it keeps being better than the last time. “Seriously, what brand is this?”
“You see — I - I uhh.“ He scratches the back of his neck, looking down at his lap like he’s struggling to find his words before meeting your gaze from under the thick hood of his lashes. “Dustin’s mom makes candles, as like, a hobby or whatever. So I forc - I mean I paid — he helped me make you one.”
”Wait, you made this for me?” You question in whispered disbelief ignoring the subtle coercing of his younger friend. He nods, crimson deepening in his cheeks as he runs another hand through his hair.
Flowers that Steve’s started to water bloom deep in your chest threatening to crack it open. The unmistakable sting of tears wells up in the corners of your eyes, and you do your best to blink them back. Setting the candle down at your side, you sit up on your knees. He stretches his legs, laying them flat against the floor to accommodate whatever you’re doing without question as you crawl onto his lap wrapping your arms around his neck. It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening, but when he does, his arms snake around your waist tugging you even closer. Your knees land on either side of his hips as he buries his face in the crook of neck, inhaling deeply like he’s been waiting for this all his life. His hands spread wide across your back, warm palms sliding up the dip of your spine, nudging at the hinge of your jaw with the tip of his nose, a satisfied hum tickling against your skin.
“Thank you Steve, I love it.” You whisper, lips brushing against the shell of his ear as the greedy tips of your fingers curl into the soft wisps of chestnut at the nape of his neck.
“I wish you knew how happy that makes me.” He murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet you with a heady gaze that threatens to swallow you whole with wandering hands finding a new home on the curve of your hips.
Leaning forward, you press forehead to his tugging lightly at his baby hairs that curl around the bottoms of his ears. Your breath mingles in the little space that’s left between your begging lips, so close they could brush with the slightest tilt of your chin.
“Your turn.” You say, the corners of your mouth curving up softly, his grip on your sides tightening in response.
He runs the tip of his nose along the length of yours before pulling back enough to have you miss him, a hunger his stare that sets a fire a blaze on every inch of your skin.
“Let’s see it.” He readjusts beneath you with a grin, the hold on your hips staying iron clad, making sure there’s no misunderstanding that he’s keeping you there.
Reaching behind to grab the gift bag, nerves make your palms sweat while the another part of you is excited to get rid of the thing that’s haunted your every waking thought since wrapping it. It crinkles loudly in your hands, the smile on his face growing wide enough to split it in two.
“Whatever it is, even if it’s just a pair of socks you got from the thrift store, I’m gonna love it.” Steve reassures with gentle palms sliding up on either side of your rib cage, tiny wings taking flight underneath his fingers.
“Well it’s definitely not that. And also that’s oddly specific. Has someone gotten you that before?" You snort a little confused, trying to distract from the slight shake of your hand as you bravely hand it over.
“Don’t worry about it.” He teases, lifting the bag up to his ear mimicking the way you shook his gift, earning the smack on his chest and roll of your eyes he was looking for.
”Steve! Stop it!”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry!” He laughs, grabbing your wrist before you can fully pull your hand away. Holding you in the golden honey that drips warm in his eyes, he slowly brings your palm back up his mouth softly pressing a kiss to the soft skin there. “I’m gonna open it now, promise.”
The gesture sends your body buzzing, nervous teeth digging into your bottom lip as you try to remember how to breathe. Pulling the green tissue out first, he tosses it on the other side of the throw pillows in a messy ball as your heart tries to claw its way out of your throat watching him peer inside the bag. Steve’s body freezes between your thighs. The familiar itch of panic threatens to set in after a few moments of silence, with nothing but the howling wind outside and the crackle of Frank Sinatra’s voice through the speakers.
It’s enough to have you start to squirm uncomfortably on his lap, the movement shaking him out of whatever daze he was lost in, meeting your gaze with glassy eyes from under his lashes.
“First of all, this is way more than ten dollars.” He laughs lightly, trying to break the unexpected tension, but there's no mistaking the shake inside of his voice as he pulls out a map, compass and a camera.
“For all the adventures waiting for you on the other side of Indiana state lines.” You whisper a little nervous that maybe you’ve over stepped, that what he shared with you in that car ride to your apartment wasn’t to be talked of again.
Disbelief floats around in his watery gaze like a life boat because you see him when he’s not sure he’s ever really seen himself.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.” He breathes like he can’t hold it in anymore, searching for the answers in the lines of your face because the curves of it have become his favorite thing.
It wasn’t the response you were expecting and it sparks an avalanche of unspoken feelings that burst at the seams of your chest trying to get out. Words not dared uttered out loud but have done nothing but spin on a loop in your mind, worming their way into every thought both awake and lost in your dreams. The universe shifts at his confession, your world tilting off its axis because Steve Harrington snuck up on you in a life altering surprise.
“I think I’m already there.” You admit, eyes casting down at your fidgeting hands because ‘falling’ is a lot different than ‘in’, but in the spirit of honesty, you lay your cards on the table too.
“Hey,” His voice comes out soft just above a whisper, long fingers tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “Me too, I was just saying that so I wouldn’t scare you off.”
You can’t stop the watery giggle that slips past your lips at his confession, the whites of his teeth shining at the sound.
”Wow, I didn’t even think about scaring you off until after I said it. But by then it was too late.” You grin, pressing your forehead to his again brushing the tip of his nose with your own.
”Good thing it worked out, for you yet again huh?” He teases, bringing his hand back up to cup the side of your face.
”Mmhmm,” you hum, daring to hold his gaze as you slide your palm over the top of it leaning into the warmth of his touch. The sunbursts of color in his hazel eyes darken as he pulls you closer, making you brave enough to ask for the one thing you’ve wanted since that night under the stars.
“Steve?”
“Yeah, honey?” He whispers, eyebrows marrying together like he’s begging you to put him out of his misery.
“Kiss me.”
He wastes no time closing the space that’s left, pouring all of his want into the first press of his lips, the pad of his thumb running along the heated skin of your cheek. Needy fingers find a new home, tangling themselves in the thick dampness of his hair, tugging him closer when his tongue swipes against your lower lip, begging you to let him in. It’s easy to say yes. You meet him in the middle, the muscles moving together languid and slow, savoring it. The grip he has on your hips tightens, his nose pressing into your cheek exploring your mouth with the kind of intensity that dares to get messy. A satisfied moan rumbling from his chest when your tongue starts to battle for dominance.
You could do this for hours, you think, and never get tired of it. Never get tired of him.
“Baby.” He murmurs against your lips, the new endearment pulling you from your love drunk thoughts, sending the word ‘baby’ buzzing through your veins.
“Hmm?” You half answer, too distracted by the way he busies himself leaving open mouthed kisses down the length of your jaw, a big hand coming up so he can tilt your chin to get to your neck.
”The music stopped.” Steve breathes against your skin, nudging the side of your face with the tip of his nose, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot behind your ear. “Dead air.”
He straightens up, pulling away from where he’d been focusing his attention and brings it to your flushed face. Pressing his forehead to yours, he squeezes his eyes shut like stopping this is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Chests rise and fall, lungs desperately trying to get the oxygen they crave, but you just want Steve.
“Fuck the dead air.”
You steal his lips without a second thought, and it’s your tongue that asks for permission this time. Steve smiles into the kiss granting it to you with ease, one hand coming up to the side of your face. The pad of his thumb tugs at the edge of your mouth, opening you up more for him, building a hunger that threatens to scrape teeth together, hips swiveling on their own accord. He shudders underneath you, a half choked moan escaping the back of his throat when you do it again, only this time with purpose.
Wrapping a strong arm around the small of your back, his fingers spread wide along the curve of your spine. He pulls you close to his chest before lifting you up, laying you both down on the blankets. Slotting himself between your legs that spread for him, big hands land on either side of your head, caging you in. He pulls away from your mouth like its torture, staring down at you like you’re the reason the sun rises and falls every morning. The intensity of it swells deep in your chest, fingers reaching up letting the pads of them trace the warm lines of his face. He’s always felt like sunshine to you.
“You’re sure about this?” He whispers, the strain of maintaining self control evident in the shake of his voice.
“This is the first thing in my life that I've been absolutely certain of.” You admit with a grin, never wanting to leave whatever this little space he created tucked away from the outside world is. At least not yet. “What about you?”
Steve’s eyes flutter closed for a second, chasing your touch nuzzling his face into your palm as the pad of your thumb glides over the clutter of moles on his cheek. Your favorite constellation. Leaning further down, the tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.” Leaning down, the tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
“Then what are we waiting for?” The question comes out quiet, wrapped in the kind of ache that's so palpable you can feel it in your bones.
He holds your gaze searching for any trace of apprehension that he’ll never find, the blacks of his irises taking over once he’s satisfied. His hand slides down the curve of your waist with more purpose as he drops his full weight onto you, the smell of cedar and bergamot all encompassing. Your spine bends, pressing your body into his yearning to get closer, the pine of his shampoo tickling your nose, driving you mad.
“So damn pretty.” He murmurs into your mouth before collecting it with a roll of his hips, greedily swallowing the gasp that follows.
His tentative fingers fiddle with the hem of your sweater until it’s your hips that meet him this time, giving them all the permission they need. A deep groan rattles from deep in his chest when you do it again. Calloused fingers tickle the soft skin of your tummy, flitting up the contour of your ribs, the pad of his thumb sliding under the wire of your bra. Your determined hands travel down the broad expanse of his shoulders before they dip down the lean length of his chest lingering at the bottom of his thick woven turtle neck.
You pull away from his lips that chase you to come back, whispering “Can I?”
His body tenses at your question as panic starts to burrow deep in your gut, the butterflies retreating back to their cocoons at the thought of ruining this already.
“Only if you’re comfortable,” you remind him trying to salvage it, kissing the edge of his mouth, adding softly, “I’ll want you no matter what you decide.”
The tight muscles in his shoulders relax at the soft affection in your voice, the pad of his thumb swiping under your bra again before squeezing at your side. Steve hides his face in the crook of your neck, leaving an open mouthed kiss behind your ear, doing it again relishing at the keening noise you give him.
”You first.” He murmurs quietly against your skin before lifting his head, drowning you in the rich amber of his eyes.
”Do it for me?” You’re shy with the way you ask, meeting him under the hood of your lashes.
“Baby.” His breath fans hot against scorched skin, the tip of his nose running down the slope of yours with brows furrowed in the kind of want that steals the air from your lungs.
Steve greedily captures your lips one more time before sitting back on his haunches. He runs a hand through his now sweaty hair, a pretty shade of red creeping up his neck as he tries to regain some self control. Propping yourself up on your elbows, it's hard not to notice all the ways you affect him, especially in the tight jeans he always wears. Your cheeks burn remembering all the rumors about him in high school. A smirk tugs up one side of his mouth, making you realize that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“I swear this wasn’t some master plan to get in your pants or anything like that.” He huffs out a laugh shuffling back between your thighs, hands curving around the bend of your knees, thumbs brushing softly against the caps.
“I know,” You try to hide your smile by biting into the fat of your bottom lip, sliding your hands up his thighs as you sit all the way up. Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, the new position putting the center of his chest at eye level.
“Jesus Christ.” He grumbles with a shaky breath, running his fingers through his hair again before letting them curl under your chin tilting your gaze up even more. “You’re trying to kill me.”
The giggle he earns in response makes him grin as you tug lightly on the denim.
“Lift your arms for me, pretty girl.” His command drips with honey, the pearly whites of his teeth peeking out, sliding the pad of his thumb along your pouty bottom lip.
You do as you're told, heart racing so fast it pounds in your ears while his soft eyes follow your movements. Wetting his lips he slowly peels your sweater from over your head, tossing it to the side before really taking you in. If it wasn’t for the admiration that glimmered bright in his eyes, you would be self conscious with how he stares at you without saying a word for what feels like the longest time.
“Come here, please.” He pleas in a whisper, urging you to your knees.
His hands feel like they are everywhere when you meet him at eye level, greedy fingers squeezing at your soft curves before warm palms spread wide across your back pulling you in. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, littering your heated skin with the same open mouthed kisses that were your undoing just minutes ago. A needy whine slips from between your lips, your fingers finding themselves back in his hair, tugging him closer. Making his way down your neck, his eager mouth feels like it’s on the hunt, devouring all the new skin that's presented to him. He presses a kiss to your collar bone before perfect teeth nip at the swell of your breasts, expert fingers undoing the hooks of your bra with ease.
”Oh my god, Steve.” You say a little breathless, arching deeper into him searching for the kind of friction you’re not going to get like this.
He hums against your skin, before bringing his attention back to where you want him most. Cupping the side of your face with one hand, the pad of his thumb tugs at your chin, licking into your mouth. Meeting his tongue with feverish need, your teeth scrape together at the warm palm that squeezes your breast, nipples pebbling under his touch. You don’t think about it when your hands slide down to the hem of his sweater, too lost in your desperation for more until he grabs your wrists with a soft “Hey” in between kisses that finally you wake up.
”I’m - I’m sorry.” You break away trying to create some distance, embarrassed that you lost control.
”Hey, no — no, no, don’t be sorry honey.” He coos, pulling you back to him pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth for good measure, meeting your gaze with the same adoration as before. “Will you - will you just let me do it?”
“You don’t have to -“
“I want to.” He says it with such conviction that it leaves you little room to over think his answer, whispering ‘I want to’ one more time, nudging your nose.
All you can do is nod shuffling back to give him space, arms wrapping around your chest out of instinct. Steve takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders, staring intensely at the patterns on the quilt beneath you. His wrists flick at his sides with the kind of nerves that make you want to say you’ve changed your mind, that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to do this but it’s more than just that, you can tell, so you hold it in and trust him.
He doesn’t look at you when his arms cross at his waist, fingers curling under the hem of his turtle neck slowly pulling it up.The dark hair of his happy trail reveals itself to you first, another cluster of moles dotting the side of it that you’re desperate to kiss. There's a slight shake to his hands when his sweater gets higher up his torso the same kind of jagged edges peeking out that are identical to the one wrapped around his neck.
These ones though, are much bigger.
They spread wide, taking up space along both sides of his rib cage like saw-toothed wings. Uneven skin pinches together pink in some parts, smooth and silver in others. The raised edges outline the mean looking bites that stop right under his chest that’s covered in an even thicker dark patch of hair. His scars unfurl like water colors that bleed into paper from too much water, beautiful and messy just like him.
Tossing his sweater with yours, he runs both his hands through his hair before finally meeting your gaze with a vulnerability inside of them that threatens to break your heart. Dropping your arms you move slowly, coming closer holding his stare. You can feel the nerves that radiate off of him, chest rising and falling in quick succession.
“Can I touch you?” You ask quietly, like you’re trying not to spook him.
It takes him a second to answer, brows furrowing as he looks down, pink tongue poking out to lick his lips.
”Yeah - yeah.” He nods, bringing his gaze back to you, long fingers curling around your wrist, slowly guiding your hand to the one on his rib cage.
Steve sucks a breath between his teeth feeling the warmth of your palm on skin that hasn’t been touched in months, his body shuddering when you press softly into the uneven markings. There’s a roughness to the middle of it, the raised skin on the ends more smooth and firm. The pad of your thumb brushes against it, encouraging him to bring your other hand to the one just under his chest on the other side, fully letting you in. He studies your reactions, desperately trying to read your mind, the amber of his eyes turning glassy with apprehension.
”You’re so handsome, Steve.” You say holding his stare, tentatively bending down before you lean forward slowly testing the waters. His breath comes out in nervous huff, but he doesn’t stop the press of your lips.
Your kiss is tender against the biggest one that almost spreads the entire expanse off his ribs, sending another shudder through his body, a whispered ‘honey’ slipping from his mouth. His palms slide over the tops of yours as you make your way down his chest, peppering more along the other side giving all of them your equal attention. You self indulgently kiss the cluster of moles next to his happy trail before working your way back up to include the one at the base of his neck.
The warmth of your hands moves up his broad shoulders meeting his gaze with heavy eyes. His fingers glide down your arms before they tickle the dip of your spine. Hooking your wrists around his neck, you bring your soft kisses to his waiting lips, his hold tightening crushing you to him he can never be close enough.
Your mouths move slowly against each other, finding the perfect rhythm, tongues meeting in the middle savoring the taste of each other, taking your time. It’s you who pulls him back down to the blankets, thighs spreading for him to lay between them. The rough feel of his scars against your skin sends goosebumps pebbling, your body curving up insatiable for more of him. He moans into the kiss, his hands working their way down, deft fingers unbuttoning your pants before pushing under the waist band of your soaked underwear.
“Shit,” He breathes, breaking apart from your lips. Pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers finding the effects of his touch. ”So wet, baby.”
”Mmhm.” You whimper, hips meeting the slow circles he starts to rub on your bundle of nerves. “Want you, Steve.”
His lips curl up against the side of your warm cheek, hearing his name making him brave. The pads of his fingers slide further down letting a knuckle stretch you out. You gasp when he adds a second, pulling him back to your mouth, meeting the slow movements of his wrist with another roll of your hips. He pushes a third finger into the heat of your squeezing walls, prepping you for what’s pressing hard against your thigh.
You find the will power to break free from the way he starts to tighten the coil deep in your gut, impatient fingers finding the button of his jeans, eager hands shoving them down his hips. He helps you, lifting them enough to kick off as the pad of his thumb threatens to become your undoing, putting just enough pressure against your clit for your jaw to go slack.
“Please,” You beg as his lips keep making their way up your jaw, your palm finding the hard length of him straining against the white material of his boxer briefs.
He moans hot against the shell of your ear, another shudder rippling through his body, hips bucking on their own accord, your touch sending him over the edge.
“Fuck, I need you. You have no idea how bad I need you.” His hushed words come out desperate, like he might go insane if he can’t have it.
His fingers curve, hitting that spot inside of you that threatens to make you see the stars that you’re convinced he hung in the sky. His name leaves your mouth like it's the only word you know, eye brows furrowing together when they pick up the pace. Their determined movements become your undoing as he sucks on the sensitive part of your neck, leaving a mark. Your world tilts off its axis at the unexpected intensity that washes over you, walls fluttering hard against his fingers, trying to push him out.
“God, you’re so beautiful like this baby.” He groans, teeth nipping softly at the hinge of your jaw. “Always so damn pretty, wanna see it again.”
It takes you a moment to come back down, words getting lost on the tip of your tongue at his affection. His greedy lips waste no time traveling a path down your chest, his hot mouth enveloping your nipple into the wet heat of it. He sucks just hard enough to earn a gasp, fingers finding their way back to the damp softness of his hair, getting lost in the silk of it as he peppers messy kisses down your sternum stopping just at the top of your navel.
You lift your hips, you help him push the rest of your pants down, taking your underwear with it. Laying yourself bare, his eyes that had turned into a dark shade of chestnut devour you. He sits back up on his haunches to really take it all in, pushing that infamous wild strand back.
“I’m sorry it took me so long.” He whispers, a sincerity in his gaze that shows a hint of misplaced guilt. ”I can’t believe I could’ve had you this whole time.”
”Steve,” his name comes out gentle, finding the strength to push yourself up meeting him in the middle. Your hands wrap around his hips, the pads of your thumbs brushing against the edges of his scars. “That doesn’t matter, we’re here now, and you weren’t the only one.”
His palm comes back up to envelope the side of your face in its big hold, staring down at you with the kind of affection that makes your heart skip two beats.
”Now, come here and don’t make me wait any longer.” You tease, looking up at him from under flirty lashes.
Steve’s smile stretches so wide, it splits his face in two, his white teeth shimmering in the twinkling lights. You tug at the waste band of the only piece of clothing keeping you apart, pulling him back down with hardly any effort at all. His briefs getting lost at your feet as he comes back to his favorite place between your thighs.
Hovering above you, the ends of your noses touch, lips curling into something sweet as you tangle your fingers back into the hair at the nape of his neck. The tip of him slides between your slick, his head catching on your bundle of nerves making your back arch, legs spreading wider. A deep groan escapes from the back of his throat, vibrating from his chest at the feel of you, his forehead resting against yours shuddering, doing it again.
You kiss the sharp edge of his jaw, encouraging him to keep going with a roll of your hips, one hand leaving his damp roots to reach down to guide him to the place you need him most. His eyes pinch closed, your jaw going slack at the initial stretch that’s even bigger than you imagined.
“Ohmygod, Steve.” It comes out in a desperate whine, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders from under his. Tethering yourself to him, you need an anchor when he pushes the rest of the way in.
”Jesus, you’re so — god, you’re so tight.” He groans, panting against your open mouth.
Steve doesn’t move, letting you adjust to his size, his arms trembling at the fluttering of your walls. You feel so full letting him melt into your body like this, taking it over and all you want is more. You think you’ll always want more. The grind of your hips catches your sweet spot on the rough patch of hair at the end of his happy trail, blunt nails digging crescent moons into the galaxy on his back.
He presses a kiss to the edge of your mouth before messily capturing it with a deep thrust, tongue licking into you, swallowing your moan. You meet him with eager hips, a sharp exhale leaving through his nose. Moving together slowly, you take all of him with an insatiable body that begs him to go deeper even though there's where else to go.
“You feel so good.” You whimper against his cheek, breaking away from his hungry lips to catch your breath. “So fucking good.”
“Yeah?” He huffs, hot breath tickling your ear, his strokes becoming more pointed at the squeeze of your walls when he hits that spot. “You’re perfect, made for me. I swear.”
Resting his forehead to yours, he presses the full weight of himself on you, the dark pools of his eyes drowning you in their abyss. One of his hands travels down the soft curve of your waist, squeezing at your hip before hooking your knee over the crook of his elbow.
He opens you up more for him, driving deeper, a guttural moan escaping from the back of his throat at the feel of you. It’s loud enough to drown out the high pitch whine you give in return. The intense need to keep close has you clawing at his skin, your spine bending pressing your body further into him.
“Never gonna get enough of you.” He pants, the heat of his breath fanning against your kiss bitten lips. “I need you to be mine.”
He sounds love drunk, his hips stuttering at the squeeze of your walls at his words.
“I’m yours Steve, that was never a question.” Fingers weaving into his hair, you tug him close, stealing the kind of kiss that tries to convey just how much you mean it.
He meets your mouth with the kind of intensity that sends butterflies fluttering in your chest, the familiar coil in your gut tightening again. His thrusts start to become more sporadic, like his self control is slipping, completely lost in the silk of you.
”I’m not - I’m not gonna last much longer.” He confesses pulling away, his fingers spreading across your chin tiling your face up to his so he can really see you. “Need you to cum for me again pretty girl, can you do that for me?”
All you do is nod, too intoxicated off of him to form full sentences anymore. Your jaw goes slack as he slows down to a grind, the rough thatch of hair at the base of him catching on your clit with just the right amount of pressure again. He nudges his nose with yours whispering a gentle ‘come on,’ that sends you falling over the edge for a second time, your vision going white behind eyes that close tight.
”So good, god, you’re so fucking good.” He moans, driving his hips into yours with the kind of intensity that tells you that he’s close, milking your release that becomes his demise.
His body tenses on top of yours, the hold on your leg tightening as a shudder ripples through his body spilling into you. A loud moan rattles from his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. It’s almost enough for you to give in for a third time, rolling your hips, greedy walls taking him for all he’s worth. Tugging at his damp roots, you pull him close, relishing in the way he surrounds you, solid and warm. It takes him a moment for his muscles to fully relax after shocks rolling through his body until the hold on your leg finally comes loose.
Steve’s fingers glide up your thigh, curving around your rib cage, while his other hand that was holding your chin cups the side of your face. The pad of his thumb traces the contour of your cheekbone, wet lips peppering lazy kisses where he still hides. Your fingers run through his hair, scratching at his scalp, the corners of your mouth curving up at the low hum that tickles against your skin.
“Let’s never leave.” He grumbles, finally showing signs of life.
“Deal.” You giggle, pressing soft lips to the crown of his head, feeling the smile that spreads in against your skin.
His nose nudges at your jaw, finally coming up to meet your eyes, rosy pink creeping across his cheeks.
“Hey,” He greets shyly, studying the lines of your face before continuing. “I just want you to know I meant everything I said. I wasn’t just lost in the heat of the moment or something like that.”
Your hands untangle themselves from his hair, making a new home holding his face, whispering,
“Me too.”
He bends down, pressing his lips to yours with something delicate behind it. Pouring his adoration into every part of you. It’s overwhelming because you feel the same way, but you’re not sure a lifetime will be enough time to even scratch the surface.
“Travel with me.” The words come out in a hot breath against your mouth, running the tip of his nose up the slope of yours.
”Steve -“
”No, I mean it.” He argues with a grin, a smoothness to the lines of his handsome features you haven’t seen before. “We can go where it’s summer all the time.”
”Yeah?” You whisper, a full garden blossoming in your chest.
“Absolutely, I’ve actually already planned the whole thing in my head.” He teases, earning the kind of giggle he wants to bottle up so he can listen to it whenever he wants.
”That does sound pretty nice.”
“Who else am I going to take pictures of anyway?” The smile that spreads across his face is contagious as he bends down, stealing a kiss that you already missed.
Laying tangled up in the back of the van, you weren’t expecting to fall in love when you moved back. The kind of surprise that you’re pretty sure just changed the trajectory of your life, but you know you’d choose this timeline every single time.
5.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || C.W.: mentions of blood, mentions of guns and shootings, mentions of death/dying/coding, CPR, anxiety about partner's safety, Jack's traumatized, reader's traumatized, mentions of dissociation and compartmentalization, poor description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, very very light smut, angst, age gap kind of implied with Jack but not explicitly referenced, no use of y/n or related, not proofread, no beta, I think that's all but if I missed any please (nicely) let me know.
Summary: This is my Pitt-Fest-But-Not fic. Development of your relationship through vignettes of the past and conversations between Jack, Dana and Robby. There's a shooting where you work. Jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.
A.N.: If my Robby reads like John Carter I'm sorry, except that a little bit I'm not. I feel like I'm struggling with my Jack characterization but can't tell if that's just me hating everything I do. This is my take on one of my fave tropes where reader is in mortal danger. I needed a physical location that could be associated with reader and settled on a courthouse, but what it is reader does there is not described. Probably (definitely?) needs a part two. If you get the nickname, thank you, I feel seen. If you don't I explain it at the end. This is absolutely something I would call him, in part to fuck with people who know his real name. I would love to know if you enjoyed and to hear any thoughts you'd like to share.
“He has a girlfriend,” Robby smirks at Dana.
She blinks at him. “I’m sorry, I thought we were talking about Jack Abbot.”
“Oh we fucking are.” Robby stifles his smirk and forces his lips to remain closed and as neutral as possible.
“You’re shitting me.” Dana’s incredulous look breaks Robby a bit and he starts to laugh, tries to turn it into a cough when both he and Dana look up to find Jack staring at them as he takes his snow dusted beanie off. He gives Robby a ‘really?’ look even though he knew Robby would rat him out to Dana the second Robby had dragged it out of him.
Dana looks back at Robby. “Who? How did they meet?”
Robby holds up his hands. “You now officially know as much as I do about her.” Dana makes a noise of vague discontent but knows Jack well enough to know Robby is telling the truth. That’s all that’s been revealed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s not worth it,” you whisper. Jack blinks and looks around, unsure if you’re talking to him. He has no idea who you are, has never seen you before in his life but it appears that you are in fact whispering to him in the middle of this bookstore.
He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not?”
You shake your head, give him an almost conspiratorial smile. “No, he must have gotten a new ghost writer. It’s really bad in comparison to his other stuff. Save your time and money. I’ll give you a summary right now for free if you’re that curious.”
Jack smiles to himself a little bit as he sets the book back on the shelf. There’s something about you, your smile, the way you just randomly spoke to him. He’s drawn to you. An alarm goes off in some part of his brain telling him to ignore it, ignore you, he could get hurt. He pretends to weigh his options as he turns to face you fully. “How about for a cup of coffee?”
Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment. There’s simply no way this unfairly attractive man is asking to buy you a cup of coffee. “The summary?” You clarify. “That I’d give for free. You want it to cost a cup of coffee instead?” You let out a nervous laugh and some part of his heart aches because you’re so adorable. “I just want to make sure I understand before I potentially make an even bigger fool of myself.”
“Yep.” He can’t help but laugh a little. “You give me the summary over coffee. Actually, you know what? You’re going to have to give me a recommendation too because now I’m going to have nothing to read.” He clicks his tongue at you.
“Well,” you laugh out, all breathy as you try to pull yourself together. “You drive a hard bargain but I think I’m willing to accept those terms…” you glance at his name badge, “Dr. Abbot.” You give him a full smile and Jack knows then and there he’s totally fucked in the best of ways.
“Jack.” He smiles at you as you both begin walking towards the café. “Call me Jack.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everything quiet enough after handoff, Robby walks out with Jack into the morning sun that does little to warm the breeze pulling leaves off the trees. “Any chance you can cover a shift on Thursday night?” Robby is asking, yes, but he knows it’s not really a question, Jack is always willing to work.
“Can’t.” Jack says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.” There’s an expectant silence that hangs between the two as they keep walking.
“Care to elaborate?” Robby finally asks.
“No.” Jack turns and smirks at him. “It’s none of your and Dana’s business.”
“Ha!” Robby laughs. “So it’s her, it’s about her! The ever elusive girlfriend. Will we ever get to meet her? Or does she not want to meet us? Is she real?” Jack stops walking and gives Robby one of his looks. “Holy shit, is it someone here?”
Jack snorts at that. “No it’s not someone here. She’s not even in the medical field.” He sighs, half longing and half resignation of some kind. “She’s honestly dying to meet you guys, especially you and Dana, but I’m trying to protect her from this hellhole. It’s hard with schedules too, to find a time.”
“That’s such fucking bullshit,” Robby laughs. “Are you afraid to truly commit? Think bringing her here will make it too real?”
It’s a valid question but one that Jack nevertheless resents. “No, actually, if you must fucking know Thursday is our one year anniversary. We have plans. So you’ll have to find someone else to cover. But I’ll bring her around soon,” he laughs through his nose to himself at your stubbornness, “if I don’t she’s liable to just show up one of-”
“A year?” Robby laughs, incredulous. “A fucking year? How the hell did you hide it for three months before I dragged it out of you?”
Jack ignores him. “Also, I’m moving to days. It’s better for us.” He’s so nonchalant about it, just states it like he’s saying the sky is blue, like it’s not going to make Robby’s eyes widen and mouth drop open like it does.
“I don’t,” Robby huffs a laugh, “I don’t even know where to fucking begin.”
“Then don’t.” Jack smirks, starts to walk again while Robby stays frozen, running a hand through his hair. “Go do some actual work.”
“I thought you found comfort in the darkness?” Robby yells after him.
Jack slows and turns around but keeps walking backwards, one hand holding the strap of his backpack to keep it over his shoulder. He glances down at his phone and the photo of you that is now his wallpaper. He smiles to himself a little, yells back. “Guess I find it somewhere else now.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You giggle, honest to god giggle and Jack could lose his damn mind as he nibbles at your collarbone. “You know if my anatomy class had been this fun, I might have become a doctor too.”
You’re laying on your back in bed as Jack kisses your sweat slicked skin all over as you both come down from your last round. He’s taken to 'teaching you anatomy' like this, identifying different parts of the human body with his mouth.
“Hmm,” Jack hums against you. “I’m glad it wasn’t then. Fuck doctors.” He starts to kiss down your chest.
“That has become quite the favorite pastime of mine, yes,” you smirk. “Fucking one specific doctor, actually.”
“Getting fucked by one specific doctor more like it,” he murmurs into your sternum. He kisses laterally, lips hitting your breast and moving towards your nipple.
“I think we’ve established what those are,” you moan softly as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You let your hands run through his salt and pepper curls that you adore so much.
“Can never be too thorough.” You giggle at him again and can feel him smile against you. “But fine, you want something new?” You nod, let your nails scratch gently at his scalp.
“Nipple,” he kisses your nipple and then down your torso to right above your belly button, “to navel is no man’s land.” He continues to lavish kisses on the soft skin of your stomach before looking up at you when you don’t respond.
“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.” You eye him with mock suspicion.
He laughs and it’s your favorite sound in the whole world, you swear. Well maybe second, only behind hearing him tell you that he loves you.
“I’m not. Nipple to navel is no man’s land. It’s a real thing. It’s one of the worst places to get shot or stabbed because there’s so many organs that could be hit and the place we’d expect to get hit would depend on whether the person was breathing in or out at the time, whether their lungs were inflated or deflated. And we generally have no way of knowing. It can be difficult to get clear imaging.” He starts kissing lower, down below your belly button, rubbing his stubble along your skin to tease you as he gets lower and lower. “It’s never a good time. Lots of poor outcomes.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s supposed to be his day off and yet Jack finds himself staring at the board and running a hand over his face. “It’s still so fucking weird seeing you here during the day and it not meaning something catastrophic has happened.”
Jack turns to look at Dana. “I’ve been working days for a month now and it’s my day off.”
“You can go, we’re fine for now,” Robby nods at Jack. “Thanks for the brief assistance brother.”
“No, no,” Dana interjects, “he’s not allowed to leave until we nail down a time to meet his girl.”
Robby raises his eyebrows and starts to tilt his head and open his mouth to agree with Dana. A dispatch comes through before anyone can say anything else and Dana grabs it, pinning Jack down with her eyes, daring him to leave before discussing meeting you.
“Saved by the bell,” Jack huffs, taking his stethoscope off and starting to walk away.
“Shooting at a courthouse,” Dana relays to Robby, “not a mass cas, just a few people, two a little iffy, one they’re already doing CPR on, a few caught in the race to get out. Two dead on the scene.”
It takes a few seconds for Dana’s words to truly register with Jack, but when they do his hearing fades to only a sharp ringing in his ear. This wasn’t happening. He’d been so reticent at the beginning of your relationship, waited so long to give in and define it and hand his heart over to you, terrified he’d lose you because of himself and who he was, his imperfections, his past, his trauma, his PTSD, his baggage, as he thought of it. He feels so stupid now, in the moment, not having worried about how he could lose you from a random act of violence, that in the moments he can’t be there to protect you somebody could come in and rip you from him. Just like that. With the pull of a trigger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You know, I can confidently say this is the most unique date I’ve ever been on,” you tease Jack.
“Hey,” he pants, “me teaching you CPR is a great date.”
“It would be better if you took your shirt off,” you whisper and wink at him before letting your eyes linger on his arm.
“If I did that you’d be so distracted you’d learn nothing,” he smirks at you, sweat glistening on his skin just a little. Just enough to drive you nearly feral for him.
“I think I’ve got the compressions part down, but I may need more help learning the mouth to mouth part.”
He rolls his eyes at you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You fucking love it,” you shoot back at him, leaning into his space and bumping him with your shoulder.
He can’t help but kiss you. “Yes,” the word is muffled against your lips, “yes I do.” He gives you a firmer kiss this time before he pulls away. “But really. You should know how to do it, just in case. It will help you feel in control in the moment if the need for it ever arises. You’ll know what to do.”
You bite your lip and smile at him.
“What?” He eyes you with suspicion.
You shrug. “Nothing, I just love you so much. Sometimes it overwhelms me, how much I love you.”
He can see it in your eyes, how much you love him, can almost feel it physically squeezing him like a tight hug. He’s really not sure what he ever did to deserve you or your love. “I love you too, Doll.”
“I love you more, Peter.” Your face pulls up into that usual self-satisfied and silly grin you get sometimes when you call him that nickname. It’s a recent thing. You’re calling him it more and more though, it’s becoming a natural way of referring to him. From anyone else he would hate it, hearing it between another couple would make him roll his eyes. But from you? He loves it more than you’ll ever truly know.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack spins around.
“Jack you can still go, we’ve got it covered.” Robby looks at Jack for a minute and then meets Dana’s eyes as she looks to him after taking her own look at Jack.
“What courthouse?” Jack asks. It’s quiet, controlled and clipped and almost missable in the chaos of the ED. He’s not looking at either of them, staring past them at a wall with a chest heaving more and more by the second as his face grows paler.
He tries to keep it together. Dana will say the name and it won’t be your courthouse and he’ll go straight to your actual courthouse, grab you, take you home and never let you leave. A perfectly reasonable reaction, he thinks.
“Jack-”
“What fucking courthouse?” It’s louder this time, almost enough to pause the chaos of the ED.
Jack’s voice drips with what sounds like rage to most of those who hear him but is unmistakably fear to Dana and Robby.
Neither of them have ever seen Jack like this, this scared, struggling this hard to keep it together, truly raising his voice for anything other than to quiet down an unruly patient. His eyes find Dana’s and they’re glassier than she’s ever seen them, the intensity of his gaze making it painfully clear he’s hanging on every word and the wrong ones will shatter him.
She swallows and opens her mouth and Jack knows what she’s about to say before she even says it. And she does. The name of your courthouse.
“I’ll triage.” He says it before Dana has even finished, the words hollow and breathless and commanding all at once. He spins and starts off to the bay doors with nothing more. He obviously knows from the report Dana gave that they won’t need triage. He just needed to get out of there and try to create an excuse to stay in the ambulance bay. He knows Robby won’t let him, that Robby and Dana already know you’re at that courthouse, could be a victim.
Robby and Dana share another look, So you work at a courthouse. This courthouse. “Fuck,” Dana mutters, “I really hope we don’t end up meeting her today.”
Jack’s hand dives in his pocket as he strides to the ambulance bay. He already knows in his heart that there’s not going to be a text from you saying that you’re okay. He hasn’t felt his phone buzz. He never even kept his phone on him until you.
Even though he knew he wouldn’t have any messages, waking his phone and seeing none hits him like a freight train all the same, right in the chest. It threatens to bring him to his knees, make him sick, but he can’t. He sets it all aside. If you do come out of one of the ambulances he can hear in the distance you’re going to need him at his best. But what if you’re one of the two people dead at the scene? He has to shove that out of his mind too, can’t give into the complete panic that threatens to consume him.
Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.
His fingers fly across his phone automatically, calling you having become so routine. He prefers it so much to texting, hearing your voice, communicating more directly. “Call me,” he starts, “the second you get this message. Or fucking text me,” his voice breaks, “please. Fucking please.” He hangs up and calls again, knowing he’ll get your voicemail again but trying anyway because it’s all he can do.
He’s helpless, powerless, he can’t do anything to try and save you and that threatens to swallow him whole.
Your voicemail recording telling people to leave a message plays again and all Jack can wonder is if this is all he’ll have left of your voice in his life. Your voice on your mailbox, maybe some voicemails you’ve left him, videos, voice memos you’ve sent. All distorted by recording, not your real voice. He can’t remember what your real voice sounds like all of the sudden. What your laugh sounds like, how you sound when you’re sleepy or in the throes of pleasure or telling him you love him. God, did he even tell you he loved you the last time he saw you, when he said goodbye?
“I need you to call me,” he says into the phone again, pauses. “I love you.” He takes a ragged breath in and speaks through his teeth. “I love you so fucking much, so you have to be okay and you have to fucking call me.”
He sends a series of texts asking you to call him or text him or call the hospital or do anything to let him know you’re okay, asking if you are okay, asking where you are as though you’re going to respond. He already knows you’re in the back of one of those ambulances because of fucking course you are, because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life apparently. How could he be so stupid to think differently?
“Hey, we don’t need triage for this. The numbers are controlled.” Robby walks out to stand next to Jack in the ambulance bay. “If you want to stay you can, but you can’t wait out here to see who shows up, you have to-”
“Yeah, yeah, jump on the first patient that pulls up, I know, I got it,” he interrupts Robby.
There’s a silence as Robby passes him a gown and ties for him before he does the same for Robby.
“Jack, if she’s in one you cannot-”
“Like fuck I can’t.” It’s just a statement. Cool and collected and a projection of indifference. It scares Robby more than if Jack had yelled.
“No, actually brother, you can’t. I’m telling you right now. You’re not working on her. We don’t work on family, on significant others, and you would tell me the exact same thing. It’s too risky, you’ll be too clouded.” Robby watches Jack’s jaw clench and roll as he stares out at the street.
He wants to argue that of course he’ll be clear, he’ll be focusing on saving you, he’ll have never been so clear in his life. But part of him knows that seeing you like that on his trauma table, your blood all over the table and him and his hands might make him freeze.
“Fine.” Jack whispers. “But if she’s,” Jack has to pause and take a shuddery breath. “If she’s gone or really going and it’s inevitable you have to let me in. You have to let me try to save her. You have to let me code her, Michael.”
He can taste the rising bile in his throat just at having to talk about coding you.
The first ambulance pulls up before Robby can respond and Jack’s on it so fast Robby’s surprised Jack doesn’t get smacked in the face by the door opening.
It’s not you. It’s someone who is very much not you and is clearly one of the iffy ones.
Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.
Jack forces himself to go emotionally numb as he listens to the paramedic rattle off vitals and history, trying so very hard to focus on this, something he can do, even if it’s not for you. By the time they hit trauma one Jack’s fine and in full swing, running it like he would any other trauma. Nobody on the team in the room with him suspects anything is amiss.
He hates the way he can’t see the other’s who come in, that he has to stay with this patient until they’re stable and can’t go looking for you. He chastises himself for not having brought you here before or at least having you meet Dana and Robby. They don’t even know what you look like, couldn’t identify you.
“Jack!” He glances at Dana who stands at the door as he preps for the chest tube. “What’s her name?”
He yells your name at her, impassive and stoic as he reaches for the scalpel, ignoring the looks everyone throws each other at the slightest tremor in his voice.
“I’ll look for her.” Dana promises. He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’ll fall apart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant you’re at has to be the fanciest place you’ve ever been to. It’s the hottest place in the city and you have no idea how Jack snagged reservations here for dinner to finish out celebrating your one year anniversary.
The lighting and low hum of other patrons talking to each other and glasses and silverware and plates tinkling is cinematic. You feel like the main character. But then that’s always how Jack makes you feel.
“I got you something.” He pulls out a wrapped rectangular object.
You click your tongue and tsk at him. “We said we’d do them at home! I didn’t bring yours!”
“I know. I have something for you at home too.” His eyes sparkle in the flickering candle light, a little smirk pulling up. “I didn’t mean for it to be a double entendre, but both are true.” You snort a laugh at him and take the gift from him. “Open it.” He’s still smiling, eyes still sparkling, but there’s something there. He’s nervous. It makes you even more curious.
You carefully unwrap the object until it reveals itself as a hardcover book. That same one Jack had in his hand a year ago and that you told him was bad and gave him a summary of over coffee.
“Oh, Jack,” you say softly, eyes getting a little watery. It’s so perfect. So sweet and sentimental. The book that brought you together, that gave you each other. It’s almost like a physical representation of the foundation of your relationship in a way.
“You have to open it,” he instructs you in a whisper.
You raise an eyebrow but do as he says.
‘Move in with me?’ is written on the blank first page.
You look between the page and Jack. “Is this?” You look back at the page and then up at him again. “Are you really asking…?”
He nods. “Move in with me. Or move somewhere with me, we can get our own place, it doesn’t have to be my apartment. We basically live together anyway at this point. Let’s just make it official, yeah? Wherever you want, you can decorate however you want. Just as long as it’s our place.”
You bring a hand to your mouth for a second before using your napkin to dab at the inner corners of your eyes to stop the tears from falling and look back at him.
“You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot,” you hum all dreamily.
“You better not tell anyone. Can’t have you ruining my street cred.” He smirks, but his expression and the way he fidgets show he’s still anxious. “So?”
You realize then you never actually answered him. Sniffling a little laugh and letting a few tears fall you give him his answer, voice thick and full of emotion. “Yeah, I think I’m willing to accept those terms. I’d love to move in with you… Peter.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He hears you counting to yourself before he sees you. “One, two…”
It’s not loud, just said in a normal voice, softer if anything because of how you’re panting, but Jack is so on edge and so desperate to find you he’d subconsciously been listening closely to his surroundings, military training kicking in. His head snaps to you and he doesn’t even know what to think when he sees you being rolled in on top of a gurney, performing CPR that would rival the quality of his own.
“Why is she..?” He hears Robby question the paramedic as you roll in.
“She was performing them just as well as we could and it was better to just scoop and run,” the paramedic explains. “She must have had one hell of an instructor.”
“Peter!” You yell, without looking up, not sure if he’s still here. You’re so used to it by now that the nickname is just what comes out of your mouth as you look for him. He’d texted you to let you know he was going in for a bit.
Jack could sob and the entire team in the room with him can feel a crushing tension shatter. Maybe he does get a little teary just from the sheer relief. He tells himself it’s sweat in his eyes.
“Yeah Doll?” He yells back, not giving a fuck about everyone hearing him call you Doll, and you calling him Peter, knowing full well he’s going to have so much explaining to do about this entire situation, the confusion in the room palpable.
“I’m okay!” This time he does laugh to himself.
“Yeah I’d say so,” he mutters, smiling. He’s still anxious to see you, get his own eyes on you, feel you with his own hands.
It’s only about thirty more seconds before his patient is stable enough and he can rip his gloves and gown off and start putting fresh gloves on as he walks into the trauma room you’d been wheeled into. Normally he’d yell out for someone to talk to him or ask what they’ve got but not this time. This time he doesn’t even care about who’s on the table, only the person who came off it. Only you.
You’re standing to the side now, watching Robby and the rest of the team work, impassive as pink tears stream down your face from the dried blood on it. You’re just so fucking overwhelmed by everything and now that you’re not doing CPR everything that’s happened is hitting you at once.
Jack says your name as he moves to you, needs his hands on you.
“Are you hurt? Were you hit?” He rushes out. His voice brings you back and you look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He goes to look you over but you latch onto him, hugging him tightly, shaking a bit.
“I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m, I’m sorry,” you start to rattle off, fisting at his scrub top and clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. In the moment he might just be.
He hugs you back just as hard, kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t care who sees right now, all he cares about is you. “It’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay. I thought… I thought you were…” He doesn’t have to finish, you know what he means. “I can’t fucking lose you. I love you way the fuck too much.”
You’ve been so wrapped up in each other neither of you have noticed that Robby’s patient, the one you were doing CPR on, has started to code again. “Abbot, need you here!”
You let him go, nod at him. “Go on,” you whisper, “I’ll be right here. I’m okay. I love you more.” Jack nods at you and walks over, jumping in and assisting Robby.
It’s once you’re out of Jack’s arms, away from his warm body and more grounded in reality that you notice how cold you are, how you’re swaying because he was supporting you far more than you realized, how lightheaded you are, how your abdomen and chest really fucking hurt. You chalk it up to the adrenaline wearing off and being sore from the chest compressions you just did.
On the other side of the room an instrument tray gets knocked over, metal hitting the floor in a loud clang. It startles you, makes you jump and twist quickly to see what it was, if it was another gun, another shot. You feel something almost tearing, a sharp pain across your abdomen and lower chest, a feeling of sticky warmth against your shirt.
You sway a little, start to realize how much worse the pain is now. It’s bad enough that you can’t even make noise to express the pain. There’s no air in your lungs, you swear. You realize your lightheadedness is now much, much worse, that you’re shivering from how cold you are. Or are you just shaking? You can’t tell. It doesn’t make sense. The room isn’t even that cold. You shouldn’t be so cold. Not unless.
You pull your shirt up slowly and look down and run your hand over your skin and sure enough, there’s a bullet hole seeping blood, about half way between your nipple line and belly button, skin now covered in a dark bruise.
You cough a little, it’s quiet. It starts feeling like there’s water in your lungs. Like you can’t get any oxygen in even though you’re in a room full of it. The metallic taste in your mouth is what manages to seep into what’s left of your consciousness next. You cough again, into your hand, and feel something wet hit your skin. Blood.
It hits you. You’re drowning in your own blood. That’s why it feels like you can’t breathe. You’ve been shot. In a bad place, one of the worst places, Jack had told you that night. You get scared, feel your heart pounding. It feels like you’re dying. You don’t want to die, don’t want to leave Jack. You’d just finished moving into your new place together, were going to spend all weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You were going to make your home.
Time. You were supposed to have more time together.
“Hey, Jack,” you slur softly, struggling to keep yourself standing. Luckily he hears you. Your use of his first name and the slur to your voice has him panicking again already. Time slows as he turns around to take you in, eyes going from your face and the blood coating your teeth and trickling from your mouth as you try and smile reassuringly at him, down to your torso where you’re still holding your shirt up just enough for him and everyone else in the room to see the bullet hole and bruising marring your skin. “I think, I think I’m not good, it’s not good.” Your vision tunnels so fast you can just barely see Jack’s expression of sheer abject unadulterated horror and panic as you get out your last words. “Nipples to navel… no man’s land.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter. Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. Yes, I worked in a bookstore through college.
summary: being in and out of the hospital all the time has never been an enjoyable experience. But after meeting a certain ED doctor who you can't seem to get away from, things just might start looking up.
warnings: probably inaccurate medical procedures (i’m usually unconscious or incapacitated when they do this stuff to me) past medical gaslighting (not from Jack ofc) Javadi is ur roommate idc that it’s inaccurate, unresolved sexual tension cause i don’t write smut
a/n: abbot said “is anyone gonna take care of her?” and didn’t wait for an answer. anyways me and my oomfie @leeknowpegger came up with this in the comments of one of my posts cause we both are in desperate need of this man
──────────────────────
"I’d rather take my whiskey neat
My coffee black and my bed at three
You’re too sweet for me.”
—Too Sweet, Hozier
──────────────────────
Being a frequent flier in lots of places gets you perks. Free coffee, rewards points, stuff like that.
Being a frequent flier in a hospital is just depressing.
You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.
It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)
You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:
100.2 degrees.
Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)
Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.
You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.
There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.
It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.
There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.
You never really do.
Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.
You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.
It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.
You’re so tired.
Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.
The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.
You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.
And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.
You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)
“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”
—
On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.
“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”
Unlikely, you think.
Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.
It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.
Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.
You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.
“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.
She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)
“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”
She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.
“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”
It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.
And then you’re alone.
You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.
You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:
Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.
“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”
Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.
(Not like him.)
You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.
“Been better.” Kind of.
“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”
He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.
“Any pre-existing conditions?”
“Yes and no.”
He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”
You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”
He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.
“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”
You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.
Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.
“Any history of heart issues?”
You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”
Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”
“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”
He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”
Oh.
Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”
“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."
He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?
"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."
Kid.
The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.
It makes your skin feel hot.
(That might be the mild fever.)
He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.
He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.
No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.
Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.
Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.
Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?
He glances up at the monitor.
"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."
Oh sweet mother of Christ.
Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.
"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"
You shake your head no.
"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"
You nod. "Thank you so much."
Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"
You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.
—
A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.
"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"
"Uh, none?"
"Thanks!"
Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.
You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?
You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.
Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.
Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.
—
So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.
At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.
You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.
It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.
He blows out a breath.
"Oh, kid."
Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?
Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.
YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.
It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?
He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)
You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?
You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.
"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"
Horror fills every aspect of your being.
"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"
Then he starts laughing.
"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."
You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.
"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"
You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"
He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.
"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."
"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"
"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"
"Yes."
"And did you come back because you got worse?"
"...Yes?"
"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.
"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"
"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."
He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."
Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."
He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."
There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."
He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."
—
Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.
Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.
You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.
So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.
You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.
Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.
With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.
"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"
You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."
"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"
He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.
Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.
You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.
If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.
"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."
"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."
His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."
You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.
"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.
"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"
Jesus H. Christ.
"—Little-miss—“
This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.
That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.
Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?
He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--
"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."
"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.
"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."
You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."
You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."
"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"
"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"
Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.
He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.
Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.
"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."
Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"
"Jack."
"What?"
"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."
Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?
“I really can’t—“
“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?
You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—
There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?
“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)
Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—
Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.
“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”
“I will. I promise.”
Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:
“Call me.”
And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.
What. The. Fuck.
—
Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?
There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.
The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.
So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.
It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?
‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’
No. Not happening.
You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)
Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)
Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.
You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.
As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.
(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)
You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.
“Call me.”
God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.
The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.
It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.
“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”
You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.
You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.
“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.
Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.
And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.
You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.
“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”
The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.
Whiskey, neat.
Figures.
“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”
More not-quite silence.
“I wanted to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”
“Why?”
“Why didn’t I?”
“Why did you almost call?”
You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”
Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.
“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”
“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.
Is he?
“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”
The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.
It happens anyway.
You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?
The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.
Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.
You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.
His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—
He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.
“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”
You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.
“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”
What the fuck? Is—
He—
Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.
You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.
Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.
“So. When did you almost call me?”
You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.
All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.
“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”
Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.
“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”
You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”
“I do not want to hookup.”
“Oh.”
He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?
“And the other time?”
This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.
“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”
He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”
You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”
Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”
You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.
He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”
“No.”
“Then how come I’m drunk?”
“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”
“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“
You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.
“Do you really need confirmation?”
“Yes.”
His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”
“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”
“You weren’t sure?”
“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”
“I would notice.”
“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”
You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”
“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”
You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.
“Your hand is warm.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.
“When’d you get that?”
“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”
“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”
“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”
“You been keeping it clean?"
“Mhm. Twice a day.”
“Good girl.”
Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.
“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”
Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.
“Do you have a ride?”
“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”
He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”
Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.
“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”
You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“
“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”
“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”
“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”
That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.
“Okay.”
Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”
He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.
“Your arm feels nice.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.
“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”
“Don’t walk into that trash can.”
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Almost there.”
The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.
“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”
Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”
You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, kid.”
—
Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.
You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.
Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.
“Still haven’t texted him?”
Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:
“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”
Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.
“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”
“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”
“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”
You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”
“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”
You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”
“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”
You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”
“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”
You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.
You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.
“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”
“It’s seven in the morning?”
“Desperate times, Victoria.”
She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”
“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.
“What’s he saying?”
“I don’t know! You read it!”
Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.
“Oh my god.”
“What? What?!”
She shoves the phone into your face.
Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.
“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”
“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”
You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."
You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.
How am I supposed to make it up to you?
The dots reappear for a few seconds.
Let me take you on a real date.
You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.
“He wants to take me on a date!”
The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.
“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”
“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”
“You’re right.”
When are you free next?
Tomorrow. You?
I have class until 3 :/
I’ll pick you up at 5.
You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.
Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.
“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“
“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”
“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”
“No.”
“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“
“Shut up—“
She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.
You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.
You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.
—
5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.
By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.
All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:
“You look beautiful.”
And then you’re off.
The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.
He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.
He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”
You can’t exactly blame her for that.
One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.
One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.
“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”
“Are you tracking my medication usage?”
“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”
Or:
“What’s your heart rate average been today?”
“…One-forty?”
“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”
“…”
“That’s what I thought.”
In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?
There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.
Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.
"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."
You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)
And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.
I pretend I don’t care about her stare, while she’s giving me a tough time.
summary: you’re an observer of sorts, a wall flower, and the last hire made by the infamous runaway Jimmy ‘fast hands’ Lee. It was a job you took on a whim, a decision made without much thought. You weren’t expecting to ever share a room with Steve Harrington again, but when it starts to happen five days out of the week, you certainly weren’t expecting the now quiet and brooding former king to take up so much space in your mind.
WC: 17k
warnings: 18+ slow burn, soft soul touching smut, takes place a few months after season five not exactly canon accurate (he still has his beamer), steve is picking up the pieces of his life, reader has no knowledge of upside down, moved back after the military disappears, touch and love starved steve (reader is similar), mild angst, lots of yearning, mentions of holiday sadness, smoking, one bed trope, p in v van sex, scar kissing & touching (steve has scars).
authors note: well this was originally supposed to be a long one shot but it grew legs and became too long. so enjoy part one of two of the story i’ve been writing since volume one. Writing this got me through a rough holiday season and it started to feel really special. I hope it feels that way when you read it and thank you for waiting so long. I wouldn’t call this a holiday fic at all, its used as more of a backdrop. also i have no idea how things at a radio station work so if it’s not accurate beyond what I googled I apologize! don’t hate me! Thank you to Andy, Candy and Jelly for listening to me ramble and read snippets over the course of the last few months, couldn’t have finished it without you!
Three Weeks Before Christmas - A Monday Morning.
Steve Harrington was an anomaly.
A word you never thought you’d use for the face and hair of Hawkins High’s sports programs circa 1981 to 1985. A jock who used to push kids in lockers, break their camera’s, the kind to stand girls up who would just turn around and beg him to do it again. The popular guy who always seemed to get what he wanted, someone you thought would have his future laid out for him on a road paved of gold. So when you had your first day at The Squawk almost three months ago, and found him not only working the sound board for WSQK’s very own ‘Rockin Robin’ aka your favorite trumpet player to skip band practice with, but that they were also best friends. Like inseparable best friends, finishing each other's sentences kind of best friends, you weren’t sure how many chapters you missed after leaving for college four years ago.
Steve Harrington was an anomaly, and he was wearing that damn brown bomber jacket again.
It was your favorite of what seemed to be his early winter collection that had started to appear in the form of thick sweaters and fitted jackets once the sun began disappearing after four pm. Another thing you hated almost as much as not being able to put your chipped polished finger on him anymore, was that now, the word favorite is in your vocabulary when it comes to the guy who never even looked your way despite sharing the same homeroom all four years of high school.
This particular jacket though? It was your kryptonite. The soft suede wraps around his broad shoulders like butter, tapering just enough at the bottom to give the illusion of a loose fit, like it’s tailored special just for him. Its rich earthy brown color brings out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes that you swear changed colors with the season, or maybe it was because Nancy Wheeler finally stopped coming around.
You’d overheard a conversation between him and Robin a few weeks ago after noticing an extra broody-ness about his presence that she had finally left Hawkins to attend Emerson in Massachusetts. It was all you were able to catch without being caught eavesdropping on your way to map out the next few weeks DJ schedules in Jimmy’s abandoned office. An office you were only supposed to be an assistant too, but now somehow managed to end up being the one to do the job it was made for. It was becoming a full time one too, keeping the station running since its operating hours are no longer the allotted time slots given by the military. Which still seemed like a fresh nightmare for most of the people that decided to stay when the fences finally disappeared.
“Morning!” You greet them, stretching your neck enough to peek out of the open office door, making your presence known since your ever changing schedule keeps you at the station at random times.
Today you’d gotten here at 3am to fill the late night dead air with your own curated mix, something you do whenever Steve or Keith couldn’t. It was easy money, you didn’t even have to talk, just make sure to queue the ads you’ve been having to fight tooth and nail to get in order to keep the lights on.
“Good Morning!” Robin waves stretching her neck to meet your gaze with her signature toothy grin that lights up the whole room. Her blonde hair is extra frizzy from the snow starting to fall outside, the cold kissing her cheeks with roses.
All you get is Steve’s back as he continues his path to the studio, giving you a quick flick of his wrist in acknowledgment. It was 50/50 depending on the day, or even his shift if he’d stay mute or give you a short ‘Morning’. Either way, it didn’t matter because he still cared enough to pretend that he likes his coffee black in front of you. A secret that you’ve always kept close after catching him put cream and an absurd amount of sugar in his whenever he thought you weren’t looking– on multiple occasions.
”I put your coffees in there already, three creams and two sugars for Robin, and don’t worry Steve, I left yours black just how you like it.”
Your lips twist at the slight tense of his shoulders.
”Thanks boss!” Robin sings, skipping to catch up with her best friend’s long strides.
”I’m not your boss!” You call back, brows furrowing ñ at the nickname she’s been determined to make stick. They weren’t paying you a radio manager’s wage.
“Could’ve fooled me!” Her raspy voice carries across the room, before both her and Steve’s go muffled behind the soundproof door.
5 minutes till showtime.
You can see them through the glass that encases them from the cracked window in your office. Steve looks like he’s rambling about something to her, big hands gesturing wildly before they push back his thick mane of chestnut hair, the blonde tips it used to have, long forgotten. It is his personal tell that he’s stressed, besides a thumb flick to the nose which follows shortly after. Robin’s face softens, not meeting his chaotic energy as he takes off his jacket, revealing the cream mock turtle neck sweater underneath it. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is makes his shoulders slump, nodding in response with another card of his hair. Relaxing.
It’s unexpected when his eyes shoot across the room, meeting your gaze for the first time in a few days. Averting your stare as quickly as you can, your cheeks feel like they're being raked over coals, they burn hot as you try and refocus on the spread sheet laying on the desk. Quietly vowing to leave the station before they break for lunch as your escape plan. This way you can lock yourself in your dark apartment and sleep off the exhausting seven hours before suffering the kind of embarrassment that radiates from your fingertips and all ten of your toes.
—-
Thursday Early Morning
5:13am. The bright green numbers on your dash feel like an assault as the tires of your Oldsmobile crunch against the snow and gravel leading up the path to The Squawk. From inside, the constant vigil of the studio lights fades into a soft glow, filtering through the glass front entrance doors to cut through the last bit of night and bounce off the shimmering snowflakes that somehow continue to fall. It’s been four days of this now, the sky alternating between flurries and heavy snowfall. It’s starting to feel like it might never stop, like the universe seems determined to deliver a white Christmas during the one year you and the rest of this town can’t seem to find the spirit.
Your jaw stretches with a yawn as you try to will the caffeine to hit your bloodstream faster. You pull up beside what should be Keith’s Thunderbird and rub the remainder of sleep from your eyes blinking at Steve’s BMW parked next to the WSQK van. A newfound anxiety flutters beneath your ribcage, at the memory of how his eyes caught you– like you were intruding on something personal, a secret only meant for his best friend’s ears. Everything with Steve Harrington has felt like a secret lately. An unsolvable puzzle with a missing piece always just out of reach. There’s a determination to find it. With slightly shaking hands, you arm yourself with a travel mug of homemade coffee and a deep breath to collect your courage before heading inside.
He probably won’t even say hi anyway, if you’re lucky he’ll just wave from the studio, maybe, and then you’ll both ignore each other until he leaves without saying goodbye.
Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ spills from the speakers in the studio, the door propped open allowing the soft trumpets and piano to fill the normally quiet space. He plays a lot of Sinatra on his overnights, a taste you’ve assumed he acquired from Robin, but part of you can’t be too sure anymore.
Christmas lights that weren’t there the night before are draped around the DJ booth, with even more hanging half hazardly above the soundboard. They twinkle in red, green, and gold, warming the room in a comforting glow. It’s not until you round the corner that you see Steve on a step stool stringing more around the common area, a small pile of multi-colored shimmering garland on the table beside him with tiny Santas and snowmen hanging off the tinsel.
Steve Harrington is decorating for Christmas.
“You’re not Keith.” You say, finding your voice, trying to break the usual awkwardness between the two of you with some kind of joke. Butterflies waking up in the pit of your gut when you hear it.
A laugh.
It’s so quiet that if you didn’t see the slight shake of his shoulders, you’d probably miss it. An unfamiliar desperate need to make him do it again tugs at your heart.
”Defintely not Keith.” He huffs, but you can hear the slight smile in his voice. You’d almost forgotten what he really sounds like.
His Nike covered feet step down from the stool, leaving the string of lights to dangle half way on their journey across the room. Turning around, he runs one of his big hands through his messier than usual hair, those familiar hazel eyes catching yours for the second time in one week. A record breaking streak.
He’s wearing dark washed jeans, they fit him snug like all of them do. A navy WSQK sweater stretches over his chest, the letters faded and peeling because Jimmy cheaped out on the printing company.You’re willing to bet Steve’s got three more washes till they're all completely gone. The sleeves are pushed up revealing his permanently sunkissed skin despite the warm weather hiding on the other side of the earth, and they’re dotted with more freckles than you can count.
“He asked me to cover his shift last minute, something about a pet ferret?” His face twists in the kind of judgment that has an uncontrollable giggle slip past your lips.
The gold in his eyes seems to sparkle at the sound, the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that he doesn’t let win.
“That explains the smell of his jacket sometimes.” Scrunching up your nose at the memory of the last time you saw Keith, Steve can’t seem to fight his grin off this time, pearly whites gleaming behind plush pink lips.
It threatens to steal the breath from your lungs, teeth digging into your bottom lip with cheeks that start to feel like the surface of the missing sun, warming your skin with something that has you looking away. Suddenly, you have a new understanding for all those girls in high school.
“I hope you don’t mind, me uh - decorating and stuff.” He scratches the back of his neck, like talking this long to someone that’s not his best friend is hard for him, or maybe it’s just because it’s you. “Robin was complaining about how she’s not feeling very festive this year, and it’s her and vi- it’s her first Christmas dating someone so I was thinking maybe this might help.”
It almost makes you mad at how sweet of a gesture it is, and how it feels like you’ll never quite figure him out. Every time you think you’re close, he sheds another layer. Throwing off your scent.
”Not at all, honestly, I haven’t been feeling very ‘jolly’ myself.” You laugh weakly, finally meeting his softened gaze, making his shoulders relax as if there were a world where you’d actually be mad. “This job has been…a lot.”
You don’t go into anymore detail about how none of this was what you signed up for, or how your home doesn’t feel very much like one anymore, like your childhood was some figment of your imagination the military erased. You’re not sure he’d even want to hear any of it anyway. No need to test the boundaries of this new progression between you and the former king of Hawkins, anyway.
“Well, if it means anything coming from me, I think you’re doing a great job, all things considered.” He answers with a casual shrug, like he didn’t just shatter all the assumptions you thought he had of you in one sentence.
”It- It does mean something, thanks, Steve.” It feels weird saying his name out loud, despite how many times it’s crossed your mind over the past few months.
Pink powders the apples of his cheeks, and now it’s his turn to look away.
”Decorate all you want. I’ve got this, like, 4 foot tall Christmas tree I had in my dorm in college that I can dig out and bring into the station tomorrow.” You add, returning to the safety of the original conversation, and you can tell he’s thankful for it.
”Cool.” He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels a little bit.
”Cool.”
The two of you stand there, not really sure where to go from here until the music cuts off and Steve remembers the job he’s actually supposed to be doing.
”Oh shit!” He gasps, eyes looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I gotta flip the record, I’m sorry, I swear I don’t let it go silent like this normally.”
You want to tell him that you know, because his overnights are some of your favorites to listen to. But you decide it's another secret best kept to yourself instead.
”It’s fine, I’m sure the four people listening will forgive you.” Rolling your eyes playfully, you catch the small grin you get in return as he jogs to the studio room. “I’m gonna go do my job too.”
Grabbing the stack of ad proposals next to his garland, you wave them in your hand, before making your way to Jimmy’s office, the kind of smile that makes your cheeks hurt tugging up the corners of your lips when you’re sure he can’t see it.
—-
Saturday
“Secret Santa!” Robin exclaims from the doorway of Jimmy’s office, bright blue eyes staring at you with the kind of excitement that threatens to be contagious. “We need to do a Secret Santa!”
”There’s like six of us who work here.” Steve speaks up from behind her, a half eaten sandwich dwarfed in his big hand, leaning against the studio room looking far too cool in a maroon sweater and dark washed jeans.
”Okay and? That’s an even number. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect scenario actually.” She gives him a tight lipped sarcastic smirk, before bringing her attention back to you,rolling up the sleeves on her white turtle neck she’s layered with a black The Smith’s shirt on top of. “Here me out -“
”We can do it.” You say simply, closing the radio tower instruction manual that was starting to give you a headache.
“Wait, really?” She gasps with a smile so big it shows all her teeth, practically vibrating when you nod your head yes. “Oh my god this is so exciting, I’ll get everything together, you don’t have to lift a finger. Let's say a ten dollar budget, nothing too crazy.”
“Ten dollars?! I don’t like anyone around here enough to spend ten dollars on.” Steve scoffs, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth before crossing his arms.
”Are you kidding me? You don’t like me enough to spend ten dollars on? Her?” Robin points at you, and the urge to hide is the most tempting idea you’ve ever had, especially when Steve’s eyes meet yours from across the room with something you can’t decipher. ”Dustin, Mike? Literally you just hate Keith.”
”Dustin and Mike hardly count. They are here like two hours a week but fine! You win.” He surrenders, throwing his arms up before running an annoyed hand through his hair. His plan to help her feel more festive worked a little too well.
“I always do!” She sings, throwing a wink at you before sauntering back to the chair and mic that feel like they are made for her to deliver Hawkin’s favorite segment of the day, nudging Steve playfully on her way. ”Hurry up dingus, we’re back on in three minutes.”
”You had to walk around me, I’m already here.” He huffs, kicking off the corner and back into the studio room closing the sound proof door behind them.
You can’t seem to fight the smile that twists at the corners of your mouth as you grab your weekly planner from under the pile of work orders that you’ve been deluding yourself into thinking you can find the fixes in the manual.
The faint sounds of Billie Holiday’s ‘I Thought About You’ catches in your ears, something shifting in the air as the heat from an unfamiliar stare warms against your skin, sending goosebumps pebbling, begging for your attention. You haven’t risked even a glance through the window of your office since the day that Steve caught you, but something was daring you to do it again.
You aren’t sure what you’re expecting when you look up but it isn’t his eyes already locked on you, holding your gaze after they meet letting you know it’s not a mistake. Butterflies stretch their wings wide as you work up the courage not to look away first. The grip on your pen tightening, teeth digging into your bottom lip watching the slight shimmer of gold around the darkness of his pupils. He studies your face like he’s looking for the answer to something hidden inside of the contours of it, and you think this must be the way you look when he catches you staring.
It’s Robin that unknowingly interrupts whatever was going on, tearing his attention away with a bob of his Adam’s apple and a shake of his head. Saying something that looks a lot like the word ‘sorry’ before switching out the sound effect 8-track for the one she clearly wanted. In the hour it takes for you to wrap up and reach the end of your day, neither of you dare to look up again, and it’s you who leaves with a quick flick of your wrist, not saying a word this time.
What was that?
—-
Two weeks before Christmas
You stare at the name on the small piece of paper you’d grabbed from Robin’s Santa hat on your way out the door. The white wisps of your breath filling the freezing space of your car, too stunned to even be bothered to turn it on. You read it a few more times just to be sure that too many overnights weren’t making you delirious, but there it was, clear as day in Robin’s signature bubble writing.
Steve
His name plays on a loop as you finally kick on the engine to your car, it finds its way in every thought, sneaking past your efforts to shut it out. ‘Steve’ lingers in the cold breaths you take on your way to the front door of the small apartment you’d rented while your parents house gets rebuilt. It warms against your skin like the hot water from the shower that rinses off yet another long day at the station, following you to bed and curling around you under your covers, meeting you again in your dreams.
—-
Tuesday
You climb up the short ladder that leads you to the hatch door, pushing up, you give it a good shove, the rusted hinges squeaking as it flings open. The clearest night sky you’ve seen in what feels like weeks shimmers brightly above you. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it was twenty degrees, not when it looked like this. Tightening your scarf and zipping up your coat as far as it will go, you finish your climb up onto the roof.
The cold greets you with a sharp sting, sending a shiver straight to your bones.Too focused on closing the door to keep the heat trapped inside the station you don't notice you aren’t the only one admiring the view. It shuts with a loud thud at the same time someone clears their throat behind you. Jumping at the sound, you turn around with a startled scream just begging to escape and echo through the darkness until your wide eyes meet Steve’s panicked ones.
”Hey! It’s just me! It’s cool, you’re cool, we’re cool.” His hushed words come out with urgency to stop it from happening, a nervous hand running through his already wind swept hair after it seems to work.
Cool seems to be Steve’s favorite word when it comes to you. You weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that.
”Jesus Christ, Harrington.” You gasp with a hand on your chest, your quick huffs of breath embarrassingly visible in the cold air.
”Sorry! How was I supposed to know anyone else would come up here?” He exclaims, a slight agitation to his voice that doesn’t last long before asking “Are you okay?”
Your gaze lands on his Nike’s first, wandering up the light wash denim that covers his legs, accentuating parts of him that you’ve been trying not to think about. Tonight he wears a dark brown leather jacket that tapers at the waist just like your favorite one does. While his lack of scarf seems like a choice, it has the moles that cluster around his neck in their own constellations battling for your attention with the ones above him.
“Yeah, I’m good. No scarf?! Aren’t you col -“ You lose your train of thought when your eyes catch the glowing ember at the end of a half smoked cigarette tucked between two long fingers. “Wait, are you up here smoking?”
His eyebrows furrow together like he’s confused, until realization dawns on him smoothing the wrinkles on his forehead.
”Yeah,” He shrugs, flicking the ash before taking another drag. “I used to in high school, well, mostly at parties when I was drunk trying to look cool. But I don’t know, I picked it back up recently, I don’t smoke all the time, mostly over nights when I’m stressed or bored.”
“What are you now?” The question comes out before you can even filter and mark it as inappropriate, the look on his face burning your cheeks only adding to your immediate regret.
But then he does the last thing you expect, he answers it — honestly.
“Stressed.” Wind whips his hair around some more before he shrugs in a squeak of leather adding, “and a little bored.”
There’s storm clouds in his stare as he looks at you with an intensity you can feel tingling at your fingertips. Underneath it lives a nervousness that tries to hide in the dark pools of his eyes from letting you perceive him, gauging your reaction by taking another drag.
”I come up here when I’m stressed too.” You say with ease despite the wild thumping of your heart in your ears, taking a few steps closer, your boots crunch against the frozen brick.
“To my spot?” His words come out around white clouds of smoke, a small smile twisting up the corners of his lips.
”Excuse me? Your spot? I’ve never even seen you up here.” Scoffing, you dig your hands deep in your pockets, shuffling closer with chattering teeth you desperately try to hide.
As if on instinct, Steve positions his body to block you from the wind, cinnamon and amber from his cologne tickling at your nose. He was closer than you’ve ever been to him, close enough to have your palms sweat, for your softened gaze to trace the purple bags under his eyes. The pale pink of a healed scar you don’t remember from high school shows its imperfect end from the edge of his beige sweater’s collar, only to hide from you again when he lifts his cigarette towards you in an offering.
“I’m pretty sneaky. Stealthy, if you will.” He winks, cold bitten cheeks pushing up at the snort you give him in response.
Your fingers brush with his accepting the nicotine with a spark you blame on the emanating voltage from the tower.
“What about you?” He asks quietly, his eyes wandering over the details of your face like he was really looking at you for the first time. Maybe he was.
Despite yourself, you can’t help but wonder if he likes what he’s found.
”Stressed, maybe a dash of depression, maybe.” If you admit to it out loud, that might make it true, but it’s his honesty that pulls out your own.
He nods his head in response, mimicking your previous stance, shoving his cold hands in his pockets. He kicks at the small patch of ice, brows furrowing as he thinks about what he wants to say. The pad of your thumb brushes against the butt of his cigarette still a little wet from his lips, there’s an intimacy there when yours wraps around it, cheeks hollowing as you take a drag. Inhaling him.
“Honestly, this time of year. It’s never been my favorite.” His gaze is piercing when they meet your eyes again.“The only time I really liked it was when I had a girlfriend and that was like once.”
”Nancy Wheeler.” You hum, biting at your bottom lip wondering if it was a mistake to say her name out loud.
”Yeah,” he sighs, watching you take another drag, eyes lingering just a little on your mouth when you hand it back to him. “But honestly, I’m starting to realize a big part of that was because I didn’t have to spend it alone.”
“What do you mean?” You ask confused because he’s Steve Harrington, the boy who’s always had it all. “What about your parents?”
”They’re never home — hell, they were gone when the quarantine happened.” There’s a bitterness in his dry laugh, taking one last hit before tossing the cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his sneaker. “They couldn’t get back in, but I think they preferred it that way, part of me thinks I did too.”
“I’m sorry, Steve.” You don’t know what else to say, but it also doesn’t feel like he's looking for much more than that either, giving you just a peek into the closed blinds of his soul.
The bare trees rustle and snap in the silence between you. It’s not an uncomfortable one, but one that lets you sit with the weight inside of it. Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins, the boy who everyone adored school but always returned to a shell of a home. You can feel the wall rebuild itself around him after revealing more of his hand despite the way both you subconsciously shuffle closer to chase each other's body heat. Steve looks up at the sky, but your eyes stay trained on him. Maybe you were seeing him for the first time too.
The moon shines bright above, casting shadows on his sharp features, revealing the slight dusting of a five o’clock shadow that covers his jaw you didn’t notice before. Steve Harrington had grown up into a man. You aren’t sure how you missed it until tonight, under a blanket of stars no one’s seen in weeks. What else haven’t you seen?
His gaze finds yours again, the wind making his hair go wild. He holds it like he did in the studio room the other day, and you swear he moves even closer, the toe of his shoe tapping against yours. You can smell the leather of his coat, the tobacco clinging to the fabrics of his sweater mixing with the spice of his cologne in a way that shouldn’t smell as good as it does. A playful smirk teases at the corners of his mouth.
”You’re always looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.” There’s something delicate about the way he stares at you, tugging at the bundle of nerves twisting in the pit of your stomach. Loosening the knots.
“Is there something wrong with that?” You hum quietly.
”N-no.” He smiles with something timid behind it, weary even. “Just no one’s ever reall-“ He’s cut off by the crackle of the walkie talkie you didn’t know he had clipped to his back pocket
“Radio silence again dingus!” Robin’s voice comes through the small speaker, “Trying to make moves here and you aren’t helping.”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve roll his eyes any harder, a loud irritated breath escaping through his nose like a bull. He mouths sorry before bringing the walkie talkies to his lips, pressing harsh on the red button.
”I’m doing you a favor tonight if you remember, watch the tone.” He turns it off after, leaving her no room to respond, determined to get the last word.
”Another day of catching you not doing your job.” You tease with a wink, getting your own eye roll but this one comes with a smile.
”I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He wiggles his eyebrows, starting to back away towards the hatch door.
Was Steve Harrington flirting with you?
”Ugh! Not you too.” You groan, crossing your arms watching him open the rusted metal with ease.
”If the shoe fits.” He shrugs, “Don’t stay out here too long, can’t have you getting sick, the station would probably burn down or something like that.”
”You and Robin ran it just fine.” You argue, with a grin that refuses to go away.
“Yeah, sure.” Steve snorts, climbing down the first few steps of the ladder stopping when all you can see is his shoulders up, “but seriously, it’s cold. I mean it.”
”Okay, Dad.”
He visibly grimaces at the nickname.
”Yeah, pretty awful isn’t it?” You arch a brow, laughing at his glare for falling into your trap. “I’ll come back in a few minutes, promise.”
He lingers for a few seconds more looking torn, like he wasn’t ready to leave yet, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish he could stay too. But he does the selfless thing you’ve noticed he always does, closing the hatch behind him with one last look catching your small wave goodbye.
—-
Friday
Robin is a ball of energy at seven in the morning, completely consumed by whatever she’s ranting to Steve about when they burst in through the front door together. You watch with an amused smirk from your spot on the lime green couch in the common area, a cup of fresh coffee you brewed for the three of you warm in your hand. She’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice you, but Steve does, almost as if he was searching for you first. The blue hidden in the gold and moss of his eyes are like sunbursts when they find your gaze. His smile is small, but it’s just for you and it’s enough for the butterflies you’ve managed to snuff out all morning with distractions to wake back up. Hiding your smile in your mug, you watch as he nods his head giving Robin a ‘yeah,’ like he’s listening, but something tells you he had stopped a while ago.
Once they get inside the soundproof room Steve peels off the same leather jacket he wore on the roof. Robin follows suit tossing her long navy blue tench coat to the side, lips still moving a mile a minute. He runs two big hands through his hair, the little bit of flurries that had stuck to the ends melting on his fingertips before pushing up the sleeves of his WSQK sweater. And just as you suspected the K at the end of it had already peeled off since last week.
Robin’s lime green polished hands fly all over the place making the people on her ‘Beam me up, this place sucks’ sweater look like they’re actually running. Crossing his arms as he leans against the door frame, Steve seems distracted, but you can tell he’s still actively trying to focus. He’s shaved since the last time you saw him, and the bags that had kissed lavender under his eyes on the rooftop were gone. Maybe that meant he’d finally gotten some sleep.
His best friend grabs her coffee mid sentence, holding out a finger to give her a minute as she drinks what has to be at least half the cup. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip watching Steve grab his own. Suddenly you wish you’d have gone into Jimmy’s office for this moment as a new fear that maybe something that seemed like a cute idea in the middle of night actually makes you look like a weird stalker. The intrusive thought eats away at your confidence as he takes the first gulp and looks confused peering down in his cup before taking another just to be sure.
Steve’s eyes lock on yours through the glass, something inside them shifting just like the air between you on the rooftop. A secret revealed that paints his cheeks red, a small gesture that you don’t know has never made him feel more seen as he takes another sip of his coffee made the way he actually likes it today.
—-
“Hey boss, I’m running out for lunch, but Dustin’s got the news report covered while I’m gone.” Robin pokes her head in Jimmy’s office where you’d been for the past hour lost in balancing the books.
”Not your booosssss,” You sing with an annoyed smirk, giving your eyes a break to look up at her. “Isn’t he in school?”
”Winter break!” She grins, shoving her arms into her coat like she’s in a rush, “I’ll be back in like thirty, maybe forty minutes tops!”
She’s gone in a blur of blue and blond before you have a chance to respond, and as if on cue Dustin comes strolling in not even two minutes after her departure. He waves at you with a wide grin, green braces gleaming against the low light. The ends of his long tan trench coat are stained wet, dripping on the checkered floor. Duck boots squeaking against the linoleum. He must’ve rode his bike here like a lunatic.
”Hiya boss!” He greets, turning around to face you walking backwards to the studio room completely oblivious to the angry Steve yelling behind the soundproof glass watching him drip water and salt everywhere.
”Henderson!” You groan, burying your face in your hands before resting it on your desk.
”It’s a compliment!” He argues, getting you to look back up only to see that Steve is now standing behind him with his hands firmly planted on his hips.
”Are you kidding me asshole? Look at the floors.” He huffs, with the kind of outrage a parent would have with their kid.
“It’s just water, it’ll dry.” Dustin rolls his eyes, pushing past Steve to start setting up but not before adding. “Or you can make yourself useful and mop it up.”
”How about I kick your teeth in, instead?”
“Not the first time you’ve threatened that.” The teenager raises his eyebrows at him, looking unimpressed, letting you know they’re always empty. Of course Harrington is all bark and no bite.
Another endearing quality, unfortunately.
“Yeah, and one day it just might happen if you don’t watch your sass dickhead.”
It takes every ounce of will power not to snort at the sight in front of you, smiling like the Cheshire Cat at all the ways you’re going to schedule them together this summer.
If it ever comes.
“I’ll let you know if I need, I don’t know — like, a car crash sound, or maybe a police siren, but otherwise quiet on set. I have a job to do.” Dustin closes the door to the studio before Steve even has a chance to get the last word in, something you’ve come to find as the clear indicator of who the winner is in these little spats between all of them.
Steve still flips him off through the glass, grumbling to himself about getting the mop so someone doesn’t slip and break their necks. Dustin gives you a thumbs up from behind the sound board switching the ON AIR sign ‘Red’. He taps the sheets of paper you assume is the ‘news’ loudly on the desk to add his own effects as he kicks it off with the weather. Which is snow… always more damn snow.
You groan, rubbing your temples at the thought of having to clean off your car every day for another week and all the shoveling, so much damn shoveling.
”God, I miss summer.” You mumble, exhaling a defeated breath through your nose grabbing the calculator to finish where you’d left off.
You don’t get very far though, the familiar sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway breaking your concentration. Heat warms your cheeks instantly, teeth digging into your bottom lip daring to look up and meet the hazel eyes you swear have changed colors again. Something new — brighter, something that feels more like Steve.
”H-hey.” He waves awkwardly, giving you a closed lip smile riddled with the kind of nerves that tighten in your chest too.
”H-hi.” It comes out quieter than you intend, your voice cracking making you try to clear the nerves out of your throat too.
Steve digs his hands into his pockets, leaning on the door frame with a shyness you’d never expect from him. It’s got a stubbornness about it like he’s worked himself up to do this and is vowing to see it through.
“How’s your uh, how’s your day going?” A hand that can’t help itself comes out of his pocket running through his hair.
“It’s going,” you sigh, a little defeated tossing your calculator to the side. Suddenly the weight of the last few months makes itself known in the muscles of your shoulders, while your bed starts to sound a little too welcoming for it to only be half way through your shift. “What about y-you? How’s your day going?”
“Not too bad, I passed out on the couch and slept for like 12 hours yesterday. So I’d say feeling pretty good all things considered.” Another card of his hair.
Your eyes catch Dustin watching you both with an amused curiosity.
“On the couch?! Rest in peace to your back.” You smile trying to crack a joke that somehow works, earning you the twitch of his lips that you were looking for.
”It’s been through worse.” He laughs softly, looking down at his feet before meeting your gaze from under his thick lashes with a shy teasing grin. “Did you switch up the coffee this morning or something? It was better than usual.”
The giggle that bubbles out of you makes Steve’s full pink lips stretch wide over his teeth that look even more brilliant in the daytime. It cracks at the awkwardness that's tried to settle between you.
”I guess you’re not as stealthy as you think you are huh?” You wink, giddy feet bouncing under the desk.
”Apparently not.” He narrows his eyes playfully, “it needed maybe one more packet of sugar though, but hey, who’s counting.”
”Steve, I put in three already.” You scoff with a smile so wide it hurts, heart skipping a beat when his grows like it can’t contain itself either. “Why did you even pretend to like your coffee black in the first place? Such a weird thing to lie about.”
“I don’t know!” He whines, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as he runs his hands down his face, “It’s like I did it once, because you know, you’re pret — “
Steve clears his throat catching the words that almost slipped from his mouth, but you catch them, heart thumping wildly at the idea of how that sentence almost ended.
”I hadn’t seen you since high school, so I wanted to come off more like an adult? I don’t know, it was dumb and honestly, I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you caught me lying or that you let me keep up with it for so long.” He groans, huffing out a laugh scratching the back of his neck.
”Don’t worry, it was pretty amusing, dare I say my favorite part of the morning. You always looked so nervous, like you were about to be caught robbing a bank or something.” You try to hide your laugh behind the back of your hand, when you earn another one of his glares.
”Ha, ha, ha.” He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away.
”Steve!” Dustin’s voice interrupts you, making his shoulders tense, jaw clicking with instant annoyance.
”What Henderson? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation?” He snaps turning around to face the high schooler, broad shoulders blocking him from your view.
”I’m sorry to interrupt your flirting to ask you to do your job.” Dustin responds with a taunting smile that you don’t need to see to know is there.
“You’re really pushing me today, you little shit. I’ll be there in a minute, just give me a second.” This time Steve runs both hands though his hair before turning around to face you again, the thumb flick you were expecting hitting his nose.
”What is this, the third time now in the past few weeks?” You can’t help yourself, or the teasing smirk that spreads across your face, lashes fluttering a little too much, but the greens in his eyes sparkle because of it.
”Like I said the last time, I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He laughs at your scowl about the nickname, walking backwards towards a very impatient Dustin, like he doesn’t want to stop looking at you until he absolutely has to.
This time you didn’t have to wonder, Steve Harrington was flirting with you.
————-
Five days before Christmas
Monday
When Dustin said to expect snow this week you didn’t realize that he meant a blizzard. Of course it’s a fucking blizzard.
Your tires spin in the foot of snow that’s already fallen since it started this morning. The smoke from your exhaust comes out in huge plumes, over working your engine until you finally give up and take your foot off the gas. You curse the day you decided to go with the cheaper car that lacked the four wheel drive needed to leave the station tonight. And god, you really wanted to crawl into your bed.
“You’re gonna flood your engine!”
It’s muffled, but the sound of Steve’s voice is unmistakeable, the timbre of it etching into the corners of your mind lately. Cutting off your engine, you look through the fogged up passenger window to see him and Robin standing at the front entrance of the station, the low yellow light almost turning them into shadows. Robin waves excitedly with mitten covered hands like she didn’t just see you less than ten minutes ago, an oversized crocheted beanie threatening to swallow her eyes. Steve on the other hand, he looks almost as stressed as you feel with only that damn leather coat protecting him from the winter storm quite literally raging around him, Nike’s still on his feet.
Leaning over your console, you start to crank open the window, the glass sticking from the frost, groaning like it might shatter before it gives way to snow fluttering into your car. Maybe this wasn’t your best idea.
”I’m stuck!” You yell over the howling wind jutting your bottom lip out for dramatic effect despite stating the obvious.
”Steve can drive you home!” Robin volunteers without hesitating to ask him if that's okay, but he doesn’t even flinch at the idea.
”Oh — oh no that’s okay, I live on the other side of town, maybe you guys can just help dig me out?” You suggest instead, heart rate kicking up at the thought of being inside Steve’s car.
You’ve heard a lot of stories about that BMW, most against your will.
”You’re just going to get stuck again trying to get out of here, I’ve got four wheel drive. It’s fine, I can drive you.” He waves you off, taking his first steps towards you and into the storm. He walks past his BMW parked on the other side of the WSQK van that blocked some of the snowdrifts, protecting his car from suffering the same fate.
”How will I get to work in the morning if I don’t try and get my car out of here now?” You counter, with the kind of nerves that only seem to get worse every time he’s around.
His steps crunch softly in the snow stopping at your half opened window bending down with a hand on the roof to meet your eyes. Robin follows close behind, tilting her head to the side to listen, a smirk twisting up the corners of her lips.
“I’ll pick you up, you’ll need help digging out your car anyway.” He shrugs like he wasn’t offering to completely inconvenience himself for the next 24 hours for solely your benefit.
“Steve - I can’t, I- “
”Seriously it’s fine! Steve loooves doing stuff like this, it’s like a hobbie, a kink if you will.” Robin interjects, a little too pushy for you not to narrow your eyes at her. “He’s got like a white knight complex or something.”
“Okay, Robin.” Steve snaps, glaring at her from over his shoulder. ”Also, how is enjoying being helpful to my friends a kink? What the hell is wrong with you?” scoffing incrediously, he turns his back almost completely to you.
“I’m just saying!” She shrugs winking at you like you’re in on the joke, but all you can focus on is Steve insinuating that you’re his friend and why that word has a sting to it.
Running an irritated hand through his hair, he mouths something to her you can’t hear before turning to meet your gaze again with a softness inside his eyes that doesn’t match the tone he just had. It’s the same way he looked at you under the stars that night.
“We’ve got two options here, and they are either accept my help now, or after you make me throw out my back attempting to dig out your car in a blizzard that will inevitably still get stuck half way down the hill.” The teasing grin on his pink lips disarms you with the kind of charm only he knows how to have, the kind you remember from high school. “I’ll do whichever one you want, honey, so you tell me.”
Honey.
The word wraps around you gooey and sweet, covering your insides in sugar, warming your bones, leaving you no choice.
”Fine!” It comes out in a playful huff, the edges of your mouth threatening to curl as you pull your keys out of the ignition. You meet his eyes from under your lashes, giving him one last chance to change his mind. “If you’re really okay with this.”
He nods, those perfect teeth of his tugging his full bottom lip between them, cheeks dusting a pretty shade of pink that’s not just from the cold.
”Oh, trust me, he is!” Robin interrupts, and you watch in real time the way the gold sparkling inside his eyes turn black before they roll in the back of his head.
“Keep running that mouth Buckley, and you’re going to get real familiar with the walk home.” He groans with another hand through his hair, the constant snow fall making the ends wet.
”Empty threats.” She scoffs, completely unphased just like Dustin. “Now let's go before we all get stuck too. No offense to you guys but I don’t want to have a sleep over at The Squawk with Keith.”
She says his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and Steve’s face twists in disgust like he can taste it too.
“Couldn’t agree more’.” You add, amused by another display of the two of them sharing the same brain.
Leaning over to crank your window back up, you meet Steve’s gaze from up close, something swirling inside it that you can’t figure out making your heart thump a few beats quicker. He holds you there till you’re sealed inside, leaving the storm muffled just like his voice.
“I‘ll go warm up the car.”
———-
You never thought you’d be sitting shotgun in Steve’s BMW, or that it would relax every bone in your aching body, loosening the stress knots that have made a permanent home in your shoulder blades. It’s the way the cinnamon and amber fill the small space with the musk of his cologne, and how they mix with the deep tanned leather of the seat underneath you. The heat that blows from the vents only seems to intensify it along with the man next to you. It feels like you’re surrounded by him, encased by him.
He drives slowly down the winding road that leads into town, the tires crunch as it compacts the thick snow underneath them. It falls from the sky like it’s angry, wind sweeping the wet flakes against his headlights. His wipers squeak working overtime to keep visibility. The full moon hidden behind the deep purple clouds fights to shine its way through the storm, casting a deep lavender glow along the banks. Illuminating the snow that hangs heavy on the edges of the trees that line the bare woods surrounding you. Frank Sinatra’s ‘You Go To My Head’ plays softly from his speakers with a light crackle from years of playing his music way too loud joy riding with Tommy and Carol.
Steve readjusts slightly in his seat to shift gears, and you catch a whiff of tobacco still clinging to the fabric of his sweater underneath his coat. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you have to fight the urge to lean forward and inhale.
“Okay, so — secret Santa. We were thinking of having it at the Wheeler’s, since their basement is practically like our second apartment anyway, on top of the fact that it’s way easier to get to than The Squawk.” Robin breaks the silence, leaning forward resting her elbows on the backs of either of your headrests.
You don’t miss the way Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightens enough to show the white’s of his knuckles at the name, or the anxious pit that forms in your gut at the idea of being the new face in a group of friends that are tied together by something you can’t even begin to comprehend.
“Hey! Sit down, are you kidding me?” He scolds, glaring at her from the rearview mirror.
”Sorry, Dad.” She huffs, raising her hands in defense, flopping herself back into her seat. Your lips twitch at the familiar nickname.
”And put your seat belt on too. Jesus, I’m driving in a freaking blizzard Robin.” He only takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to run it through his hair. Robin sticks her tongue out at his reflection, but you still hear the click of her seatbelt before she continues.
“Anyway, I’m thinking around 8 o'clock Christmas Eve. You can make Keith work the overnight shift since you’re the boss and all.” She grins wide when you toss her your own glare from over your shoulder.
”What if Keith wants it off?” You counter with teasing revenge.
It’s Steve that snorts next to you, bringing your attention to the curve of his lips, doing good to keep his eyes on the road.
”Keith was banned from secret Santa, per our agreement, so therefore he has to work and you have to go.” He argues siding with his best friend daring to meet your gaze before adding a little quieter. “Besides, I want you to go.”
Your stomach flips at his admission, cheeks warming enough they could fog the window next to you if you were just a few inches closer. Biting down on your bottom lip, you try to fight off the shy smile that wants to take over your face. Nervous hands pulling at the sleeves of your coat.
”I guess I’ll see what I can do.” You try to play along with a roll of your eyes and a bad attempt at an even voice, but you can tell Robin sees right through it. The heat of her stare threatens to burn a hole in the back of your head daring you to meet it.
”Perfect, then it’s decided.” She finally says, something mischievous dancing around in her tone. “Hey dingus, drop me off at our place first, I forgot I gotta wake up early to help my Mom with something.”
It sounds casual, the way she lays the trap, but you know exactly what she’s doing and you’re almost positive Steve does too. Especially by the way he stares her down through the rear view mirror before clearing his throat.
“Sounds good.” He nods with a small smile that almost seems nervous, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to gauge a reaction you don’t give despite the wild thumping of your heart in your chest.
Robin Buckley was a menace.
Of course it doesn’t take much longer for Steve to pull into the small parking lot of what you assume is their apartment complex. It’s one of the two in Hawkins, and yours of course is on the exact opposite side of town. Guilt consumes you with the realization of how far out of his way he’s going to not only drive you home, but to also pick you up first thing in the morning as the never ending storm clouds continue to dump what seems like another foot of snow on top of you.
Robin jumps out of the car before it even fully comes to a stop.
”Drive safe, and I’ll see you on Christmas Eve!” She smiles, sticking her head in one last time, throwing Steve a wink that makes him scoff and wave her off.
”Bye. Close the damn door before the snow ruins the leather.” He scolds, trying to dismiss her very obvious ulterior motives, mouthing ‘go’ until she finally obliges.
The wind outside isn’t loud enough to drown out her cackle after she shuts the door, and despite his annoyance he still doesn’t drive away till he sees her disappear safely into their apartment. Adding yet another quality to the long list of things Steve does that you unexpectedly find extremely endearing.
“I’m sorry — I don’t know why she’s being so, so - she’s being weird.” He stammers nervously, slowly pulling out and back into the snow storm that’s only seemed to get worse.
”I think that’s just Robin’s general demeanor.” You say casually, like your palms weren’t sweating.
“That is also true.” He laughs quietly, shifting gears when his tires slide, turning a corner.
“Are you seriously sure this is okay Steve? We're still not that far from the station. It’s getting bad, I can just stay there.”
As if to prove your point, the wind kicks up, smacking loudly on the side of his car.
”You’re not sleeping at the station.” He responds seriously, shifting again before slowly hitting the gas getting back on the main road. “I would not have offered it if I didn’t want to.”
”Technically Robin offered.”
”We’re basically the same person, so.” He shrugs, a toothy grin spreading across his face that only seems to be more handsome draped in shadows and moonlight.
Frank Sinatra’s ‘If I Had You’ fills the quiet space between you, the strings and his deep melodic voice turning the snow outside into something magical instead of treacherous.
“You really like Sinatra don’t you?” The question makes him do a double take, a reveal that warms both your cheeks and sends butterflies soaring deep in your gut giving your cards away about listening to his overnights.
‘I could show the world how to smile. I could be glad all the while. I could change the grey skies blue, if I had you.’
”Checking up on me I see.” He grins, shifting again only this time the side of his hand grazes your thigh, the slightest touch sending your body buzzing.
”I mean, I’ve got to keep tabs. I’ve caught you slipping, what? Four times now?” You tease, doing your best to hide your grin.
”Three. And all of them were your fault.” He corrects, sly eyes finding yours over the console making you giggle.
”Sounds like a deflection to me, Steve.” You sigh, relaxing even more in your seat meeting him from under your lashes. “I just never pegged you for a Frank Sinatra kind of guy.”
He huffs out a laugh, running a big hand through his hair that almost looks like a messy kind of bed head after the amount of times he’s done it throughout the day.
“I wasn’t until Robin started judging my love for Eddie Money like it was the worst thing she’s ever heard in her life. Which is crazy cause —”
”He makes hits!” You agree, with the kind of excitement that makes a smile stretch so big across his face that it splits in two.
”Thank you! Yes, he makes hits. But, she disagrees and decided to dedicate the first two months we worked at the station ‘expanding’ my music taste. I tried hiding the fact that I liked Frank outta spite, but apparently you aren’t the only one who listens to my overnights.” He glances over holding your stare for just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.
“You really aren’t stealthy, Steve.” You giggle before adding, “I bet she knows you’re smoking again too.”
”You’re probably right.” He groans at the possibility.
”I hear that a lot.”
Steve snorts, flipping his blinker on to turn down the road that leads to your side of town, shifting again his knuckles brush against you for the second time sending goosebumps pebbling across your skin.
“I was so surprised the first time I heard you play ‘My Way’, but honestly Harrington, it kinda suits you. I like it.” Your cheeks warm at your own compliment, something about saying it in his moonlit car has it feeling bigger than intended.
He stays quiet for a moment, letting the song fill the space between you charged with the new feelings that sit on the edge of both of your tongues.
’And I could leave the old days behind. Leave all my pals, I’d never mind. And I could start my life anew, if I had you.’
”Yeah?” He asks quietly, with a kind of soft vulnerability wrapped around the word that’s unmistakable.
“Mmhmm.” You whisper matching his tone turning shy, heart thumping wildly in your chest. “It’s hard not too.”
You aren’t talking about Sinatra anymore, and you think you both know it.
His gaze feels heavy as it crawls over the details of your face in the silence that follows, trying to figure out what’s going on inside your head. You hope whatever he’s looking for is hidden, just like the feelings that are starting to bloom despite how much you’ve tried not to water them.
“What was it like?”
The question you’ve been too scared to ask since you’ve been home slips out without warning, nervous fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater that poke out from your coat.
“Lockdown?” He clears his throat, straightening his posture holding the steering wheel with a harsh grip.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” You try to take it back watching the way all the muscles in his body seem to tense at the memory.
”No, no, it’s fine.” He responds with a small smile reading you like a book from the corner of his eye. “I don’t mind, just, uh, I wasn't expecting it.”
”Sorry, I have a bad habit of just blurting out whatever pops into my mind.” You laugh nervously, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Oh, I know, I remember your conversational skills on the roof.” He teases, the whites of his teeth shining against the dashboard lights.
“Now look at us because of my lack of conversational skills.” Smirking, you dare to look over at him again, your eyes tracing the moles that dot his profile.
Steve was always handsome, but was he always this handsome?
“Fast friends.” He chuckles softly, meeting your gaze briefly before focusing back on the road.
There’s that word again. You guess it’s better than ‘cool.’
The snow falls so heavily outside you aren’t entirely sure how he’s even able to see through it anymore.
”Lockdown was like being trapped in a never ending loop of the worst day of your life.” He says with a low voice, his handsome features going dark at the memory.
Shifting gears again, his Beamer slowly trudges up the kind of hill that you know would have been your car's demise if you had even made it out of the station's parking lot. He leaves his hand to rest on the stick shift this time, the tips of his fingers press softly into your thigh, he doesn’t move them.
“But at least I had a real excuse for once as to why my life turned out the way it did.” There’s a layer of self hatred sewn into what he’s saying, it’s hard to miss in the way it diminishes the light in his eyes.
”What do you mean by that?” You whisper, too nervous to talk at full volume, but you lean your thigh further into his touch, keeping him connected to you. The rev of his struggling engine bleeds through the conversation, and you wonder if his car will even make it back.
”I mean look at me.” He laughs, like it’s obvious.
“I am looking at you Steve.”
You almost tell him that it’s all you seem to be doing lately.
”My Dad’s a lawyer with his own firm, and I’m a sound guy at a radio station who peaked in high school that can’t seem to get it together enough to leave.” He scoffs like you must need a reminder, running that nervous hand through his hair again, knee starting to bounce.
“That’s not what I see.” It comes out soft just like your gaze, fingers flexing in your lap fighting the urge to wrap around his.
”Yeah?” His voice cracks a little, but he keeps his focus on the disappearing road. “What do you see?”
’I could be a king, dear, uncrowned. Humble or poor, rich or renowned. There’s nothing I couldn’t do, if I had you.’
“Someone that loves his friends so deeply that he constantly puts his needs last. You’re selfless almost to a fault Steve, and sometimes I have to fight the urge to yell at you to take care of yourself when I see how bad the bags under your eyes get some days.”
He chuckles dryly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he blinks back tears that threaten to spill like he’s never heard these things about himself before. A storm raging inside of him just like the one outside.
”I see a guy who’s so kind, he’d sacrifice his own happiness for anyone that he loves. And I think that’s exactly why you’re still here. I wouldn’t call that being a failure. Not by a long shot.”
That’s when you do it, you wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, he does it back with zero hesitation, like he was waiting for you. Keeping you there.
”I think about it all the time you know?” He whispers, the pad of his thumb brushing against your knuckles, butterflies multiplying deep in your gut.
”What?”
”Leaving.”
Frank Sinatra’s deep baritone fills the quiet that falls between you when he turns on your road, letting the weight of his confession hold the space there. A deep longing inside of it to see what lies past where the twenty feet tall fences were.
“Why haven’t you?” The question feels loaded when it leaves your mouth, and the way his thumb stutters tells you it is.
”I just need to know they’re safe — that they get out of here first. Especially Dustin, that little shit gets under my skin but I love him like he's my kid.” He answers the question with the most selfless kind of reason you should’ve expected. Something else lingering inside of it that he doesn’t want to unpack just yet. “After everything, I just can’t, I can’t. Not yet. Part of me feels like maybe I’ll always live here.”
He pulls into your complex like he’s done it a thousand times before, wheels spinning in the snow before his car propels forward into the first spot, only letting go of your fingers to put the car in park.
”That doesn’t mean you can’t explore what’s past Hawkins, Steve.” You whisper, turning in your seat to face him, already missing the warmth of his hand. “You’re not stuck, even if you stay, you can always see what else is out there, one place at a time, one trip at a time. Bit by bit. The world is big, and it’s not going anywhere.”
His eyes shine, glassy and shimmering under the street lamp above his car. They tell you everything he can’t bring his mouth to speak, your hands flexing in your lap fighting the urge to grab onto him again. Shadows make the moles and freckles that dot his skin look like the last flick of a paint brush, the final touches to a painting and you realize — yes, Steve has always been this handsome, you just didn’t see it before.
You see it now though.
“Thanks for taking me home.” You smile a little shy, the heaviness of the conversation hanging in the air.
“Any time, honey.” His full lips twist into something sweet, the new nickname making your body come alive. “Want me to walk you to your door?”
He glances around your well lit parking lot like something could be lurking in the shadows, it feels silly to you, but the expression that furrows deep in the V of his brows tells you that it’s anything but to him.
“I’m already scared you’re not gonna get out of here as it is. I’m just right there.” You point to the door of your apartment, the one conveniently closest to where he’s parked and his shoulders visibly relax. You knew he was going to watch you till you got inside anyway.
”I’ll pick you up around 8?” He asks, his eyes glancing down at your hands that fidget like he missed your touch too.
The bold red numbers on his dash read: 9:38PM. Suddenly tomorrow feels like a million years away.
“That sounds good.” It comes out in a whisper, your mind frantically searching for anything to say to keep him here even if just for a few minutes more. But it’s all static.
”I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.” He smiles, leaning back into the headrest.
”I’ll make you coffee for your troubles — with four sugars, don’t worry.” You tease, trying to ignore the nervous crack in your voice, but your joke lands earning you a snort in response and it only pushes your cheeks up higher.
“Better make it five.” Steve winks, white teeth gleaming against the dashboard lights at the eye roll he gets.
”Whatever Harrington, it's your body, your diabetes." You shrug, not expecting the genuine full belly laugh you get, quickly doing your best to try and memorize the bass and timbre of it in case you don’t hear it again.
You take one last look at him, committing this moment to memory. His eyes do the same as they trace over every curve and dip of your face, it makes you squirm a little in your seat. Your fingers grab the door handle at the same time he clears his throat leaning back into the leather. He flicks his thumb across his nose, before that big hand of his wraps around the stick shift, signaling that it’s really time to go.
”Please drive safely.” You beg, stepping out of the car and into the snow, remembering all those times he peeled out of the station’s dirt road.
”I will, I will. Don’t worry.” He waves you off with a smirk, “I’ll be thinking about that coffee the whole way home.”
He’s not talking about the coffee.
You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, the wet snow flakes that stick to your cheeks melting from the heat emanating off of them. Shutting the door, you wave at him one last time before trudging up to your apartment, feeling the warmth of his stare on you the whole way. He waits until your keys are in your door before you hear the squeal of his gear shifting, his tires spinning loudly just like yours did at the station. It makes you turn around, and you watch him try to back out again just to get himself even more stuck in the snow that just continues to pile around him. He tugs at his hair trying one more time, finally giving up when smoke starts to come up from the burning rubber of his tires. His eyes meet yours through his windshield, apologetic and nervous, the wind kicking up a notch to add salt to the wound.
”You’re gonna flood your engine!” You tease with a grin, getting the shine of his teeth you were looking for. Bright like the sunshine you missed so much, they break through the storm clouds that threaten to hide his face.
Steve Harrington was snowed in at your apartment.
—-
You never thought your place was that small for a studio until Steve was standing in the middle of it, broad shoulders and long legs taking up so much space. His eyes are curious as they absorb his new surroundings, mouth slightly agape unzipping his leather jacket looking around like he’s being let in on a big secret. Nerves twist tight in your gut at the general clutter scattered around your room that doubles as a common area, especially the pair of underwear hanging half hazardly from your laundry basket.
”Sorry for the - the um, mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone, obviously.” You stutter, peeling off your coat in a rush.
Hanging up your puffer by the front door, you scurry past him to try and clean up what you can, starting with the black lace but the deepening red in his cheeks tells you that it's too late.
”You're fine, seriously. You’re cute — I mean.” He clears his throat like it's closing up, scratching the back of his neck, “It's a cute, cute apartment.”
You can’t stop the twist of your lips no matter how hard you try, giggling a soft thank you as you speed clean around him. He stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself either, both of you lost in uncharted territory.
“Here, I’ll take your coat.” You huff throwing away the last of the wrappers you’ve collected, taking a deep breath at the realization that you’re being a bad host. “You can sit on the couch, and get comfortable.”
Steve looks like a deer in headlights when you walk over to him with an open hand.
”Is it okay if I use your bathroom real quick?” There’s a shyness in the way that he asks, slipping his wet leather coat into your grasp, that nervous hand pushing his hair back.
There’s a brief moment of panic as you try and remember the way you left it, but since you weren’t running late today, you’re nintey nine percent sure it’s safe.
”Yeah of course, it’s on the right around the corner, not the left, that's just a closet.”
He nods, patting himself down like maybe he’s forgetting something before turning around and disappearing into the bathroom with a soft click of the door. A shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding slips out from between your lips as you hang up his coat. The musk of his cologne hits your nose along with the relaxing hint of amber inside of it, and this time, you give in, inhaling a little more.
You take one last look around your apartment for anything else you might’ve missed before grabbing an extra blanket from the closet you warned him about. Your heart thumps a little quicker hearing the muffled sound of the water running in the sink as the reality of Steve Harrington having to sleep on your couch just a few feet from your bed settles in.
You grab the extra pillow you usually cuddle with from its hiding place under your comforter, laying everything out for him on one side of the loveseat. Staring down at the short piece of furniture, there's a part of you that wonders if he’s even going to fit on it, at least comfortably. Another wave of guilt hits you like a tsunami as you start to think maybe you should be the one to sleep on the couch instead.
The sound of the bathroom door opening stops you from being able to fret about it too much as he emerges from around the corner. His hazel eyes find yours instantly, the gold in them looking warm like honey. A toothy grin cracks his handsome face in two calming the anxiety that had begun tightening uncomfortably in your chest. The sleeves of his brown sweater are pushed up, and the windswept mess on the top of his head had obviously been tamed in his absence. A mental image of him fixing his hair in your small bathroom mirror has the corners of your mouth curling up. It feels like something to check off a bucket list.
“I like the pink rugs you have in there.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb taking two long strides to the middle of the room, his gaze wandering the posters on your wall like he's trying to piece you together.
“Thanks, I bought them when I first moved back to brighten it up a little.” You sigh with a shrug, looking down before adding “this one too.”
You point to the fuzzy burnt orange throw carpet under both your sock covered feet, a proud smile pulling up your cheeks meeting his eyes from under your lashes.
”I’ve got the last little bit of my favorite summer candle. I usually light it when it snows like this. If you wanna get really crazy, we can even pretend it’s June.” The wiggle of your eyebrows earns you the kind of laugh from him that threatens to become your favorite sound.
“What does summer smell like to you?” He questions with a soft stare, teeth tugging at his full bottom lip. The warm light from your floor lamp casting shadows across his sharp features.
”It smells like the beach on the sunniest day of the year — salt water, sunshine, with the smallest amount of sweetness and dare I say a dash of clean linen.” You sigh at the thought of it, side stepping him to light it from where it sits on your kitchen island.
“Take me away to cocamo or whatever the song says.” Steve huffs, finally flopping down on your couch. A low groan rumbles from his chest as his body molds into the cushions. This time he runs both hands through his hair.
“I’m just gonna change into something more comfortable really quick.” It comes out in a rush, your nerves from before jumbling the words on the tip of your tongue.
”Take your time,” He waves you off with a yawn, “do you care if I use your phone to call Robin while you’re doing that? I don’t want her thinking I’m in a ditch somewhere.”
“Go for it.” You smile, grabbing your softest pajama pants and an oversized shirt doing your best not to over think it, or the fact that you have nothing for him to sleep in.
Disappearing around the corner, you have to ward off the mental image of what Steve sprawled out across your couch in his boxers would look like.
—-
His voice sounds faint on the other side of the door and even though he's speaking in a hushed tone you can still tell he’s annoyed by whatever his best friend is saying on the other end. Judging by the way she was acting in the car, you can only imagine in the privacy of a call.
You stare at yourself in the mirror, probably the same way he did, messing with your appearance. Your mind wanders, replaying the night and how pushy Robin was all of the sudden, and it makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t. Maybe you weren’t the only one figuring out what that flutter in your stomach actually means.
Clearing your throat loudly, you give him a subtle warning of your return, fingers wrapping around the doorknob for ten extra seconds longer before finally coming out.
”You are not basically Dave Hull, you don’t host a match making show, please shut up— I gotta go, seriously? Can it— bye!”
He hangs up, running an irritated hand down his face mumbling something to himself before turning around. His eyes go wide, crimson staining his cheeks clearly oblivious to all the warnings you tried to give him.
“Sounds like she was super worried.” You tease trying your best to hide your smile and ignore the way his gaze wanders your softer edges, the hardened shell at work hung up with your coat.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” He snorts with an annoyed groan, “she was just being —“
”Robin.” You finish with a giggle, dragging your feet lazily to your bed, as a guilty conscience has you sizing up the couch again.
”I forget that you understand.” He laughs dryly flopping back down where he was sitting before you changed, thighs spreading wide as he head lulls against the cushions.
”Steve, I really don’t think that couch is going to be big enough for you.” Crossing your arms, you try to think of any kind of comfortable position he could possibly sleep in without his legs hanging over the arm rest. Or worse, propped up in mid air.
“I think you should take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
”No, nope, absolutely not.” He sits up, squaring his broad shoulders in stubborn finality.
“Seriously, I re-“
“I mean it, I'm fine, I could sleep standing up if I’m tired enough.” Steve grabs the blanket you laid out for him, leaning back and stretching out with one leg on the arm rest and the other on the floor.
“See? Comfy.”
He drapes the quilted comforter over himself to really drive his point home. It doesn’t look comfortable at all, but it’s obvious he’s not going to back down.
You narrow your eyes at him, staring just long enough to get a laugh before he shoos you away to a bed that’s been calling your name since the station. This time you don’t have it in you to argue, taking one last look at him letting him win after he whispers a final ‘I’m fine, go to bed.”
———
The wind howls loudly outside, noisy gusts blowing against your windows sending in a chill that bleeds through the cracks of the poorly sealed glass. Another harsh blast against your apartment building has the flimsy foundations shake, and despite the thickness of your comforter goosebumps pebble across your skin, teeth threatening to chatter. Glancing over at your alarm clock, bright red numbers flash a harsh 12:34AM at you.
It was the sound of Steve’s light snoring that lulled you to sleep about an hour ago, but now it’s his constant shuffling and re adjusting on the couch that pulls you out of it. A long huff escapes through his nose after turning for what feels like the hundredth time, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s running a hand through his hair.
The wind kicks up again, blowing out the dim flame of your dying candle on the kitchen island, the soft yellow glow disappearing turning the room a deep blue. A shiver runs up your spine at the same time the springs of the couch squeak as he tries to readjust again.
”Steve, just get in the bed.”
The shuffling stops, both of you holding your breath.
”It doesn’t have to be weird, you’re clearly uncomfortable.” You sit up rubbing the sleep from your eyes finding him in the kind of position that was sure to give him back problems for the next week.
The internal battle he’s having with himself is evident on his face, and it lasts long enough for the uncomfortable weight of regret to start settling in your chest. Nerves digging your canines into the skin on the side of your thumb.
“Fuck it.” He huffs under his breath sitting up, grabbing the pillow you gave him that had been rolled up to help support his neck in the pretzel of a position he had put himself in.
Your shoulders relax for a split second until the realization of what this means quickens the beating of your heart. Chewing your bottom lip, you lift the comforter in a silent invitation doing your best to keep up with the ruse that this wasn’t a big deal, even if it feels like the exact opposite.
Steve stops at the side of your full size bed, running those long fingers through the already messy main on the top of his head. Purple shadows kiss the bags under his weary eyes as he takes in the small space next to you before they meet your gaze.
”Are you sure? I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He asks with a sleepy rasp in his voice that makes your chest swell.
”I’ve actually never been more sure of anything in my life, if you can believe it.” You give him a lazy reassuring grin, “besides, I’m cold and I’m willing to bet you’re like a human furnace.”
He lets out a soft laugh at the reveal of your ulterior motive, the stress in his shoulders softening as he runs a hand over his face before nodding tossing his pillow down next to yours.
”As long as it’s mutually beneficial.” Steve smiles a little shy climbing under the covers, his weight making the mattress dip in the middle daring you to come closer.
The bed squeaks underneath him as he adjusts, your metal bed frame smacking against the wall. He settles on his side facing you with a hand tucked under his pillow. You mimic the way he lays, nerves coming out in the form of fidgeting feet, your toes brushing against his under the covers. He’s so close that you can see the smattering of freckles at the corners of his eyes, and every mole that dots along his neck. Amber and tobacco hit your nose, warming you just like the heat that radiates off his body, eyes glowing a golden evergreen in the deep blue light of your apartment.
God he was close, so close.
His gaze traces the lines of your face and you swear they linger on your lips. Even if just for a fleeting moment, catching your breath in the back of your throat.
“Bet you regret offering to take me home now huh?” You tease in a whisper, the tip of your toe catching on his shin.
“Nah,” he scoffs with a soft grin,“I do however regret not wearing my boots, I wasn't even thinking, rookie mistake.”
Your giggle makes his full pink lips stretch wide over perfect white teeth. Butterflies flutter in a kaleidoscope of color when he catches your feet with his own.
“I’ll help you,” you hum, as your hand not tucked away finds a new home in the space between you. “Don’t worry.”
There’s a moment of silence while his fingers follow yours, resting close enough for the tips of them to brush. His thick eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, thinking hard about whatever he’s wanting to say next.
“Sorry if that was a little much in the car earlier, I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.” He looks up at you from under his lashes, insecurities swirling in the depths of his irises.
“Don’t be,” your voice comes out quiet, swallowing your apprehension as your index finger hooks with his, “I like seeing that side of you.”
His finger flexes at your response, squeezing.
“Yeah?” He questions with the kind of disbelief that cracks open your heart.
“Mmhmm.” You murmur, holding his gaze, toes digging into the top of his foot, silently saying I like you.
You don’t know when it happened, but staring at him in the incandescent light of your room. You’re sure of it now.
Steve scoots closer, the heat of his breath fanning against your lips. Drawn to him like a magnet, you do the same, the tip of your nose brushing with his. Cinnamon from the Big Red he always chews invades your senses like the left over cologne clinging to his clothes. Another gust of wind smacks against your windows, sending a chill up your spine. Steve’s lips quirk on one side.
“Want to test out your furnace theory?” He breathes, a nervous crack in his voice, as he takes the leap of no return, first.
Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, all you can muster is a shy nod, your legs wrapping tighter around his. Something greedy warms every inch of your skin like it’s a need to have him as close as possible, and here he is offering it to you like it’s all he wants too.
His big hand finds your hip before sliding to the small of your back, his palm flattening along your spine tugging you to him. It doesn’t take much to close whatever space that was left between you, legs tangling together with bodies pressed so close that you can feel every ridge and dip of him. You look up from under your lashes just to find him already staring down at you, and even with the heavy weight of his mind evident under his eyes, he’s somehow more handsome than he was an hour ago.
Your palms flatten along his chest, the unbuttoned collar of his sweater revealing the top of a thick patch of hair that hides underneath the cotton. It makes your thighs press into his, your cheeks burning but if he notices he doesn’t show it. The pad of his thumb presses softly running along the dip of your spine, soothing your stiff muscles while his eyes trace over the contours of your face. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel like he can see everything that you’re trying to hide, and when his gaze lingers on your lips you’re sure he can.
The hand he kept tucked under his pillow outstretches with his arm, sliding under your head to pull the rest of you in. Tucking you under his chin, you bury your face into the side of his neck, thankful for the hiding place. His skin feels just as sunkissed as it looks, and it takes everything inside of you not to nuzzle deeper into him searching for more.
“Is this okay?” He whispers against the crown of your head, soft fingers running up and down the length of your back.
“Mmhmm.” You mumble against his throat instead of ‘can I live here?’ curling your fists into his sweater to pull yourself closer.
For the first time all winter, you’re thankful for the snow.
“Are you okay?” Your question comes out in a murmur, lips ghosting against his skin as you attempt to look up at him failing miserably nosing the sensitive spot behind his ear.
”Am I — am I okay?” He snorts incredulously, pulling you close enough to feel impossible, turning his head just enough for your cheeks to brush, the heat of his breath pebbling goosebumps along the side of your neck. “Never been better, honey.”
Honey. You want to change your name to honey. Get lost in the gold of it hidden in his eyes.
All you would have to do is lift your chin up slightly, and your lips could be pressed to his. The thought of them being so close quickens your heart beat, breath hitching as the tip of his nose nudges against the side of your cheek. Testing the boundaries like the realization dawned on him too. The sound of your heavy breathing mixes with the howling of the wind outside, filling the quiet space of your apartment, neither one of you daring to speak. His chest rises and falls under your palm, his own heart matching yours, skipping a beat at the tilt of your chin.
His fingers slide down your spine, fiddling with the hem of your shirt until he feels the slight nod of your head giving him permission. Electricity sparks goosebumps along the soft skin of your lower back the moment the tips of them touch you, a low hum escaping the back of your throat. You swear you feel his lips curve up against your cheek at the sound. Your bodies move together, seeking friction you’re not ready to give into yet, heavy breathes hot against each other's necks.
Your hands trail down his chest, a greedy need to touch more of him taking over all logical thought. They reach the bottom of his sweater at the same time your nose presses harder into his cheek when the blunt end of his nails drag softly down the dip of your spine. Your fingers slip under the hem, the pads of them meeting the rough hair of his happy trail. His body tenses, the movements of his hand coming to halt. You immediately feel the loss when he pulls it out, long fingers grabbing a hold of your wrist.
“Hey.” He whispers against your ear, his voice laced with something soft and scared.
You work up the courage to push past the bitter taste of rejection sneaking up on you to pull your head back just enough to meet the heavy gaze of his eyes, eclipsed dark with want, fear sparkling in the depths of them. The tips of your noses brush, and your fingers itch to smooth the lines in the middle of his forehead from the furrow of his brows despite the way your heart drops to the pit of your gut.
Maybe you read this all wrong.
“There’s — There’s stuff you don’t know about me.” He starts, the hand on your wrist letting you go so he can thread his fingers with yours, easing some of the anxiety that had started to build. “Things happened to me — happened to a lot of us during that time.”
You press your forehead to his, the pad of your thumb rubbing softly over his knuckles, silently encouraging him to continue. His face twists like he’s in pain, shame shadowing his handsome features, breaking your heart before he even has a chance to finish.
”These things, they left their mark on me. It’s — it’s a lot to explain, not really pillow talk.” huffing out a nervous laugh, he swallows avoiding your gaze, he moves his focus to your tangled hands instead before continuing, “my stomach and umm parts of my chest — I’ve got a lot of scars is what I’m trying to tell you pretty fucking badly. A lot of them, and I haven’t really shown them to anyone before. Well anyone —“
”New?” You finish, squeezing your legs around his calf a little tighter remembering the one you saw wrapped around his neck.
Tears that you don’t let fall sting the corners of your eyes. Seeing him vulnerable like this, leaving himself bare to trust you to help pick the pieces back up has a sharp pain tightening in your chest. A vengeful rage boiling under the surface at the idea of whatever it was that caused him so much pain. The urge to apologize to him eats at you but you keep it to yourself knowing that’s the last thing he would want. Steve Harrington hated pity.
”Yeah,” He breathes a slight sigh of relief, his eyes finally meeting yours with a worry he can’t seem to shake swimming deep in the pools of them.
”Steve.” His name comes out gentle, a softness about it that has his nose nudging against yours. “You only have to share with me whatever you’re comfortable with.”
You run the tip of your nose along the length of his, breathing him in.
“I don’t need to see them yet, or ever if that’s what you want, I just — I just really want to touch you.”
Your eyes close, hiding from his gaze that searches for you.
“I want that too, honey. God more than anything.” He whispers against the corner of your mouth, the silk of his lips waking up every nerve ending in your body.
He lets go of your hand, fingers lazily crawling up your hip before returning to their home on the small of your back. A shiver runs up your spine at how good it feels to be touched by him again, only a few minutes passing but they felt like a lifetime.
You meet Steve’s stare, an intensity burning in his eyes that wasn’t there before. The kind that gives you the courage to slip your hand back up the bottom of his sweater. Tentative nails raking through his rough happy trail. The feeling of your touch sends a shudder through his body, like it’s been denied this kind of intimacy for a long time. A low groan catching in the back of his throat pressing his forehead harder against yours.
Your touch grows bolder, more curious as your fingers dare to crawl further up. The pads of them are met with uneven skin, evidence of large almost teeth-like shaped gashes lining the sides of his ribs. Despite pinching his eyes closed, he leans further into your touch. Your teeth dig into the fat of your bottom lip, holding in the cry that wants to slip out.
What happened to you?
The blunt ends of your nails find the softer patch of hair on his chest, your hips meeting his on their own accord. Steve tilts his head up, his mouth hovering just above yours as his hands spread wide across the small of your back. He pulls you to him like there’s somehow more space between you even though there isn’t. Your top lip brushes just slightly against his full bottom one, while your fingers dance slowly down the other side of his ribcage. The bumps of identical scars kissing the pads of them again.
His nose presses into your cheek, a shaky breath tickling against your skin. The blunt end of his nails digging crescent moons into the soft skin of your back when you go over a deeper indentation.
“So handsome.” You whisper, lips ticking just under the shell of his ear as you glide your fingers over the same spot again.
He breathes out a shy laugh, nuzzling deeper into you leaving a whisper of a kiss at the hinge of your jaw. His mouth is so close to where you want it most, a fluttering tickling deep in your gut at the feel of them dragging along your skin.
“So beautiful.” His voice comes out low against the sensitive spot in the crook of your neck. Its baritone has your body curving soaking in the warmth of him through your palms because touching Steve feels like bathing in sunshine.
The need for more is insatiable, and he lets you take as much as you want. Your hands wander the broad expanses of his chest, tracing the dips and curves of the pinched skin of his scars until your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. The soft caresses of his fingers against the sore muscles of your back lulling you to the deepest sleep you’ve had in what feels like months but not before you hear a quiet whispered ‘sweet dreams, honey.’
——-
Part Two ✨
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Navigation • Masterlist
Series
Hell Hound - Being FWBs with metal rockstar, Eddie Munson, is all fun and games until a dozen red roses show up at your door with a warning: Stay Away from The Devil or you will die. Despite your protests, Eddie appoints his personal bodyguard to keep an eye out for you.
Ranged - After Hell brought Horror to the Heartland, America’s dirt roads and open woods began to fall to rot and ruin. To prevent further inter dimensional slips, the government dispatched several workers, such as yourselves, to travel the country saving small communities.
Wildfire - When Hawkins opened up and slowly slipped into the Ether, you were there on the front lines. Now, nearly two years later, after the tragic loss of your best friend, you're left without a partner and a rage building inside you like a wildfire. When you're given the option to retire or partner with your rival, Steve Harrington, you struggle to put aside your differences for the sake of the world.
Late Checkout - The cursor blinked. A writing retreat at an exclusive 5-star ski resort. A New Years Eve party in the moody lodge bar. A handsome heir. A bratty bad boy. A snowstorm blocking every guest from the outside world.
Oneshots
Chamomile - A look at two semesters spent meeting, knowing, and pining after Steve Harrington. Slowburn, college parties, dorm rooms, a bit of unrequited Ronance, and unforgettable memories with friends.
• Lemonade - A look at your week in Hawkins, soaking up the summer sun with your newfound friends. A follow-up to Chamomile.
Domesticity - After the final Battle of Hawkins, Steve Harrington has been recruited to find all of Brenner's "experiments" that didn't perish under Henry Creel's hand. Undercover in Suburbia, with you under his arm playing the role of dutiful wife, Steve uncovers more truths about himself than he bargained for.
Group Therapy - Steve’s friends encouraged him to attend group therapy, to push past the nightmares and insomnia. In such a small community of sufferers, he didn’t expect to meet you.
Better Off - Four years since Argyle's wedding, Robin invited you and the gang to her boss's lake house. Hoping good memories will be made, you're forced to wrestle with some ghosts of your past.
After the final Battle of Hawkins, Steve Harrington has been recruited to find all of Brenner's "experiments" that didn't perish under Henry Creel's hand. Undercover in Suburbia, with you under his arm playing the role of dutiful wife, Steve uncovers more truths about himself than he bargained for.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x female!Reader
Wordcount: 16,490
Warnings: fake marriage au, slowburn, angst, pining, canon typical violence, one tiny mention of infertility, but several mentions of trying to have babies
Navigation • Masterlist
---
Suburbia succumbed to fall in a tattered mess of fallen leaves, run-through with bikes and station wagons. Floral arrangements on stoops were replaced with pumpkins and the smell of barbecue replaced with chimney smoke as everything bit crisp and bitter in the air. Fog crawled over roots and soil, chased rainwater into clogged gutters, clung to the insides of windows as children cackled and adults sipped wine around leaf-in dinner tables.
Steve’s polos had been replaced with cozy sweaters that pulled on the hair of his chest and warmed his cheeks. Or maybe that was the red wine he’d barely drank. He had to stay sharp, and the tart berry undertones reminded him too much of his mother. Or maybe it was you, sidled up beside him, chatting away as you sipped the wine in your own glass, one hand floating down his arm, resting on his thigh, your lips stained a deep plum.
“And what about you two, hm? You planning on joining the PTA with us anytime soon?” Marcie Jones waggled her eyebrows, cigarette smoke circling her harsh features. The chandelier shadowed her eyes, making her look even more of a tired skeleton than normal. You’d told him about Marcie’s fucked up childhood, her eating disorder, her husband Jimmy’s affair. Marcie and Jimmy’s five-year-old had to be held back in kindergarten for stabbing another kid.
“Oh, believe me, we’re trying.” You punctuated that fact by raising your glass high in the air, wine legs reflecting honeyed light.
The room whooped and hollered, but Steve’s entire body buzzed. “We are?” He choked out, heart stuttering in his chest. Not only was a pregnancy impossible to fake, as far as he was concerned, but the idea of you running around with a brood of Harringtons was something that crossed his mind on a nearly daily basis, along with the idea of making a brood of Harringtons with you. His sweater felt excessively tighter, like the tentacles of a bat wrapped around his throat.
A loud thud of a strong hand to his shoulder pulled him back into the room, raucous laughter. Chip Lafferty gave his shoulder a shake. “Looking a little green around the gills there, Steve-O.”
Steve managed a half-hearted smile and turned to look at you. You were giving him that big, bright, fake smile that screamed “play along, damnit”, and he licked his lips, pulling his glass to take a long gulp. The wine was too sweet and too tart and dried on his tongue. He winced and set the glass back down.
“God, men do not listen, do they? In one ear, out the other.” You rolled your eyes, but you leaned into him, patronizing tone turned lovey and sweet. You planted a wet kiss to the stubble growing on his jaw. “Guess the ‘why’ or ‘how’ isn’t that important as long as you’re enjoying it. Huh, baby?”
Steve swallowed, familiar hunger burning in his chest, tightening his jeans, and he was thankful for the second loud eruption at the table thanks to your words.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Chip and Jimmy high-fived.
Chip’s wife, Amie, tossed her napkin at you from her lap. “Girl, you are bad.”
You shushed her with a giggle that poured around your slender finger held to your lips. You hiccuped and tilted your head all-the-way back to finish your glass of wine, the last drop spilling onto your tongue blood red.
“Okay,” Steve muttered, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin one final time before resting it on the tablecloth. “I think it might be time to get the Missus home.”
“Yeah it is,” Chip waggled his eyebrows. Chip and Amie Lafferty were Suburbia’s sweethearts. Amie worked at the local high school in the administrators office and Chip’s dad owned all of the business parks on his side of the Mississippi. They were perfect in every way, and yet you’d managed to uncover everything about Amie’s dark past, abusive father, Chip’s affair. Jesus, these guys were assholes.
Steve snorted, managed to fake a smile, and pushed off from his chair. “Shall we, dear?” He placed a hand on your chair.
“If you insist,” you offered the girls a wink, and they cackled like they were in on the joke.
You wiped your lips, spotting the ivory napkin pink, and allowed Steve to pull you upright. You stumbled into him, masking your giggle behind a shy hand as Steve caught you around the waist. You were so warm, sticky sweet. Your hum buzzed through his chest. “M’a little tipsy, baby.” God, that pet name would haunt him until the day he died.
“That’s the best way to do it,” Amie crowed, pushing off from her own chair. “That’s how Christopher was conceived.” She winked at Steve, and he felt his stomach plummet to the floor.
“Oh fuck yeah, that was a great night.” Chip waggled his eyebrows, staring over at his wife with darkened eyes. “Niagara Falls.”
“Chicago,” she sat him a look of utter disdain, any romance falling dead on the table between them.
You started planting wet kisses along the column of Steve’s jaw, and he squeezed your arm so hard he hoped it hurt.
“Great dinner, Marcie. Thanks so much for having us.” He offered the woman a tight-lipped smile.
Marcie blew out her last smoke cloud and waved it out of her face as she stood from the table. “Oh, my pleasure. Thanks for the excuse to put the kids to bed early.”
“Our house next time,” you dangled your fingers for her to take.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around 10.” Marcie nodded, tickling your fingertips with her own.
“What’s tomorrow?” Steve placed a hand on your back and walked you toward the coat rack in the entryway. You stumbled a little in your heels.
“Marce is taking me to her book club.” You explained, helping him pull your jacket over your arms. You pulled your hair out from the collar, and his jaw clenched at how that made him feel.
“You can read?” He smirked, tugging down the sleeves of his sweater to pull himself into his own woolen coat.
“Shush,” you swatted at him, but the smile that clung to the corners of your mouth was worth every tease, made his knees weak.
“It’s a brunch book club. My friend, Doris, hosts once a month.” Marcie explained. “Scrambled eggs, French toast, Mimosas.”
“Ah, there it is,” Steve sighed, and you nodded excitedly.
“Well, you two walk home safe now,” Marcie pressed dry lips to his cheek, reeking of cigarettes and sadness. She gave the same to you, claws gripping your dainty hands.
Steve shook hands with the men, both of which gave him dog-ish smirks and waggled brows, and Amie offered a shy smile and wave before he opened the door and led you out into the chill of autumn. Fog coated the streets like a night at the junk yard, and he tucked you tighter under his arm as your frame wracked with a shiver.
“Goodnight!” The party called as the two of you stepped onto the sidewalk. You turned and waved, and Steve led you a block down to your perfect little house. The hedges out front needed a trim, and the lawn was littered with leaves from the large oaks that lined the park just to the south of the little lot.
Bright white columns flanked the oversized door, and you rolled your ankles in a stumbled walk all the way up the brick walkway. You leaned into him while he fumbled with the keys, lock a little old, a little janky, but eventually the door popped open and he helped you inside. You crossed to the entry lamp and shrugged out of your coat, and he closed the door behind himself.
“What the fuck was that?” He rounded on you, his jacket caught on the shoulders of his sweater, and he tugged until something tore.
“Steve, come on,” you rolled your eyes, toeing off your heels and massaging the balls of your feet.
“So now we’re trying to have kids? What does that even mean? How are we going to fake something like that?”
You ignored him, breezed past him out of the foyer and into the kitchen, any stumble or stagger or feigned drunkenness removed from your walk. The light cast soft shadows against the staircase and through the hall.
He ran a tired hand over his face and kicked off his shoes. He set his keys on the entry table, just beside the photo of you both, arm in arm, madly in love. Like every other staged photo scattered around the house, taken over the span of a week, made to look like years of a happy marriage. He heard the water running and cursed under his breath, following you into the kitchen.
You were pressed against the counter, downing a glass of water, and then two. The soft light cast sunken shadows in your features, highlighted the column of your throat, the staggered up and down of your chest with each breath. You set your glass above the sink, catching him in the reflection of the kitchen window, and you turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, crossing to pull a glass from the cabinet above your head, turning on the faucet beside you to fill himself a glass. He avoided your gaze. “I do trust you. I guess I’d just appreciate a little warning before you change our entire narrative.”
“I’m not changing the narrative. We’re a married couple in our twenties. We’re going to want to have kids.” You explained, walking to the pantry to look for something. He didn’t know how or where you had room for more food after that lasagna. “So, we’re trying. Doesn’t mean we’ll succeed. Maybe we’re having fertility issues. That’d be a believable bit of gossip to tell the girls. It’d probably make them like me more.”
Steve scoffed. “That’s so fucking twisted.”
You shrugged. “It’s that or you have an affair.”
He drank his water and considered your words. He knew you were right, you were always right, but it didn’t hurt any less. Christ, he could picture it now, you poking around in the pantry like you always did, returning with a half-eaten Ding Dong, belly swelled three feet in front of you, that mischievous grin on your face. He’d swoop you into a kiss, force you to sit down, press his face against you and murmur sweet nothings about how beautiful you are, how in love with you he is.
“I’m going to bed. Gotta be up early,” you waved off the pantry, coming up empty handed.
Steve pushed off from the counter, discarding his cup beside the sink. “Yeah, what’s this book club thing? You think she’ll be there.”
She. Number Fifteen. That’s what this was all for. He had to remind himself. You were just pretending, he was just pretending, a mission you’d been sent on together to find the missing patients of one Dr. Martin Brenner, all the ones that hadn’t died under Henry Creel’s hand.
You shrugged. “It’s possible. If not, it’ll give me a few more connections. Did Chip tell you anything when you guys were in the garage?”
Steve shook his head, flicked off the kitchen light. He followed you back into the foyer, climbed the stairs behind you, forced himself to look anywhere but the crux of your thighs beneath your dress. “No, he just bullshitted us about the business. Bunch of bullshit about more warehouses and the stock exchange? I don’t know. You know I zone out when that shit starts coming out of them.”
You flicked on the bedside lamp, bathing the little bedroom in more honeyed light. You shook your head, brushed your hair off your shoulders to one side and backed to him for assistance unzipping your dress.
He held his breath, closed his eyes. He’d done this a million and one times by now, but it never got better. He never got used to the soft skin of your spine against his fingertips, never got used to the slope of you beneath the dress, the soft waistband of your panties just at the base of the zipper, the dimples of your hips. He didn’t release his breath until you thanked him and stepped away, peeling the sleeves over your shoulders and exposing your back before you disappeared into the closet to change.
He squeezed his eyes together and tried to think of dead puppies, demogorgons, Max in a coma. With grit teeth, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks.
“You really have to get him talking,” you chided from the closet, voice muffled by the clothes hung up around you.
“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled, gripping his sweater around the neck and pulling it off. He was relieved by the coolness of the room around him, and he pulled his white t-shirt back down around his torso. He tossed his sweater to the bed beside him and stood to remove his pants.
“Amie’s convinced he’s sleeping with someone new, and if it’s Her…” You entered the room for a split second before exiting into the en suite. You were slipping your night shirt over your head, and in the soft lamplight, Steve could just make out the swell of your breast before the gossamer fabric fell around your hips and thighs.
He heard the water running and swallowed, elected to keep his pants on a little longer. Dead puppies, Dustin’s mom, Dustin himself.
“I mean, maybe he could like introduce you?” You poked your head back out, toothbrush dangling from the corner of your mouth, foam removing the wine stains from your tongue, your teeth.
Steve nodded and crossed to you, reaching across the counter for his own toothbrush. He dolloped toothpaste and ran it under the water. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll have an affair of my own, like you said. I’ll ask for advice.”
“Maybe you’re terrified of having kids.” You waggled your eyebrows in the mirrored reflection, bending over to spit foamy mint down the swirling drain.
Steve didn’t respond, just scrubbed as you rinsed. You turned the water from cold to hot and washed your face with a warm cloth, mascara running in black smudges along your cheekbones. He spit and rinsed with hot water, and you rinsed the suds and grime from your face. It was your routine, night-after-night side-by-side. You slunk to your side of the bed and he followed, like a lost pup. He finally kicked off his pants when you flicked off the light, and he slid beneath the duvet beside you like he did every night.
“What’re you doing tomorrow?” You hummed, back to him.
He sighed, watching the shape of your shoulders in the moonlight that poured in from old window fixtures. “Think I might trim the hedge.”
You yawned, snuggled further into your pillow. “Good. See if you can get Berta from across the street to offer you lemonade. That old broad knows more about the neighborhood than anyone else.”
Steve rolled onto his back, stared at the ghastly shadows cast along the high ceilings. He listened as your soft breath turned to soft snores, and he closed his eyes and fell asleep as he did every night, to thoughts of you with a kid on your hip, your lips to his throat, your fingers in his hair.
—
Steve woke late the next morning to the sun pouring in and the smell of your shampoo lingering in the air. He groaned and stretched and slipped into something comfortable before taking the stairs downward, two at a time, to the little kitchen. You were hunched over a book at the countertop, knees pulled onto your chair with you, face screwed up in adorable concentration.
“What’re you reading?” He asked, his voice raw from sleep.
You startled, pointed your spoon in self-defense, and clutched at your chest. “Jesus fucking Christ, don’t do that to me.”
He laughed and found his mug, bright blue with anchors, something you’d found at the mall and purchased for him because it made you laugh out loud to think of. He rolled his eyes and used it every day since. “This coffee fresh?” He pointed to the maker.
You nodded, unamused, and turned back to your book.
He poured himself coffee and found a bowl for cereal, and when his breakfast was prepared, he pulled up the seat beside you and tipped the edge to look at the front cover, The Shining. Top heavy, the book closed in front of you, effectively losing your place, and you rounded on him.
“What the hell, dude?”
He snorted. “It’s a horror brunch book club?”
“Yes, and I was just getting to the good part.” You groaned and leafed your way back through the novel to find your spot again.
“You know what happens. He chases his wife with the ax and then the kid does the footprint thing in the snow and then Jack Nicholson is in the picture.” Steve shrugged, taking in a mouthful of Honeycomb. It crunched, not soggy enough, and didn’t go down as easy as he wanted it too. He frowned and stirred the cereal to let it soak a little longer.
“Yeah, but the movie’s trash compared to the book.” You tutted, seemingly finding your spot.
Steve opened his mouth to protest, trying to procure all of the Kubrik-based trivia Robin had fed him over the years, when the front door swung open, startling you both. You were so surprised that you threw your hand out, rocketing his bowl of cereal across the countertop and onto the floor with a crash.
“Helloooo?” Came a call from the foyer. Marcie had let herself in.
“Does she fucking knock?” Steve grumbled, making to pick up the mess of cereal and milk you’d made of the small kitchen.
“Make out with me,” you hissed.
He blinked back at you, saw you’d climbed onto the countertop and spread your legs, gesturing wildly for him to join you. “What?”
There was that look again, Play Along Damnit. “Just get. Over. Here.” You hissed, and before he could reach you, you gripped at his shoulders and forced yourself on him, thighs wrapped around his waist, hands in his hair, tongue slipping between his teeth. He groaned and threw you back against the countertop for balance, gripping at the belt loops of your jeans for dear life, a life raft in a swell of emotions.
You moaned into his mouth, hands moved to fist the front of his t-shirt as your hips ground upwards to meet his.
And fucking Christ, he knew it was just for show, knew you were displaying your perfect marriage, full of passion and morning sex for snoopy ass Marcie, but he raked his fingers up your ribcage and prayed you could feel how bad he had it for you. He put that devotion into every kiss. Every front door peck goodbye before his morning commute, every not-so-secret make out in the hedges during a party where you’d both had to pretend to be drunk, every kiss to your temple, your knuckles, the crook of your elbow. He needed you to feel it, to know without knowing. Maybe it’ll seep in somewhere, this delusion of osmosis that he hoped would someday trick you into feeling the same way. He knew you didn’t.
“Hello? Oh holy FUCK,” Marcie exclaimed, entering the small kitchen.
Steve felt your hands pawing at his biceps for release, shoving him off of you, and he rolled back onto the countertop with heavy breaths, mouth swollen and tingling from the love bite you’d given him. He could hear your gasps, the ruffle of your clothes, just under the thundering of his pulse in his ears.
Marcie flashed you both a knowing smirk, before allowing her eyes to linger down Steve’s front to where his pants were tightest, and she flashed her gaze back to him, impressed.
He blushed, turned back around to you, gave you a warning look.
“I am so sorry, Marcie,” you flattened your hair, licked at cherry stained lips. “I didn’t hear you knock. Bit… busy.” You flashed your canines in a proud grin.
“I can see that,” she cooed. “Morning, Stevie.”
He gave her a two-fingered salute, adjusted his pants. Dead puppies, Hopper, the Upside Down.
“Baby,” Fuck. “I’ll be home in a few hours. There’s stuff to make sandwiches in the fridge. Please do not cut your finger off with the trimmers, okay? I’m going to need them all.” Oh Jesus Christ, you were trying to murder him.
Marcie whistled, and you flashed a grin as you hopped off the counter and scooped up your book.
“Ready, Marce?”
“As long as you are, sweet cheeks.” She waggled her eyebrows Steve’s direction one last time, and he offered a weak wave, light-headed.
“Love you, baby.” You squeezed his cheeks together in one hand, leaning forward for another kiss, long, languid, still putting on that show. He smacked your ass, squeezed the meat of it tight on one hand. Two could play that game. You pulled away with a warning glance, and he grinned.
“Love you, honey.”
—
He didn’t have try hard for Berta from across the street to wave a handkerchief his direction and demand he join her for lemonade. The leaves had been raked into a pile, and the hedge was trimmed. Steve tried focusing on the tasks at hand instead of the dizzying morning make out or the daydreams of children throwing themselves into the leaves. He waved at the old woman, set his trimmers and gloves down, wiped at the sweat beading his brow, and crossed into the old woman’s yard.
“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy.” He smiled, accepting the small glass cup full of pale yellow lemonade. He took a sip, tarter than he hoped for, and swallowed back a wince to manage a soft smile, licking his lips.
“Your wife said you’d love it.” The old woman wagged a crooked finger and made about pulling things down from her cupboard. The kitchen mirrored yours, all these houses built by the same architect a hundred years ago, but hers had life to it, years of memories tacked to walls, staining the wallpaper. The photos displayed on Berta’s fridge weren’t posed: recipes, graduation announcements.
“It’s delicious,” he croaked around the sting in his throat.
“So tell me, young man, what’s new in the neighborhood?” You weren’t kidding. This old bird thrived on gossip. “Saw you two walking to the Jones’s the other night again. You seem to be getting on well.”
She placed a sleeve of fig cookies on the table, half-eaten, and he sighed, diving in for one to be polite. Hard as a rock.
“Yeah, Jim’s a good guy, and it’s nice for um…” He swallowed. “My wife to make friends around here. She’s glad to have Marcie and Amie.”
“Amie Lafferty?” Berta’s crone brows creased.
“Yeah, you know her?”
“Of course I do! Practically raised her. She’s the same age as my little Debbie.” Berta extended a finger to a photo of a homely looking girl with a baby on each hip, two more young ones crowded the front of the frame, missing most of their teeth.
Steve reached for the lemonade to quench the dryness in his throat.
“That Chip though…” Berta tutted her tongue against the back of yellowed teeth.
“What about him?” Steve leaned forward, trying not to cough up the sour drink.
“Well, I’m not one to gossip.” She waved him off.
He smiled at that, went for another cookie, further back in the sleeve in hopes of a thread of moisture. It was softer, sweeter against his molars.
“Oh alright,” she caved, pulling into the seat beside him and grabbing herself a treat. “They live just behind me, over that fence, you know,” she thumbed the direction of her back garden. He could just make out the fence line from her kitchen window, and the Lafferty’s brownstone mansion behind that.
Steve nodded, leaned in to indulge her.
“The other night, I heard giggling in the yard. So I peaked over, saw Chip showing someone the water feature. A woman. Not Amie.”
Steve’s heart picked up pace in his chest. “What did she look like?”
Berta shrugged, tore her cookie in two. “Oh you know, really pretty like. The kind of girl that would appreciate a guy like Chip for his money and not much else. The kind of girl you should watch out for.” She gave him a warning look, pressing her fingertips into his forearm.
Steve swallowed, shook his hair from his eyes. “What else did you see?”
The old woman shrugged, stuffed the rest of the cookie into her mouth, and then half of another. “Something’s off with their electrical. With all that money, you’d think they could pay to fix their damn lights.”
Steve felt his entire stomach sink into the wooden floor. “What do you mean?” He managed.
She shrugged, fluffy eyebrows creased in agitation. “Oh, a few nights this week, I look over and the whole house is going haywire, lights flickering from the bottom floor to the top. It’s only a few seconds before it stopped, but I damn near thought I was having a stroke.”
Jesus Christ. Steve downed the rest of his lemonade, thumping his chest with a fist to swallow it down, and he pushed off from his seat. “Mrs. Kennedy, thank you so much, but I better get that yard cleaned up before uh… before the Missus gets home.” God, why was it so hard to say it every time?
Berta stood and chased him to the front door, clapping her hands. “Come again anytime, my sweet boy, anytime.”
His mind raced over everything he said, and just before he left, he turned back to the old woman. “For the record, you don’t have to worry about me.”
She smiled, cocked a brow.
“I love her very, very much.”
Berta pressed a wrinkled hand to his cheek. “I know you do, and it’s lovely to see.”
—
You didn’t come home all day. Warm midday turned to pink afternoon turned to frigid evening, and the fog rolled in but you hadn’t. Steve sat at the living room window, a book open in his lap for appearances, but he spent an hour staring out the window not glancing at the book once. His leg bounced, pages flitting with every movement. Cars drove by, slow for kids at play, coming back from the grocery store or leaving for Saturday evening dates.
Anxiety clawed up his esophagus. Berta’s words echoed in his mind. He kept his eyes looking from the drive to the back of Chip’s house just in the distance. Where were you?
He stood abruptly, made for his coat in the hall and his keys on the entry table when the door burst open. His keys went clattering to the ground, and he heard the loud shuffle of bags and boxes as you, Marcie, and Amie all pushed past him with armfuls of shopping bags.
“Hey, baby,” you called, dumping your haul into the little parlor.
“Stevie, you’re going to want to work an extra shift this week,” Marcie cackled. “Your wife went a little ham.”
“Why didn’t you call?” He tried to relax, heart thundering.
“Sorry, baby,” you stood on tiptoe to press a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling his anxiety from them. He relaxed into you. You pulled away with wide eyes, play along. Your gaze flitted to his shoulder, and you picked at something there, tutted. “And now I wish I would have. I didn’t know you ripped your coat.”
He glanced to his shoulder where your dainty fingers attempted to mend the seam, and he sighed and shrugged out of it to replace on the coat rack. “It’s fine, honey. Did you girls have a good day?” He stepped beside you into the little living room where Marcie and Amie were organizing their purchases. The whole room was full of tissue paper and bright colors, like Christmas morning.
“We sure did,” Amie cooed, picking up the tiniest package of the bunch to shake your direction. “Show him.”
You swatted at her and hid the little bag behind yourself, flashing him a smile that had something behind it he didn’t recognize.
He swallowed, took a step toward you. “Show me what?”
“Okay, don’t be mad.” You held a hand to his chest, fingertips right over his heart, and he could never be mad at that. He watched the way your ring sparkled in the lamplight. “I was just really excited, alright? And the girls made me do it. And you know, maybe it… stuck.” You offered, and he was so confused he glanced over at the other girls who were positively beaming to see his reaction.
“Maybe what stuck?”
“This morning,” Marcie offered with a quirked brow.
“Last night,” you corrected, sucking your cheeks in to fight back a smile.
Oh. Steve felt his face heat at the charade. He’d been so worried about you, he’d forgotten the rendezvous in the kitchen, forgotten the conversation over the last moments of dinner.
“So… you wanna see what she got?” Amie prodded her forward.
He looked you over, tried to decipher that unfamiliar look in your eye, was it regret? Apology? Disdain? He nodded, and you pulled the bag between you, stared into the tissue for a moment too long, before your dainty hand went in and plucked out the sweetest, tiniest little baby onesie he’d ever seen in his entire life. It was soft gray, and he didn’t dare touch it, but the way you held it between your fingers made it look so soft. The tiniest of blue whales was embroidered in the very center.
“Do you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you really think this was the best idea?” He said it through his teeth, careful not to sound unkind, the heart of something that never was, never will be, wracked through him.
You shrugged, pain flashed in your eyes that mirrored how he felt. He pressed his fingertips into the soft skin of your forearm.
“Oh don’t be mad, Steve-o. We practically forced it on her.” Amie stood to your defense, tucking the little onesie back into its bag.
“Truly, we dragged her into the store. She didn’t want to go.”
You swallowed, nodded. “And like I said, maybe something stuck.” Your voice cracked at the end.
“And if it didn’t, we got this,” Marcie cackled. Steve turned to see her holding up a piece of lavender lingerie, barely any material with too many bells and whistles, and he heard ringing in his ears. Amie scolded the other girl, but you all laughed in tandem at some inside joke you’d come up with at the mall.
Steve felt sick, dizzy, too warm, this little house too crowded with all of the girls and the bags and the information he’d gleaned from the little old woman across the street. He ran a hand through his hair and winced at the headache forming in the lamplight.
“Baby, are you okay?” You slipped your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and a shiver shot down his spine at the tug of your fingernails.
He backed away from you, stepping out of your reach with outstretched hands, keeping you at a distance. “I’m fine. I just… had a long day. Think I’m gonna go to bed.” He grumbled. “Excuse me, ladies.” And he sidestepped out of the room. He took a deep breath to the tune of rustling tissue before climbing the stairs, hand clenched on the wooden railing.
“What’s his deal?” He heard whispered below.
“Yeah, sorry. I really didn’t think he’d be mad.”
“It’s fine, guys.” You comforted. “He’ll get over it.” His heart clenched and he closed the bedroom door with a groan.
—
He wasn’t sure how long he’d laid in bed, staring at the shadows of the ceiling while your chatter continued downstairs. It felt like hours. Finally, the rustle of bags and the air flow of the open door signaled your friends’ departures, and you called out to them a little too-loudly before closing the large door with a slam that rattled the light fixtures. You took the stairs quickly, lithe hurried footsteps before you swung open the bedroom door.
Steve sat upright, brow furrowed, ready to argue. He pushed off from the bed towards you. “What the hell was that ab-“ But before he could get his words out, you’d launched yourself at him, wrapped your arm around his shoulders and buried your face in his neck, your breath hot and shaky against his skin. He stumbled backwards a moment before relaxing into you, pulling you up by your waist, sinking his face closer to yours, cheek-to-cheek.
“She was there.” You whispered into his ear, and his blood ran cold. He froze. He could feel both of your heartbeats against his ribcage. “At brunch. I wasn’t sure, but we reached for the butter at the same time and she has a scar on her wrist.”
Steve swallowed, eyes darting around the room. “You think she’s spying on us?” Remote viewing. You had a protocol for this, training you underwent. Steve prayed every night you wouldn’t have to enforce it.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. He sagged under your weight and you pulled away, hands at the base of his neck, your beautiful eyes full of something, fear maybe. “I didn’t think so, but when Doris asked where we were from, I said Chicago, and Marcie piped in with a ‘isn’t Steve from Indiana?’ And that might have blown our cover.”
Steve cursed, ran a tired hand down his face. That was his own damn fault, accidentally spewed it in your first ever conversation with the Jones’s. All that training, and still managed to spill where he grew up.
“It’s okay,” you breathed, ducked your head to hold his gaze. “We know what to do.”
Fucking A. Remote Viewing protocol meant she could be watching in at all hours of the day. It meant never lifting the veil, never exposing their true selves, loving husband and doting wife at all hours of the day, at least until they took her down. They couldn’t risk Fifteen watching them talk-shop, couldn’t risk her finding out about their plans to take her in.
Steve tugged your hips back into him, took a deep breath, spoke a little louder. “Berta told me Chip’s electrical’s out of whack. Billion year old mansion like that? Doesn’t surprise me he has faulty wiring.”
Your eyes widened. “Amie didn’t mention any of that to me.”
He shrugged under your hands. “Maybe it’s not happening when she’s around.”
You nodded in understanding and let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to his chest. He brought up a hand to rub between your shoulder blades and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo.
“Tell me about your day,” he offered, voice a little hoarse. He took a step back from you, giving you space, preparing himself to speak in code for the unforeseeable future, preparing to have his heart ripped into shreds with every brush of your hand or your lips.
Your smile was weak, and you ran a tired hand down your face, making for the bathroom to start brushing your teeth. He joined you, waited for you to spread the paste to your brush before he did his own. “It was fine. Long. Met a bunch of bitches who thought the movie was better than the book.” You rolled you eyes.
Steve smiled, foaming poking from the corner of his mouth. You elbowed his ribcage. Maybe this wouldn’t be so different.
You washed your face, changed from sweater and jeans in the closet, came out in that oversized nightshirt. You turned off the lamp, bathing the room in moonlight, and you climbed into bed beside him.
He wasn’t sure what to do next, if Fifteen would be watching even in the nighttime hours. He didn’t know if real married couples spooned or if that was just on television. Did you expect him to kiss you goodnight? He cleared his throat, kicked his legs around in the duvet until his ankle hit yours. You tapped the top of his foot with your toes.
“Goodnight, Steve.” You yawned, back still to him.
“Night.” He sighed, stayed still in his spot until your soft breaths became soft snores, and then he turned back to his back and fell asleep, thinking of that tiny onesie and the Honeycombs smattered on the kitchen floor.
—
He’d never forget the first time you kissed. It was in an oversized boardroom at Hawkins Lab, overlooking the parking lot and tree line just beyond. His wounds had barely begun to heal, stitches tugging at his left cheek, just beneath his eye. You wheezed when you talked, lungs healing from smoke inhalation, and you had that cut on your bottom lip.
Owens had left you alone to get comfortable, for hours, he’d lock you in the conference room, force you to talk. Steve was ninety percent sure he was watching you, red eye of the camera in the corner glaring your direction. You sat on the table sipping nasty black coffee, and Steve hunched just past arms’ reach, his own arms crossed over his chest like a shield. You talked interests and asked about his, mostly you commiserated over how fucking annoying Eddie Munson was now that he was alive again.
“Hey, Harrington,” you coughed, wincing at the strain of your voice.
“Yeah?” He cocked an eyebrow, wondered how he’d been conned into this gig, wondered what the hell made him the best candidate.
“I need you to kiss me.”
He swallowed, blinked back at you. “What?”
You leaned over to tug at the sleeve of his polo. “If it’s gonna be believable, you’re going to have to start kissing me now. It’s gotta be comfortable, like we’ve been doing it for years. I don’t want our cover blown because you’ve never kissed a girl.”
“Fuck off,” he said with a laugh, but when you gave him a pointed look, he glanced around the large room again. “What, now?”
“Now or never, dickhead. Chop chop.” You swung your legs and pat your thighs as if telling him to saddle up, and his throat went dry. But he didn’t want you to think he was a bad sport, so he slid himself between your legs and brushed a lock of your hair from your eyes. “How romantic.” You sucked your cheeks in to mask a laugh.
“Shut up.” He chuckled, nerves tingling all the way up his arm.
“Make me.” You challenged, and he did. You winced as your lip split, and he tasted warm iron against his teeth, but you didn’t pull away, coaxing your thighs higher up around his hips and your fingertips scratching at the hair at the base of his neck, sending fireworks through his entire body. Oh God, this was something he could get used to.
Only he never did get used to it, every kiss driving him deeper and deeper into this web of lies that sugarcoated his lungs. The demo-whatever may not have killed him, but you surely would.
“Baby,” you cooed from your perch atop the counter, shoveling cereal into your perfect mouth with little slurps.
He looked up at you from over his newspaper, the perfect portrait of a married couple.
“Do you wanna call the boys and see if they want to play poker one day this week?”
“Poker?” He winced, taking a sip of his coffee. God, you made it so good.
You shrugged. “Or something. I just think you should really talk to Chip. Amie’s getting really worried.”
All the subtext steeped into him, and he nodded, glancing back at the sports section. “Okay, hon. I’ll give him a call.”
“And I might go to Amie’s today.” You said it matter-of-factly, tossing the rest of your bowl into the sink with a clatter.
Steve closed the newspaper, sat up to look at you. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He thought of the lights, of the potential of another Vecna situation.
You avoided his eye contact, shrugged, left the room. He followed quickly on your heels, called your name.
“She left a bag,” you held a shopping bag aloft as explanation. “And you know, if they’re having electrical issues, I’ll give her the name of a good electrician.”
“I’m coming with you.” He stated, searching for his keys on the side table, but they weren’t there. “Did you take my keys?”
“No, I didn’t take your keys and no, you don’t need to come with me, baby, it’s fine. I can handle it.” You shrugged off a shaky laugh. “It’s just Amie’s. I mean, Christopher’s a little shit, but I can handle a bunch of shit kids, right?” The look you gave him pulled him home a little, and he softened.
He took a cautious step closer, tucked two fingers into your hand. “Can you just… wait until I talk to Chip?”
You were staring down at your hands together, avoiding his eye contact.
He took another step closer, inches away, and he pulled your chin up until you looked at him, a bit of fire behind your eyes, indignation. “What if Amie found something out, huh? Don’t want you going over there and walking into World War III. Not without me there you save you. You know that’s what I’m here for.” You were the brains, he was the brawn. He understood the dynamics from day one.
You rolled your eyes and took two steps back, releasing his hand from yours. “Ugh, fine. But we do need to go grocery shopping for the week.”
He sighed, relief flooding through him knowing you weren’t going into that house alone, and he nodded. “Will you help me find my keys?”
—
Public spaces were complicated in this context. He hated pretending with you, hating the gnaw of guilt when your hand swung in his and made his throat tighten. But pretending at the house was harder, a switch that always flipped the moment that door closed was forever in the upright position. It was murky waters, hearing you call him baby but not knowing if it was okay to sweep you up into his arms. But in public? In public it was encouraged.
The grocery store, on a Sunday evening in Suburbia was hectic. You and Steve stuck out like sore thumbs, comfy clothes, shrugged sweaters and mussed hair, agnostics in sea of Christianity. You slumped lazily behind Steve, hiding your face in his back to avoid stares, and he tugged at your hand to pull you down another aisle, basket getting heavy in his hand.
“We should’ve gotten a cart,” he huffed when you rounded to the cereal aisle, staring at the assortment of bright colors as though you weren’t just going to pick Honeycombs again.
“I’ll carry it, big baby,” you teased, pulling a family sized box of Honeycombs into your arms. He hadn’t realized how small you looked until now, and he noticed you were wearing his sweater, the one from the other night.
His heart thud in his ears, short circuited. Shit. Dead puppies, Christmas lights, that sliver of skin when you…
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You smiled, swatting at his chest.
He blinked, coughed, switched the basket into his other hand.
“What’s wrong?” You were so damn pretty, lips split as you looked both ways down the empty aisle.
“That’s my sweater.”
You looked down at yourself, and he saw the duck of embarrassment as you fiddled with the hem. “I thought it might…” Make you more believable.
He nodded. “It does. Nice touch.” He met you in the center of the aisle and tugged at your sleeve, loose from days of wear. “Could’ve washed it first.”
You looked up at him then, all alone in the cereal aisle, a backdrop of colors, and he leaned in to press his lips softly to yours. He felt the box settle into his chest between you, and you let out a soft noise of indignation that made him pull away. Your lashes fluttered open, and you gave him a look. Perhaps in warning.
Careful, sailor boy, you’re blurring the line. He swallowed and barked a wry laugh. “I’m getting a cart.” He mumbled and hurried off in search of a better vehicle for the groceries, and maybe a six pack.
—
Steve was tucked into the armchair nearest the front window, thumbing through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated, which you’d tossed into the grocery cart alongside a few girly pop culture magazines, an olive branch. Night had broken, slowly reflecting his own visage in the window by lamplight. A windstorm came in, blowing through the trees in the park and undoing his handiwork from the weekend, but he didn’t mind the task if it meant something to keep himself occupied.
You were partway through your next book, a thriller that hadn’t yet been adapted into film, and you slipped from the living room and into the kitchen for a glass of water. He glanced at the little space in the doorways, watched the way your hips swayed against the countertop while you hummed to yourself. He quickly looked back at his magazine as you returned.
“Steve,” you voice was soft, and he looked back to see you in the doorframe, fingers wrapping at the wood.
He raised his eyebrows in response, folding his magazine closed.
“The laundry’s done.” You explained, chewing at the inside of your cheek.
He smiled and pushed off from his chair, following you through the kitchen and down the rickety staircase into the basement below.
You’d been terrified of the basement from the beginning, which he absolutely understood. Unfinished, a mess of wires and support beams. The boiler, probably made of lead, made strange hissing noises depending on the time of day. And at this time of night, with the singular dangling bulb casting haunting shadows into the darkest corners, he couldn’t blame you for being scared.
Steve unloaded the dryer into a basket on top, everything warm and soft, his sweater right on top. He smiled and switched items from the washer to the dryer, and carried the basket back upstairs on his hip to meet you.
“You ready for bed?” You asked, hand on the kitchen light switch.
He nodded and waited at each doorway for you to check the lights and lock the doors, and then he climbed right behind you all the way to the little bedroom at the top. He dumped the clothes onto the bed and began to fold, while you busied yourself around the little room, picking up a stray sock here or t-shirt there and depositing them into the hamper in the closet. And then you joined him, hips bumping, bending deep to reach for a matching sock on your pillow.
“What do you do when I’m not here?” He asked, first as a tease and then with mild curiosity.
You smiled back at him, pink lips and shrugged shoulders. “I do things.”
“Like…?”
You sighed, folding one of his shirts against your chest. “Like… read. And clean and just… think.”
“What do you think about?”
You looked up at him then, soft and sweet, and said, “Home.”
He thought of home too, all the time. He thought of Dustin and Robin, both yelling at him to quit being an idiot. He thought of his mom, wine drunk and curled under a throw blanket. He thought of his dad and Eddie and Hopper, but mostly he thought of you. He tried to remember moments of you before battle, moments in the school hallways or at the video store or at Bradley’s, any sliver of time spent in your presence that he wished he could just rewind and replay over and over again, cling to.
“I think about you a lot,” you confessed, and he could have sworn he heard your voice catch just a little, folding a towel into thirds. “I wish you were here so I had someone to talk to.” You shrugged, but quickly snapped to look at him. “Don’t let that go to your head.”
He snorted, shook his head. “No, I know what you mean. I feel like we used to talk a lot, before…” During training, hours spent getting to know you, falling in love with you, like he was supposed to, like he wasn’t supposed to.
“Yeah, we really did.” You smiled. “Now we’re just so busy.” You expression turned rueful as you held up the two remaining socks, unmatched.
Steve snatched them and tossed them into a drawer before throwing himself down onto his side of the bed. The mattress bounced under the weight of him. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
“What?” You chuckled, prodding him off of your clean, folded laundry.
“Married couples talk, right? So talk to me. Tell me what things you want to talk to me about when I’m at work.”
“Okay, um…” You disappeared into the closet momentarily to put your things away, and when you returned, you slumped onto the mattress beside him. “On Friday morning, a bird flew into the house. I had to chase it out with a broom.”
Steve smiled at the idea of you frantic, ducking, broom handle raised. “What kind of bird?”
Your face screwed up in thought, and you shook your head. “I don’t know. A small one?”
“Fascinating.” He grinned, and caught your hand as you swatted his chest.
You stopped then, and he caught something in your gaze, squeezed your fingers between his own. “Steve?”
“Hm?”
“We are going to be okay, right? We’ll get her?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, resolute. “We will.”
—
The sun dipped real low to the west, casting honeyed amber across the vast field, fog rolling in from the trees just beyond, settling on the river just past that. The ground squished under Steve’s sneakers, a slog of damp soil and the slush of sun-soaked gourds. The whole place smelled Earthy and spiced, like too many hands had spilled too many vats of mulled cider onto the grounds. He didn’t mind the mud on his soles or the tickle in his nose though, when he felt the tug of your arm and watched the quirk of your brow.
You’d convinced him to take you pumpkin-patching over dinner, slurping homemade soup that made him sleepy, mind-blowingly better than anything Campbell’s had to offer. You explained that Halloween was only a week away (was it? How did that happen so fast?), and that your little home was the only one on the block that lacked decorations. And if he wanted Trick-or-Treaters, he better drive you on down to the patch before it closed for the night.
Neither of you finished your soups, exchanging spoons for jackets and car keys, windows rolled down clear to the farm. Steve dutifully paid for your warm styrofoam cup of cider, and held it for you as you traipsed through muddy remnants of smashed pumpkins looking for the perfect one.
You wore your hair in braids, which he’d teased you for, tugging on the curled ends until you offered him a warning glare, and you were all bundled up, scarf and coat and gloves. You put the honeyed taste of autumn back where it belonged, having been replaced by ashes and dust all these years. You were sweet and spiced and warm where he’d been empty and hollow and dry.
“You might have to toss out that cider,” you commented, reaching the far end of the field. The sky was starting to pinch purples and blues.
“What do you mean?” He asked, peering into the cup to watch the amber slosh, powdered with cinnamon.
“I mean,” you grinned, hands on your hips. “I just found the perfect ones, and they’re fucking massive. You’re going to need two hands.”
Steve cursed and chugged the rest of your drink. It was sticky sweet, and had gone lukewarm in his hands. He threw it back with a cough and deposited the empty, crumpled cup in the pocket of his jacket.
You had gone ass up, bent low to the ground to remove the stem from your ideal find, and Steve felt his pants tighten at the hug of your jacket to your waist and over the swell of your behind, and he squeezed his eyes tight against the thoughts that reared their ugly heads. Dead puppies, Hopper naked, the feel of your body pressed against his, the breeze tossing the thin sheet around you, pebbling your skin beneath his hand…
“Steve,” you groaned.
His eyes fluttered opened to see you stood before him, a round, orange pumpkin cradled just over your abdomen, the swell of which you were struggling to hold aloft. His ears rang, heat crawling up from the collar of his sweater.
“This is going to fall and break!” You cried as the sides slipped in your grasp.
“Shit,” he hurried to you, pulling the hefty thing from your hands. It was heavy, but hollow, and he hiked a knee up to hitch it higher in on his hip, like a toddler.
“I’ll grab the other one,” you grinned, and you turned again to procure the other gourd that made your face light up that way.
He’d seen you this happy a handful of times. A genuine grin, sparkling eyes, melodious laughter coursing through him like a freight train because you’d gotten what you wanted. The first time you’d convinced him to pick up Honeycombs, that was like that. And once, in Hawkins, the night before the mission, when you’d all shared beers at Hop’s cabin. You were talking to Eddie and to Robin, and Steve watched you from across the dilapidated room, knowing he was already too far gone to ever come back. Knowing he’d do anything to see you smile like that again and again forever.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” You asked, holding up your other find, this one much smaller and far less round, but still a vibrant orange. This one, you could manage, shifting it onto your own hip and wiping your gloved hand against your thigh. Somehow, you’d managed to coat your face in soil, a wash of freckled brown that reminded him of soot and ash, the aftermath of battle in Hawkins.
“Oh, you’ve got…” he gestured to your face.
You blew up your bangs in vain, face all screwed up, and he laughed, closing the distance to wipe the dirt from your soft cheek with the flat of his thumb. It wasn’t until you were mostly clean, streaks of brown on your forehead, and across your upper lip, that he noticed a boundary may have been crossed.
You looked up at him from under long lashes, eyes dark, something behind them he didn’t recognize. He brushed his knuckles against your cheekbone, licked his lips. The sounds of crows tearing into the flesh of pumpkins faded into the background, the white noise of his heart replacing them in his skull.
And then his imagination took over, or at least, he thought it was his imagination. You leaned up on your tip-toes, hand to his chest, leaving freckles of soil there on the lapels of his jacket. The pumpkin on your hip bumped his. Your breath, warm and spiced, fanned his lips.
“You kids want a wagon?” And all at once, the spell was broken. You stumbled backward, foot squishing down into ripe flesh, and Steve hoisted the pumpkin further on his hip. You cursed, and he turned to see the approaching farmer, all overalled and waved arms.
“Please,” Steve smiled, crossing a bit of field to meet the man and his little red wagon, the interior of which was wracked with hay and pumpkin seeds. Steve heaved his into the cart and waited for you to join to set yours down as well.
“Thank you, sir,” you smiled at the old man.
He shrugged. “Figured you didn’t want to carry these puppies back in the dark.” He slapped at the skin of the fat one. It made a hollow thud. “Any more for you or shall I haul ‘em back to check out? We’re about closed for the night.”
“We’re done here,” you confirmed, crushing dirt beneath your feet and Steve’s heart in your hands.
The air in the car had shifted, the smell of soil wafting from the trunk, and Steve felt as though something had been lost, like he’d forgotten his toothbrush for a long trip and have to get a new one. It was something intangible yet unsalvageable. Especially when you finally opened your mouth to remind him of tomorrow night’s poker game.
“I’d like to know more about Chip’s electricity.” You sat up straight, all business, all mission. “For Amie. Asked her about it over the phone, and she thinks she ought to go into the basement and look at the breaker. But I don’t want her going by herself.”
Steve gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “I said I’d talk to him.”
“I’m just reminding you.” You sighed, pressed your forehead to the passenger’s side window.
After brushing the spices from your tongue and wiping the soot from your face, you climbed into bed together. You said goodnight, flicked off the lamp, and remained on the far edge of the bed. Steve sighed and stared at the shadows of the ceiling, trying to block out the sight of you with the giant round pumpkin for a belly.
—
You were competitive. He’d known it for months, saw the way you picked off demobats with a tennis racket, keeping count for every one you mashed, yelling for him to keep up. He saw it at target practice, the way you fired ceaselessly at the three circles until your trigger finger ached and you hit the very center. He saw it when you sat across from him in the boardroom, Dustin between you with flashcards, quizzing you on your backstories. Your face would split into a proud grin whenever you answered more correctly than him, which was every damn time. And apparently, you were competitive at poker.
When he arrived home from his car dealership job (his dad would have been so proud), to find you bent over the oven to remove the casserole, he expected explicit instructions on letting it cool and hopefully a kiss goodbye. But when he shrugged out of his blazer and counted the seats around the table, something didn’t add up. Further more, you’d cracked open two beers from the bottom drawer of the fridge, tapping the neck of his with the neck of your own before you prepared yourself for a night with the boys.
Steve made loud protests until the guys arrived, and then you’d cast your charm, asking to be taught how to play. “It’s PTA night, boys. Your wives are out having fun without me. Can’t I have a little fun with you?” You pouted, and Jesus Christ, the shirt you wore exposed the soft lavender of your bra as you leaned over to dish the casserole for everyone.
You’d won $725 with the swell of your breasts alone. Another $83 was taken when you’d passed out cigars and blatantly peaked at everyone’s hand, and yet none of the men around the table had a lick of disdain for you. No, instead it was all praise. Your dinner was delicious, dessert was delightful, and oh boy, Steve was sure they couldn’t get enough of the view.
“Steve-O, your wife is a piece of work,” Chip flashed you a grin, picking at his teeth with a toothpick you procured from a kitchen drawer.
“Tell me about it,” Steve rolled his eyes, picking at the corner of his hand of cards with his thumbnail.
“You’re a lucky man,” Jimmy agreed, smoke swirling his dark hair. “My wife hasn’t cooked me anything that wasn’t out of the frozen section in years.”
You swatted at the man’s arm. “Oh shush, that is not true. Marcie’s a great cook.”
“I think James has a point,” Ron Hubbard coughed around the cigar under his bottlebrush mustache. Ron was a portly man, VP of operations for Chip’s dad’s company. “Our wives are too scattered these days, always running to PTA meetings or book clubs or knitting circles - stitch and bitch, I call them. God forbid they have jobs as secretaries and the like. It’s refreshing to see a woman where she belongs.”
Steve blinked back at him, reached under the table for your hands that he knew were clenched into tight fists, but you shrugged him off.
“Speaking of jobs,” you smiled through your teeth. “Chip, Amie tells me you’ve been having some electrical issues. Can’t you call someone in there to work on the wiring in that big ole house?”
Steve’s heart pounded in his chest, and you refused to make eye contact, instead shooting fluttered eyelashes across the table to Chip Lafferty. You had this look of pride he’d seen a thousand times before. You’d won.
Chip smiled back at you, tongue between his molars. He shrugged. “Big ole houses like that are bound to have buggy wiring sometimes, sweetheart.”
“You know, Steve’s uncle used to be an electrician. He apprenticed with him in high school, could probably give it a once over for you.” You offered the lie, slick, nonchalant. Steve squeezed at your thigh too hard, a warning. You squirmed away, pushing out of your chair to gather plates to take to the sink.
“Didn’t realize you were an electrician, Steve-O,” Chip made eyes at Steve, a threat for your curiosity, eyes dark.
“Oh, you’d be surprised. My husband’s always been good with his hands,” You sealed the deal, pressing your hand to his trap to lean over him for his plate. You halted in front of his face, offering a smile, and Steve watched the other man’s eyes slide from yours, to your lips, and down the front of your blouse.
“I fucking fold,” Steve tossed his cards to the tabletop.
To add insult to injury, you called for Chip to “be a dear” and help you with the dishes while Steve walked the other fellows out. Ed Blansett, from the dealership, looked pale, having lost his savings for a down payment, and Steve sighed and forked some of your winnings back into the man’s hand when the others weren’t looking. Ron left commending Steve on his excellent breeding skills, skeevie as Hell, and Jimmy left with a clap to Steve’s shoulder, a look of woe etched across his dark features.
“Steve-O, how you holding up?”
Steve ran a hand down his tired face, itching at the scruff of his jaw. “I’ve been better.”
“I feel you, man,” he nodded, lighting a cigarette on the front stoop. “Marriage is hard work. Somedays you just want to give up, somedays you just feel like a fraud.”
Steve bristled at his words, swallowed, the smoke-filled air thick on the brick path.
“But if you love her, really love her, the things you do that hurt each other won’t matter.”
Steve swallowed. He wasn’t sure where this was coming from, or what it meant, but he felt uneasy. The cigar smoke had gotten to him, made him dizzy, paranoid. Jimmy gave him a two-fingered salut and stumbled his block home.
Steve almost forgot the straggler until he stumbled, exhausted, back to the amber light of the kitchen, where he found you pressed against the countertop, clutching at Chip’s shoulders with sudsy fingers, while the man whispered something into your ear.
“What the fuck?” The words spilled out before he could take control, and he watched Chip slowly peel himself from you, turning to face Steve with a smirk across his smug face. Steve could punch him. He felt his jaw and fist tighten in tandem.
“We were just talking about what a creep Ron is,” you offered with another punctuated giggle.
“I told her she may belong in the kitchen, but I have a secretary position opening up if she’s interested.” Chip grinned.
“What happened to your last one?” Steve knew the answer before he asked, and nearly growled at the smirk that curled its way onto Chip’s thin lips. “Alright, Chip, maybe it’s time to go.”
“Steve,” you admonished, less about him being rude and more about not finishing the task.
“No, no,” Chip wiped his hands dry on a hand towel before raising them in surrender. “Steve-O’s just a bit sore I cleaned him out on that last round. No hard feelings.”
He pulled his blazer from his folded chair at the card table and pulled something from it, extending the small slip of paper across the counter toward you. “I’m serious about that position though. If you ever get tired of making casseroles.”
You giggled behind your hand.
“Can I walk you out, Chip?” Steve gestured toward the front door.
Chip flashed you a knowing smile and a wink, before taking the necessary steps down the hall to the foyer so Steve could let him out. It took every bit of restraint not to slam the door in his face.
“Thanks for the fun night, Steve-O,” instead, the man extended a hand. “Gained more than I expected.”
Steve gave him a firm handshake, teeth hurt from clenching his jaw so tightly.
“Listen,” Chip leaned in, cigar smoke and beer on his breath. “Your wife was right, my house has pretty shitty wiring. It’s over a hundred years old, and I can’t get Amie to shut the hell up about it. Would you care to come take a peak?”
This was exactly what you’d hoped for. Maybe you had won this competition after all. Steve offered the other man a curt nod.
“Meet me there tomorrow afternoon. Around 2? Might even pay you back what I snatched from you tonight.” His grin was malicious, too toothy.
Steve said nothing, and the other man seemed satisfied with that, whistling to himself while he twisted his keys around his pointer finger. He waved and turned on his heel to walk down the driveway toward his shiny Mercedes. Steve lingered on the porch until the man sped away, leaving a cloud of exhaust and the frigid October air.
—
Tomorrow it’d all change forever. The thought tickled at the base of Steve’s skull as he sloughed up the stairs, leaving you to turn off the lights. He couldn’t even look at you, couldn’t imagine the screaming match that he felt bubbling inside of him. He felt disgusting, like the grime and soot of the Upside Down clung to his shirt with the cigar smoke and the taste of Chip groping you on his tongue.
He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Even as he stripped of his t-shirt and closed the bathroom door: your fingers bubbled with soap, wetting the top half of Chip’s collared shirt, your wedding ring discarded atop the window sill for safe keeping. He hated seeing another man pulling those sounds from you, hated the way it made him nauseas.
He turned the shower on hot, let the steam fill the room as he stripped from his slacks and socks and boxers. He stood for a moment, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror as it fogged around the edges. He looked as pitiful as he felt, shoulders slumped, scars lining his lower abdomen like vicious pockmarks, memories of a pain he’d feel again and again if it meant never having to lose you. Pitiful.
He toed under the scalding flow, letting the heat satiate the tense muscles of his shoulders and back. He tried not to think of you climbing the staircase, of you stripping out of your low-cut blouse and jeans, of you slipping on that soft night shirt. He tried not to think of the countless nights this week he’d woken with his fist entangled in that shirt, your face pressed to his chest, your thigh high on his hip.
He cursed and turn to scrub his face, letting the flow sting at the soft skin of his cheeks, his chest. The shower threatened to drown him, and it honestly felt better than the idea of breaking the news to you that tomorrow’s the day. He’ll go to the mansion, and if your theory is right, she’ll be there. Fifteen. And once she’s taken in, this little game will be over. You can go back to Hawkins, back to your normal lives, not having to pretend anymore.
The air in the bathroom was cold once he’d turned off the faucet and dried his freshly shampooed hair. He brushed his teeth alone, allowing the steam of the mirror to dissipate. He felt fresh, but still not ready to face you. The hot water made him lethargic, and his head had begun to pound something fierce, just behind his eye sockets. He was used to the occasional migraine, enough concussions’ll do that to you.
Wrapping the towel around his waist and flicking the bathroom light off, he took a deep breath before opening the door to the adjoining room. You were sat up on your side of the bed, reading beneath the honeyed lamplight, knees high, nightshirt fallen away to expose the stretch of your thighs. You set the book down when you heard him come out.
“Steve,” you started in immediately, hopping off the mattress and crossing to him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to contain the dull thud that just grew louder with your approach. He wasn’t ready to talk to you, wasn’t ready to have this conversation. He was still in a towel, for Christ’s sake.
“What’s wrong?” Your tone wasn’t half as combative as he expected, but worried. He felt a gentle hand to his bicep.
And then he heard it. Ear-piercing, the dull knocking in his brain turned to a ring in his ears, louder than he’d ever heard it. He’d experienced this before, the tingle at the back of his neck like he was being watched. He never knew what it was, was never sure, until this very moment. He was being watched. You were being watched.
Frantic, he opened his eyes to look at you, and your head was tilted in confusion, eyes soft, lips softer. And he panicked. He panicked because you were being watched, remotely viewed, and he was sure he’d done something to screw it up, and he didn’t know how to save you. So he thought back to your training, to your protocol, and he closed the distance between you and pressed into you with a passionate kiss.
You made a muffled noise of surprise, but sunk into his touch, fingertips scraping the hairs at the back of his neck, which stood on end. He felt your soft waist beneath the silky fabric of your shirt, pressed his fingertips into your hips and walked you backwards into the closet door for some sort of stability.
He poured everything he had into that kiss, those kisses, the material of your shirt slipping in his hand until he met bare skin. Your hands were frantic against his shoulders, the backs of his arms, holding him to you, impossibly close. You hiked your thigh up his leg, and the towel would have dropped had he not pressed his pelvis into yours, pulling another low groan from your lips.
He pulled away from you to catch his breath, headache made worse from the dizzy light-headed feeling of blood leaving his brain. You pressed your cheek to his, your own chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his as your fingers pinched at the flesh of his arms.
“Steve,” you breathed, a question maybe, needing an explanation.
He squeezed his eyes closed and he could feel Her, just there in the recesses of his mind. He nuzzled your ear with his nose, the soft skin of your neck smelling of your shampoo and cigar smoke and lavender. He took a deep breath before he whispered. “She’s watching.”
He pulled away and the look you gave him flashed pure terror, confusion, and then understanding. You swallowed, licked the plump, pink swell of your lips, and nodded. “Okay.”
“What?”
“It’s okay,” you nodded again. You were consenting. You were agreeing to take on the role of a married couple under the protocol. You were signing your body away to him under the guise of this faked marriage bullshit.
Steve thought he might throw up. With shaky hands, he released you, backed away slowly, watched the rise and fall of your chest as your tiny, bare foot found the wood panels of the flooring again. He scrubbed at tired eyes, the headache not subsiding, and his other hand kept the towel aloft.
“Steve?” You whispered. He heard the floor creak as you took a step toward him.
He shook his head, held a hand out to you. “I can’t. I’m sorry. This is too fucked.”
You didn’t say a word as he searched the walk-in for a t-shirt and shorts, the dull ache never leaving the base of his skull, or the spot where your nails had scratched into his skin. His hands shook, another product of his concussions, and his teeth chattered, and he didn’t know if he wanted to cry or punch a hole through the wall or relieve his stomach of the pit that continued to grow there.
You stood in the closet doorway, shoulders slumped, confusion in your eyes.
Steve sighed, rested a trembling hand to your side to gently nudge you out of his way. “I’m sleeping on the couch.” His voice was hoarse from the catch in his throat.
You didn’t argue. You didn’t follow him.
The stairs creaked beneath his feet, the entire home still and dark save for the lamplight coming in through the parlor windows. He curled himself onto the sofa, stuffing the cushion under the pounding between his temples, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He tried to regulate his breathing as he stared at the popcorned ceiling, these shadows vastly different than the ones upstairs. The house was quieter without your soft breaths, emptier with the heartbreak filling his lungs. He drifted to sleep with the image of your big, consenting eyes, and the grit of his teeth.
—
The morning autumn sun was hotter than he expected, pooling in through thick glass in the parlor like a magnifying glass, and Steve was the ant. His migraine had subsided to more of a hangover, and he rubbed the crusted sleep from his eyes and stretched his limbs. His neck was stiff from the sorry excuse for a pillow that had tumbled to the floor at some point in the night.
The sounds of meal prep from the kitchen pulled him upright, and his joints clicked through the entry way and down the hall. You were fully dressed, nylons and skirt, blouse hugging your curves, and when you turned and spotted him, you gave a tight-lipped nod. Tension hung thick in the air between you.
“Making leftovers,” you shoved a steaming plate of casserole his direction.
“Where are you off to today?” He asked, sidling himself up to the countertop.
“I have a job interview with Chip.” You stated, tone clipped, matter-of-fact.
“Jesus Christ,” he ran a hand through his hair. “No. Absolutely not.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Steve. I’m going. We can’t keep letting this drag on. She knows who we are. You said yourself she was watching us last night. It’s go-time.” All the pleasantries of protocol had lifted, now that you knew he had an insight into being watched. The facade had left your shoulders, any soft, whispered sweet-nothings gone from your glossy lips.
Steve looked around the small house, this little home that was made of lies. The photo of the two of you on your fake honeymoon sat atop the window sill, right next to the sparkling diamond of your fake wedding ring. “I’m not letting you go alone.”
“You have to. You’re going to his house, remember?” You slid the business card across the counter to sit beside his lunch. The little black numbers stared back up at him.
“How did you…?”
“I was eavesdropping,” you waved him off flippantly. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to distract him long enough for you to go into the house without him. I’m almost positive they’re running some sort of experiment. He’s being way too cagey.”
“How are you going to distract him?” Steve sneered, really unable to catch anything else you’d said.
You rolled your eyes, shoved a fork into his casserole, it folded sideways, clattering to the rim of the dish. “Like you care.” You mumbled under your breath, almost inaudible, but Steve heard every syllable.
“Of course I fucking care,” he snapped. “You’re going into the den of someone you think is holding experiments with fucking Fifteen. As in, same group of super powered freaks as Eleven and Henry fucking Creel and you don’t think I care about your safety? In case you forgot, I had to save your ass from that Demo-Whatever the night you set yourself on fire.”
“Okay, that,” you shoved a finger into his chest. “I had covered, thank you very much. And this, I have covered too! I can handle Chip fucking Lafferty. In case you forgot, I was peeling skid marks like that douchebag off of my miniskirt for years before you came around.”
Steve’s skin crawled at the thought. Back in the Hawkins Lab boardroom, late one night and a couple passes of tequila in, you’d manage to rattle off a few names of your past rendezvous, all assholes, all people Steve had wanted to punch in the face. A few of which, he had.
“I will handle Chip. You,” you shoved your finger into his chest again. “You take your nailed up bat, and go check out the house. You’re the brawn, I’m the brains, remember?”
And that fucking hurt. Steve knew he was dumb, knew he was a fucking idiot for every falling in love with you, for ever accepting this gig, for ever thinking this could turn out the way he wanted it to, for ever thinking he had a say in what happened and how it went down. You were the planner, the admiral, he was just a little sailor boy.
“Eat,” you shoved his food closer to him. “And get dressed. It’s almost noon. I need you to give me a ride.”
—
The nurses had cleaned most of the soot from your skin, but black smudges still caught in the wrinkles of your forehead and around your eyes and nose, the corners of your lips, turning the oxygen mask a little grey with each fogged breath.
Steve had roused from another cat nap, the beeping and busy calls from the nurses station in the hall keeping him from sleeping too deep. He had a crick in his neck from the chair, and the stitches on his left cheek were sore. He glanced around the room, leaned forward on his knees, mumbled your name softly.
He did it every so often, checked the various machines for any blip in your vitals each time he spoke, hoped for more than Max had given them months before. You had been conscious when you arrived, air lifted to a military hospital a few miles from Hawkins. Steve had ridden the helicopter with you, your hand clenched in his, tears streaking white lines down your soot-blackened face.
God, you were brave. That’s all he could think, as he threw an oxygen mask over his own face, hauled his ass into that burning building with firefighters to pull you out. You screamed his name when you saw him, clawing fingers, a rage tearing through you that had torn those motherfuckers apart. You were so God damn brave.
Eddie was there too, down the hall, Dustin and Mr. Munson keeping him company. Robin was off in Vickie’s room. Nancy and Jonathan sat bedside to Will. That one hurt, but Steve was just so grateful they were all alive, safe, mostly unharmed. Just a handful of stitches, broken bones, smoke inhalation seemed to be the worst of it.
But you had no one, no one but Steve Harrington who sat by your bedside for three days now, muttering your name under his breath every few minutes to ensure you were alive.
The coughs started first, a sputter of sounds that wracked through your frame. Steve pushed to his feet, saw your eyes blink open, hands frantically groping for the tubes on your face, attached to your arms.
“Whoa, whoa,” he placed a firm hand on your shoulder to hold you in place. “Don’t struggle. Just breathe. You’re okay. We’re at the hospital. Here…” He searched for the nurses button behind the bed and pushed.
Your eyes adjusted, pupils blown and irises deep red, and you squinted at him, seeming to relax under his gaze.
“Hey, killer,” he smiled, brushing sweat-stuck hair from your forehead.
“Steve?” You wheezed, starting another coughing fit.
A nurse strolled in, shoved him out of the way, and he waited against the far wall as the woman did a few tests, removed your mask, got you an oversized cup of water with a bent straw. She helped you sit up, slowly. Steve listened for your wheezes, for the strain in your throat. He bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to help if needed. He wasn’t sure how, but he was ready.
“You her boyfriend?” The nurse turned to him with a pointed finger.
“Me?” He felt the tips of his ears heat, and he glanced back at you with a sheepish smile. “No.” He coughed. “Just a good friend.”
The nurse seemed unimpressed. “Well, she seems to be doing much better. We might be able to let you out of here soon. I’m calling the Big Boss. If she starts to cough again, push that button.”
“Thank you,” Steve gave an awkward salute, and the woman rolled her eyes before leaving the room. The door clicked behind her, casting silence on stark white walls. It was just you and him, and the air between you.
You sipped water through your bent straw, lips parched and cracked, a large black split scarred the lower.
Steve took measured steps toward you. “Boyfriend, huh?” He smirked.
You sputtered, water trickling down your chin. “You fucking wish, Harrington.” You croaked and coughed. “Ow.”
“Kind of nice not having to hear you talk anymore.” He grinned, tossing himself back down into the uncomfortable chair.
You responded with a fresh middle finger, tonguing for the tip of the straw until it was back in your mouth.
He felt… warm. It was that feeling of hope, that feeling that finally, after years of chaos, everything was going to be okay. He was safe. Nancy was safe. You were safe, all curled up under stark white blankets, sipping water through a bendy straw, your chest rising and falling beneath your hospital gown in scattered breaths. He felt…
Steve swallowed, glanced out the west facing window at the sky-full of smoke from Hawkins, from the fire that you started, from the battle you ended. Had something sparked for you, more than admiration? He glanced your direction again.
You had followed his gaze out the window, greyed skies casting shadow against your soft features, sunken and tired, yet brave and… beautiful. He thought of your jests at him on the battle field, of the swing of your tennis racket, of the jabs to his ribs, your face split into a grin just before you hauled yourself into that building, fire blazing. An ember sparked within him.
“Knock knock,” Dr. Sam Owens knuckled the door as it sprung open, and he pulled himself into the small room. “How are Hawkins heroes doing today? Glad to see you’re up.”
You glanced from the man to Steve, eyebrows furrowed.
Steve offered Owens a soft smile, heart still racing with the thoughts of you in his mind.
“Have either of you considered a career with the US government?”
That was the worst moment of Steve’s life.
—
The small windows of the Lafferty’s basement reminded Steve of your own, little boxes at ground level that filtered light in through dusty cobwebs. The dryer rattled in a similar place, banging sheet metal against the washing machine so hard Steve could taste it. No, that was the iron of blood filling his mouth. He counted his teeth with his tongue, a molar in the back split. His ears rang, loud like they had the night before, that throbbing ache just behind his eye sockets, and grunted through the pain, eyes adjusting to the damp dark of the basement.
“Baby,” someone cooed beside him. “Baaaaaby.”
He rolled onto his back to view the shadowed face of the girl across from him. Blonde hair pulled back, tight, into a high ponytail. She had sharp features, intense, and she slumped forward on her metal lawn chair with bony limbs. It took him five seconds to clock the blood tracing her upper lip and the scar on the inside of her left wrist. Steve spat a mouthful of blood at her feet, red soaked the concrete floor and splattered black patent leather.
“That’s no way to treat a lady, baby,” she sneered.
“Shut up,” he groaned, out of breath, something stung in his ribcage, a familiar, tight pain. His own words echoed in his head, behind his eyes.
Upstairs, muffled by wooden floors and feet of dirt and dust, the doorbell rang. Steve stared past the dangling light fixture, watching dust sprinkle from the rafters with soft footfall. He heard a friendly exchange, and then the soft pitter-patter of children running. There were kids in this house.
Amie wasn’t here when he got here. He’d let himself in. That means she came home at some point while he was unconscious. And now, by the sound of high-pitched chatter, Marcie had brought her kids to play. Jesus Christ.
He lifted himself onto his elbows, peering at the woman holding him captive. She seemed alarmed by the noises, frightened even, knocked off her game. He reached one hand out to grab her wrist, hoping to pull her off her feet, but immediately he felt the sting of pins-and-needles as he lost control of his motor functions, instead being catapulted backward into a load-bearing beam. It quaked under his weight, the sturdiness knocking the wind from his lungs. A cascade of dust fell into his hair, onto his shoulders.
Fifteen was squared to him, hand outstretched, blood dripping from her left nostril. She looked weak, tired, like it took everything in her to lift Steve, and when she finally released, he felt himself slump to the floor again, sputtering coughs and sneezes and desperate to fill his lungs. The ache in his rib made it harder to take in a deep breath.
She collapsed back into her chair. “Down, boy.” She breathed.
“Why are you doing this?” Steve huffed, clutching at his side.
Fifteen leaned toward him, mopping at her nose with her thumb. “I could ask you the same thing. You and little wifey. Thought Brenner would have sent someone with a little more… sparkle.” She twirled her fingers his direction, and Steve flinched out of the way. Nothing happened.
He coughed, and fuck, it hurt. Another mouthful of blood trailed, sticky down his chin, sticking his t-shirt to his chest. “Brenner’s dead.” He groaned.
This got her attention. “Liar.”
Steve glared at the girl. “Why would I lie about that?”
She rolled her eyes, but hugged wiry arms into herself, contemplating his words.
Steve took the initiative to keep talking, maybe keep her distracted. He hoped she didn’t notice as he surveyed the room, hoping for an out. The dryer still had a half-hour’s worth of time. He wondered if Fifteen had started it to dull any noises from the basement. It racketed into the washer with the same, harsh rhythm. “Sam Owens sent us. We’re part of a mission to retrieve any living of Brenner’s projects.”
“There are others?” Fuck, shouldn’t have said that.
Steve swallowed, banged his head backwards against the pole, and groaned when the dull ache returned between his eyes. “We want to rehabilitate you, give you a better life.”
Fifteen barked a laugh. “I don’t need rehabilitation. I have a good life.” She looked down her nose at him, blood crusting dry at the frilly cuff of her blouse.
“Oh yeah?” Steve scoffed. “Chip hiding you in his basement, only bringing you out for special occasions. You know, when his wife’s out of town.” He gestured around to the rat poison on the wall, the hamper of dirty laundry, a cot in the corner, the breaker… Bingo.
“Chip loves me.” Fifteen snarled, but Steve felt the heartbreak through it. His eyes snapped back to the girls, and that’s really what she was, probably no older than him, big brown eyes, the twist of anguish behind them.
He shook his head. “This isn’t love.”
“Oh, and you would know?”
The ruckus got louder upstairs, running footsteps, cackled laughter. The beat of the dryer echoed his thunderous heartbeat in his ears. Steve licked the iron from his split lip, spat a patch of blood near his hand, and moved himself into a crouched position against the pole. He thought of her question, thought of his own knowledge on love, and it tasted just as bad on his tongue.
He squeezed his eyes closed past the pain, and shrugged. “I guess I would. Because the girl I love, I’d do anything for her. Absolutely anything. I’d buy her favorite cereal, even though it’s pure sugar. I’d go into scary ass basements, even though I’m guaranteed to get my shit kicked. I’d go to the hospital every day to make sure that the moment she woke up, she’d have someone there that cared. Hell, I’d let her have a fucking gaggle of kids if they were as pretty as she was, and I sure as hell wouldn’t lock her, alone, in a stupid basement, to hide from the world. Because I’m proud of her, I’m so damn proud of her. She’s brave, and she’s beautiful, and I love her. And I don’t see why you don’t deserve the same God damn courtesy.”
He didn’t know where it all came from, this violent word vomit, the dribble of blood onto his shirt, and the slow and steady motion upward, until he teetered on two feet, slumped against the beam that quaked under his weight.
“Touching,” Fifteen sneered, but her hand was raised, and the hanging light began to crackle again.
Steve took his chance, dove in the direction of the breaker, for some sort of distraction, but before his body made contact with the wall, the basement door flung open, and they were soon ambushed by a swat-team of agents. Jimmy Jones and his wife, Marcie, were wrapped in bullet proof vests. Jimmy had a large device that reminded Steve of Russians and underground labs and sent a shiver through him, and that device was quickly shoved through Fifteen’s neck. Her knees gave way, and Marcie caught her lithe body.
“What the…?” Steve started, but you were there, wrapping your thin hand around his wrist, asking if he was alright. His head pounded, muffling the sounds around him. You led him upstairs, a wash of too-bright lights and a swimming skull. Your hand was soft in his, and the sirens were too loud.
He could just make out the soft sounds of children from the kitchen, little Christopher’s voice coming through the mist, “Mommy, what’s going on? I’m scared.”
—
Hawkins succumbed to winter in a flurried mess of fallen snow, run-through with bikes and station wagons. Rotting pumpkins on stoops were replaced with conifers and the smell of spices replaced with peppermint as everything bit crisp and bitter in the air. Slush lay over roots and soil, chased into clogged gutters. Fog clung to the insides of car windows and heated the panes of Steve’s new prescription glasses as he paced the aisles of the grocery store, souring at gaggles of kids chasing one another through the frozen food section on a Friday evening.
Maybe Robin was right, maybe he’d grown crotchety in his old age, or maybe seeing other people happy just miffed him, or maybe seeing kids reminded him of that future that, one again, slipped right through his blood-stained fingers.
Steve lifted at the wire on the bridge of his nose to rub at tired eyes. His basket grew heavier, a fistful of TV dinners, some stovetop popcorn, marshmallows in a bag. He promised Robin a movie night, only because she’d bullied him out of the house, and he promised he’d pick up snacks on the way. He tossed boxed butter in, having memorized Robin’s favorite cereal-based dessert recipe years ago. All that was left were the Rice Krispies.
Four aisles down, he found the cereal aisle, a mess of technicolor boxes, athlete’s and mascots illuminated in florescent light, and three-quarters of the way down, he saw you. He stopped, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum, heart thundering in his chest, roaring in his ears. He hadn’t seen you in months, not since Fifteen was captured, not since Owens awarded you both hearty pats on the back and promises of a call for another mission somewhere.
To be fair, Steve wasn’t sure he was really seeing you now. He’d imagined you all around town, every one of Eddie’s gigs at the Hideout, he saw you pass the window. Every morning chauffeuring Dustin to Hawkins High, he saw you walking side roads, winding through the woods. He imagined you on Halloween, passing out candy to trick-or-treaters, black hat ears looped through your hair. He imagined you at Thanksgiving, serving pumpkin pie and a massive dollop of whipped cream. Just yesterday, he imagined you staring into a toy storefront, a gaggle of kids around you, promising things that Santa would bring.
The squeak of his shoe must have alerted you, because you turned your head to caught his gaze, and it was you. Your face split into that soft smile, the one that warmed him from deep in his stomach to the apples of his cheeks. His feet moved of their own volition, like you were a powerful magnet, and he a paperclip, all crumpled on itself, cowering in shame.
“Hi,” you breathed as he approached. From this distance, you looked as tired as he felt, like months of pretending had drained the life from you both, aged you. Even tired, you were beautiful. His heart clenched.
“Hey,” he felt the smile tug at his cheeks.
“I like the glasses,” you smirked, and he shied a bit. He felt like a fucking dork in the glasses, but he could see, and Robin and Dustin were constantly reminding him how important that was. The headaches went away too. “You look like a dad.”
That one fucking hurt. He peeled his eyes from you then, focused back on the task at hand. Looking beside you, he found the familiar Honeycomb mascot smiling back at him, taunting him. He scoffed, rolled his eyes. “Just buy the fucking Honeycomb.”
“Excuse me?” You sputtered.
“Every God damn time, we’d come into this aisle and have this big debate about it, and I know it makes you sad because it was your brother’s favorite, but it’s your favorite too, and when you eat it, you get this big nostalgic smile across your face. And you can’t admit it, but it makes you happy because it gives you the sugar rush you need with your coffee in the morning, apparently. Makes you the fucking Energizer bunny.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, and he hadn’t realized he said too much until he felt the heaviness of his own breath, the way you stared back at him, wide-eyed.
“I… didn’t realize…”
Steve shrugged, dumping a heavy box of Rice Krispies into his own basket. “You didn’t realize a lot of things.” He grumbled.
“What?”
He turned to you, then, hugging your stupid box of Honeycombs, eyebrows twisted into a crease just above your nose, perfect in every stupid way, and the flood gates open. “I love you.” A weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He stood taller, squared to face you head-on. “I am in love with you. I think I have been since the moment you killed the demo bat with that tennis racket. And pretending to be in love with you? When I was actually in love with you? That sucked. That really sucked.”
“Steve,” you breathed.
“And I’m sure it was easy for you, I mean, it seemed easy. But then you’d kiss me, or you’d make these loving little comments, and Jesus Christ, don’t even get me started on the baby onesie. That still haunts my nightmares.”
“Steve.”
“But you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me that Jim and Marcie were in on it? And then I get my shit rocked by a freaking Number, and you just brush me off, leave me to dry? I’ve spent months pining over you, and I didn’t even hear a word?”
“Baby,” you chided.
Steve’s throat dried, warmth prickling the tops of his ears. You took a step toward him, reached up to pick at the tear in his jacket, the one he never bothered to fix because it reminded him of you. “Yeah?” He croaked.
“Will you shut up?” Your eyes sparkled.
“Make me,” he challenged. And you did, standing on tip-toe to press your sweet, soft lips to his. Your hands clutched his lapels, sparks tickling his spine. He dropped his basket at your feet to wrap his arms around your waist, and you laughed into him as your feet left the ground, that stomach fluttering sound. He kissed your soft cheeks, the curve of your jaw, the soft skin of your ear.
“Baby,” you laughed, swatted at his shoulders until he let you down. You pulled him to your level, and he felt the hum of your lips against his own before you said. “I want all of my babies to be as pretty as you.” And he knew he was a goner.
---
A/N: As promised, Stevie in glasses, pining helplessly for the woman he loves. I had a lot of fun with this story, and I hope you did too. Thanks, so much, for reading and for all of your support. Much much love. xo-Amanda
steve harrington x reader | cuddling steve on a slow, sleepy morning, r loves his chest hair. this whole thing is just so soft and makes u feel warm inside (if it doesn't, i owe you). takes places after monsters are gone i guess? idk guys but his scars from s4 are mentioned briefly. his beamer survives! 1k
₊˚⊹♡.
“There’s nothing we have to do today, right?”
Steve hums, sending the warm vibration of the sound through his chest. It tickled the side of your face from how you were positioned, slotted between his legs with your cheek pressed into the patch of hair on his chest as he lounged in a half-sit up against a pillow. His hand cupped the back of your head, scrunching his fingers through your hair gently.
You could die right here and be fulfilled, you think.
“Depends. Was there something that you wanted to do today?”
Now it was your turn to hum. Maybe there was something yesterday that you wanted to do, but right now when Steve’s freckle-spotted skin was taking up your entire field of vision, there wasn’t much you could remember. You run your left hand up his side, finger running past his faded scars to discover a lighter brown mark on his skin. Was this one new?
Steve gently taps at the back of your neck, silently signaling for you to look up at him. Within one of Steve’s slow and sleepy blinks, you turned your head to rest your chin against his chest. You met his eyes through your eyelashes, still fogged with early morning.
“Could go for a drive. Meet Rob at the Squawk,” he pitches, eyebrows raising awaiting for you to say something.
You consider it for all of half a second.
The idea of a drive is nice. Steve’s hand on your thigh while listening to whatever one of the three tapes you choose plays throughout his car. So does seeing Robin work her magic at the radio station, having quick conversations between songs. All good options.
But not better than this.
You shift slightly, pressing your cheek back into his chest, nose brushing skin that smells like sleep. And maybe a little bit of lavender. He definitely used your body wash again. Your hands rise in sync to hide your fingers beneath his back instead of answering him right away.
Steve watches you. You can feel it. The way his chest rises a little deeper when you settle back in, the way his thumb starts tracking slow, lazy lines at the nape of your neck like he’s already guessed your answer.
“Mmm,” you say finally, voice muffled. “I was thinking maybe we don’t go anywhere.”
His eyebrows knit together, but there’s no disappointment there. Just curiosity. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, quiet. “I just… don’t really want to move.”
Steve’s mouth quirks into a soft smile, the kind he gets when he’s trying not to laugh but can’t quite help himself. “That so?”
You nod against him, the movement small. “I can’t disturb this. I don’t know about you, but ‘m right where I need to be.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, thumb tearing away from your neck to tuck a stray clump of hair back behind your ear. “Yeah. I can tell, practically merged yourself with me.”
You smile to yourself and tilt your head, lips brushing his skin once. Then again, slower this time, a soft kiss pressed into the center of his chest. Steve exhales softly, his hands tickling a line up your arms.
“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re really committed to this whole turning us into one entity thing today.”
You hum, vibration muffled by him, and press another kiss below the first. His chest hair tickles your nose, and you scrunch it a little without thinking, fingers threading through it as you shift closer.
He snorts, “Hey–hey, careful,” he teases. “You’re gonna get lost in there.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes bright and full of fake offense. “I don’t see a problem.”
“Uh-huh.” His smile grows crooked, eyes dipping to where your fingers trace in the center of his chest. “You know you’re fully buried in there now, right? Like, this is excessive.”
You lean down again, choosing to not entertain his judgement, and kiss him once more. He exhales through his nose, pretending to be bothered even as his arms tighten around you. When you pull back, you don’t go far. Just enough to look at his face, really look at it. The softness of his eyes, The way his lashes cast little shadows on his cheeks. The faint crease between his strong brows that smooths when he notices you staring.
Steve blinks. “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Like what.”
“Like you’re thinking too hard before breakfast,” he says, smiling. “Or like you’re about to do something.”
You shrug, doing your best to pretend nonchalance, even as your hand slides up his chest again. “Maybe I just like you.”
“Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
That’s all the invitation he needs. Steve’s stomach tightens underneath you as he tilts his head down, meeting you halfway for a slow and easy kiss. It’s barely there at first. Just the lightest press of his mouth to yours, like he’s checking in. Giving you time to change your mind, in case you preferred his hairy chest. But you don’t.
His lips are warm and soft, moving against yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache a little. Like this is just one of many to come in the future. You sigh into it without thinking, and Steve responds instantly, deepening the kiss just a fraction.
His hand slides to your jaw, thumb resting gently beneath your ear. He doesn’t rush you, or try to take more than you’re already giving. He just stays there, kissing you. You melt into him, fingers squeezing his softened sides as you kiss him back. When you pull away, it’s only because you need air. Your foreheads rest together, his nose smushed to your cheek, breaths still a little uneven. Steve keeps his eyes closed, memorizing the feeling.
“Maybe,” he mutters softly, “just maybe, I like you too.”
You smile and tuck yourself back into his chest, pressing one more gentle kiss there. Steve's fingers resume their lazy path against the back of your head. He relaxes completely, like for just today, there's nothing expected from either of you.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the rumor going around the moms of the hawkins little league team is that coach steve harrington is single. it's a good thing you don’t partake in petty small-town gossip.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: coach!steve, singlemom!reader, established (secret) relationship, piv sex, overstimulation, pleasure-dom!steve, multiple orgasms, prone/headlock+light choking, rough sex, teasing banter, possessive dirty talk, light/pretend jealousy, light degradation, pet names, aftercare, angst abt being a single parent, fluff, brief child's pov, happy ending (6.4k)
𝐚/𝐧: started as dumb smut, somehow ended up with plot and angst. story of my life.
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
The resounding rumor in the Hawkins Little League baseball program—more specifically, among the women who occupy the third row of bleachers at Elm Street Ballpark every Tuesday and Thursday—is that Coach Steve Harrington is single.
Very single.
“There’s just no way,” Sharon McIntyre sighs for the third time this inning. She squints toward the field, shading her eyes with one hand like she might be able to spot a wedding ring from home plate. “I mean, look at him. Nobody looks like that coaching a little league team.”
“I’m telling you, Shar,” Kelly Dunlop chimes in, iced coffee rattling in her hand. “My sister works mornings at the diner. She says he comes in all the time. Always alone. No ring, no girlfriend, nothing. If he had someone, she’d know.”
Across the field, practice is in full swing. Kids swarm the infield, shouting over one another, cleats kicking up clouds of dust. A bright, metallic clang rings through the air, signaling a clean hit. The whole team erupts into cheers as little Johnny Peters takes off for first, freckles flashing beneath his helmet.
You smile, eyes following the chaos fondly.
“God,” Sharon mutters, gaze fixed entirely elsewhere, “I know he’s young, but does he really have to look like that?”
“How old is he, anyway? Twenty?” another mom asks.
You take a slow sip of your coffee, keeping your expression neutral. You’ve gotten very good at that lately.
“It’s the whole authority thing, right?” Kelly says after a pause. “Give a guy a whistle and suddenly—"
“—suddenly he’s attractive,” another mom finishes.
“Well,” Sharon adds, “I think it’s a little more than the whistle.”
A soft ripple of laughter moves down the row.
Just then, the sharp blast of a whistle cuts through the air.
The effect is instantaneous.
It’s like Pavlovian conditioning, the sudden hush that settles over the stands. Conversations drop off mid-sentence. Heads lift in near-perfect unison. Like suburban meerkats sensing a storm, all eyes snap toward the field.
Every mom here knows exactly what that whistle means.
Coach Steve Harrington steps out from the dugout, lips still wrapped around the whistle, hands signaling a time-out as he jogs toward the pitcher’s mound. His cap is pulled low, shades perched on the bridge of his nose. The top two buttons of his Dodger-blue jersey are undone—as usual—revealing tanned collarbones and just the faintest tuft of chest hair.
He calls out a few pointers to the team, then leans over the plate to demonstrate a perfect, controlled swing.
The pivoting motion tugs his shirt upward, flashing a patch of sun-warmed skin at his stomach. It also strains the fabric of his pants, those khakis clinging to his ass in a way that’s a little snug for a public park.
A very un-subtle sigh rolls through the bleachers.
“Jesus,” Sharon mutters. “I mean, that’s just unnecessary.”
“He’s gotta know, right? There’s no way he doesn’t.”
“That shirt’s always like that. Never fully buttoned.”
A chorus of murmured agreement follows.
You press your lips together, managing to school your expression just as you hear a pair of little cleats pounding toward you.
“Mom! Mom!”
Toby skids to a stop in front of you, panting with effort, helmet crooked, knees grass-stained. He wedges himself between your legs and you reach up instinctively, straightening his helmet before it tips again.
“Mom, did ya see me? Did ya see that throw?”
“‘Course I did, honey! You were amazing!”
His grin goes blinding. “Coach Steve said I got way better this week. He said I’m really fast. Like, like, maybe fast enough to be a pro!”
“Yeah?” you smile, brushing a smear of dirt from his cheek. “You’ve been working so hard. I’m so proud of you.”
Toby nods so vigorously his helmet nearly slips again. He takes a quick gulp from the water bottle you hand him, then darts back to the dugout.
Across the field, Steve is crouched near home plate, murmuring low encouragements as he adjusts another kid’s grip on the bat.
After a moment, he straightens.
Flicks his cap off, rolls his shoulders, then lets his eyes roam over the bleachers.
When he finds what he’s looking for, he flashes a quick, casual smile.
From this distance, it’s broad enough to be meant for no one in particular.
And yet.
You look away immediately, pretending to study the condensation sliding down your coffee cup.
“Oh my god,” Kelly whispers beside you. “I think he looked over here. Sharon, was that at you?”
Sharon scoffs, though the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Please. He smiles at everyone.”
“Mm, not like that.”
You keep your gaze fixed firmly on the cup.
⚾︎
“Alright, Cubs! Awesome job today! Make sure to grab all your stuff. I’ll see you back here Tuesday, yeah?”
A chorus of okay, Coach! and bye, Coach Steve! follows.
The bleachers wake up all at once. Moms rise in unison, purses scraping against aluminum, lipstick caps popping open for quick, totally casual touch-ups meant for no one in particular. Kids spill off the field in excited clumps, chatter overlapping as they relive every hit, every near-catch. Toby’s voice cuts through it all, loud and proud as he recounts a grounder he almost snagged.
You’re stuffing a water bottle into your tote when a voice behind you makes you freeze.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
You turn.
Steve stands there, casual as ever, bat slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His jersey’s still hanging half-open, collar darkened with sweat.
“Hi.”
You purse your lips, stifling a smile. “Hi.”
He stares for a beat too long before he shakes himself, clearing his throat.
“Uh—I just wanted to say Toby did really great today. Kid’s a natural. Solid throw, great hustle. And..." his eyes flick briefly toward the chaos of children behind him, voice dropping a notch, “...he actually listens.”
You laugh softly. “That last part’s news to me.”
Steve grins. Takes a step closer.
His voice slides into a familiar cadence you’ve come to recognize, warm and teasing. “So... I heard you might be on snack duty next week.”
You raise a brow. “You did, huh?”
“Yep. And, you know, I run a pretty serious operation here. Snack’s are a very important part of team morale. So I thought maybe we should… discuss our options.”
You can’t hide the smile this time. “Oh? And what exactly were you thinking, Coach?”
“Well…” he leans closer, eyes glinting. “We might need to talk details. You know… what kind of chips to get, how many… make sure everything’s perfect.”
“Mm,” you nod solemnly. “Sounds important. Why don’t I—”
“Mom! Mom!”
Toby barrels toward you, juice box clenched in his hand like a trophy, still buzzing with post-practice adrenaline.
“Mom, can I sleep over at Jackson’s tonight?”
You blink. “Tonight?”
“Yeah! He’s got the new Super Mario game! And, and, he said we can have pizza while we play!”
You glance up to see Jackson’s mom waving from a few yards away, already herding kids toward her van.
“You sure, baby? I made that lasagna you like.”
“Nooo, Mom, please? Everyone’s going.”
You give in with a smile, smoothing his hair back. “Okay. You want me to bring your stuff over?”
“Nope, he’s got extras!”
“Alright. Be good at Mrs. Miller’s, okay? And say thank you.”
“I will!” He vibrates in place just long enough for you to bend down and kiss his cheek.
“Okay, bye Mom! Love you! Bye, Coach Steve! See you next week!”
“Bye, buddy,” Steve waves. “Great job today. Let me know how that game goes, yeah?”
Toby nods furiously before sprinting off.
When you turn back, Steve’s grinning at you.
Hand shoved in his pocket, rocking lightly on his heels.
He's more boyish than ever, looks downright fucking pleased.
“Well,” he starts, tilting his head, “I don’t know about Toby, but…”
He shrugs, eyes flicking to you with warmth and something unmistakably like intent.
“I could definitely go for some lasagna.”
⚾︎
“You know all the—mmph—the moms are... t-talking about you, right?”
Even with your face shoved into the pillow, words muffled, jaw slack and drooling, you know exactly the kind of shit-eating grin that’s hovering behind you.
“Yeah?” His voice comes perfectly level, lazy with a familiar taunt. Like he’s not ramming you within an inch of your life. “What’re they saying?”
“Mm, Shar... Sharon thinks you’re—fuck, Steve!”
There’s no warning, just the sudden crush of his weight shoving you flat onto the mattress, pinning your stomach against the sheets. His hips snap forward, driving all the way to the hilt in one, long thrust, your body jolting up the bed from the sheer force of it.
You let out a strangled yelp, hands flailing back instinctively, scrabbling at his arms, his hips. You squirm desperately for leverage, clawing at the Dodger-blue fabric bunched around his waist, but he pins you easily, weight sinking down like an anchor. A thick forearm comes around to hook under your chin, wrapping around your neck to hold you there.
“She thinks I’m what?” he breathes, lips pressed to your temple.
“She... she...”
He allows you a moment of merciful reprieve, thrusts slowing to a teasing grind, hips rolling in deep, languid circles against your ass.
“Into her,” you manage. “S-she thinks you’re into her.”
“Huh,” he pants, thoughtful. “Mrs. McIntyre?”
You nod weakly as he adjusts his grip around your neck, pressing up until you can feel your own pulse thundering along the column of your throat.
Then, before you can find your next breath, the weight over you lifts, the pressure around your neck releasing. You suck in a long, trembling gulp of air—the first real one in what feels like forever—just as you feel a pair of hands wrap around your hips, flipping you swiftly onto your back.
You hit the pillows with a startled gasp, chest heaving, legs splaying open instinctively.
Your cunt glistens between your thighs, weeping a slow, sticky trail into the sheets. It’s twitching uselessly, clenching around open air as if it could pull him closer.
From between your knees, your man watches.
The late-afternoon sun cuts through the room in slanted gold, draping his body in warmth and shadow. You take him in helplessly, all the familiar lines of him—the sloped planes of his shoulders, thick biceps and a toned chest that melts into the soft curve of his stomach. The pale-white scars that shimmer along his sides, stark and beautiful against flushed skin.
He’s naked except for that blue jersey. Hanging open at the front, hem brushing over his hips. The last two buttons are gone, thanks to your handiwork.
It’s a miracle his shirt’s stayed intact at all, what with the way you were climbing over each other the moment the door slammed shut.
Savage, open-mouthed kisses giving way to ragged gasps as you staggered through your living room, tripping over the ottoman, narrowly avoiding a vase as you dragged each other toward the bed. His dirt-stained khakis discarded mid-stride, he barely managed to tear your clothes off before hauling you onto the mattress.
Predatory.
It’s the only word to describe the way he’s looking at you now, honey-brown eyes darkened with intent, burning hotter than the molten orange sunset bleeding through the curtains behind him.
He takes his sweet time.
Holds your gaze, unblinking, as he shrugs the jersey the rest of the way off, letting it drop away. He raises a hand up to his chest, palm flat, and drags it slow across his skin. Slides it over his ribs, his stomach, the trail of coarse hair running below his navel, reaching down, down, down, until his fingers brush against the sticky patch of curls at his base.
A pleased, knowing smile spreads across his face as he drinks in your reaction.
“Mrs. McIntyre, huh? I had no idea.”
And even this fucked up—dazed and boneless from the way he’s been drilling his cock inside you for the better part of an hour, buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach—a tiny part of you can’t resist pushing back.
Just enough to test him, to see how far he’ll let you go.
“Don’t act like you’re surprised…” you murmur, words slurring. “You were smiling at her today.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then a low, incredulous laugh.
“At her?”
The hand on his stomach moves lower, thumb and four fingers splayed to form a wide ‘V’ as he cradles the imposing monument he calls a cock. The head of it’s all swollen, leaking, skin flushed from friction and glossed all over with your arousal.
“Huh,” he intones mildly, gaze flicking down between your legs, tongue gliding slow across his bottom lip. “Did I make my girl jealous?”
You scoff, pushing weakly against his shoulders as he makes his way back down, boxing you in between his elbows. “You wish, Harrington.”
He laughs under his breath, soft and playful, before he slams his lips against yours in a filthy kiss, tongues clashing until you’re left panting for breath.
Pulls back with a wet smack, eyes hooded, blazing with amusement.
“Sorry, honey,” he breathes, head tipped in mock sympathy. “Had no idea.”
You roll your eyes, instantly betrayed by the tremor in your voice. “I don’t care.”
“Mm,” he smiles, dipping his head to nuzzle your cheek, mouthing along your jaw while he reaches a hand down without looking. “I think you do.”
His cock drags against your inner thigh as he positions himself against your opening.
“And I think,” he adds softly, “you mean Coach Harrington.”
You laugh despite yourself, breathless, feeling him bury a smile of his own against your neck.
“Nice try... ‘m not calling you that in bed.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Uh-huh.”
Your amusement quickly dies on a moan when he nudges the head of his cock against your swollen clit, dragging it down in a slow, wet schlick to your entrance. The pressure makes you clench, whining when he rubs insistently against your folds without pushing in.
“Steve—"
“Shh, I know, baby,” He smooth a warm palm up the inside of your thigh, pushing it back, spreading you wider. “I got you.”
In and in and in, he bottoms out in one stroke, stretching you endlessly until his pelvis is flush against yours. You take him well—pussy warm and slick from earlier rounds—but the weight of him, the sheer girth pressing into you, draws a low whimper from your throat.
“Yeah?” he breathes. “Is that good?
His lips trail soft, lingering kisses across your neck, one hand coming up to smooth your hair back, cradling the top of your head to shield it from bumping against the headboard.
It all runs so counter to the way he’s thrusting—slamming inside in quick, deep thrusts, hitting your g-spot with such merciless accuracy that your eyes prick with tears.
“God,” he huffs, brow furrowed in pleasure, jaw going slack as he starts hitting that rhythm proper, “You have any idea how hard it was to behave today? Couldn’t stop fucking staring at you. Couldn’t... couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
His eyes roam greedily over the fresh trail of bruises he’s already mapped across your body: deep wine-reds that bloom just underneath the skin, running down your neck, your collarbone, the soft underside of your tits.
“You were looking at me too, huh?” he murmurs, already knowing.
Head lolling back against the pillow, you can only nod, too dizzy and breathless to do more.
“Yeah, baby, I know you were,” he coos, dropping his forehead to yours, lips brushing in a slow, teasing ghost of a kiss. “Sitting up there… looking so pretty. Bet you were making a mess out of the bleachers, huh? Getting yourself all wet.”
You groan, arching against him. “Steve—”
“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with need. “Tell me how good this feels. Tell me how much you need this cock.”
“I—fuck—I need it. I’s so good. Feels... feels so good.”
He lets out a guttural groan, pressing down harder, pulling you closer.
“Drives me… drives me fucking insane, you know that? Acting all polite out there, ‘Yes, ma’am…’ ‘Oh, he did just great today...’ When all I want—” He draws his hips back, slamming back inside to punctuate his next words “—is this.”
“Fuck, Steve—!”
The pleasure is blinding, a violent flash-bang to the senses that knocks the breath straight out of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life as you tip into your third orgasm of the day. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise, hips pistoning so hard it makes the mattress squeak, the headboard rattle.
And even as the high fades, he doesn’t relent. Light, shallow thrusts that leave you whining, twitching, your clit jolting each time he brushes against your tender g-spot.
“Mm…” you squirm, legs trembling against your will. “Steve...”
“Hm?”
“Can’t... ‘s too... too sensitive...”
“Just one more, baby.” He pants, lifting himself up on his hands. The playful edge in his eyes replaced by a look that’s all earnest now, all intent. “Want you to come one more time for me.”
You groan weakly, shaking your head. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he leans in close, nudging his nose against yours, pressing a soft peck to the tip. “Just one more. One more, baby. For me?”
Your response breaks into a loud groan when his hand slides down to your clit, middle and ring finger pressing slow, firm circles across the sensitive nub, making your cunt spasm around him with each pass.
“Come on, honey,” he whispers, voice soft but insistent, almost petulant in its coaxing. “I never get to take my time with you. Never get to have you like this.”
And even in this state, you can’t stop the wet, fucked-out laugh that escapes you. “You... you had me like this two days ago.”
The memory hits in a dizzying haze. He’d invited you over to his place before practice on Tuesday. Fed you a surprisingly excellent omelet first, then wasted no time bending you over the counter, and then the couch, and eventually his bed—both of you panting and laughing by the end of it, scrambling to get dressed once you realized how much time had passed.
“But we were still rushing then,” he counters, and you can’t muster the energy to argue that three and a half rounds don't exactly count as ‘rushing,’ but maybe for Steve Harrington they do.
“Please, baby,” he murmurs, still thrusting gently. “We’ve got all night today. Wanna see how many times I can make you come.”
“Fuck...” you sigh, head tipping back as another shudder rolls through you. You were convinced you’d come up against a wall, but the moment he angles his thrusts upward, fingers continuing their precise, coaxing swipes over your clit, the smoldering tension in your stomach catches kindling.
The high starts climbing back, somehow, sharper and brighter than ever.
“God, you’re so pretty... so fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, driving in a little harder. “Can’t believe you think I’d look at anyone else when I’ve got you.”
You whine weakly at his words, at the way his voice dips on the words I’ve got you, unmistakably possessive yet so bruisingly tender.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he mumbles against your lips. “No one gives it to you like this, hm?”
Your response is a trembling, breathless gasp, mouth brushing against his on every thrust, pressed so close it’s impossible to tell when you’re not kissing.
Long, slow, filthy passes of his tongue as he pries your lips open, gliding into your mouth; he craves this point of connection, always. Every sound you make is swallowed eagerly, turned into something shared.
He breaks easiest when you’re this close, when the air between you disappears and his control gives way to raw, aching need. Instinct pulling him toward a singular desire to stay close, to share breath and spit and praise while he takes you.
“Oh... oh my god—Steve, I’m—"
“Yeah, that’s it, honey. Let go, I’ve got you.”
It almost hurts, this time around.
The slow, exquisite, endless pull of pleasure, cruel hands of a thousand little deaths come to strangle you off. Every nerve in your body feels raw and frayed, tears leaking freely when you shut your eyes tight. You bury your face into his shoulder, nails pressing hard enough to break skin, clinging desperately to his words for some fragment of relief.
“Good girl... ah, shit, s-squeezing me so tight. That’s it. Keep coming, baby. There you go.”
Your cunt spasms uncontrollably around him—long, drawn-out pulses that keep him from pulling back out. He ruts the last few inches inside before spilling deep, groaning against your neck.
“Fuck, yes, just like that. God, baby....”
He always stays inside you afterward, for as long as he can. Kissing, kissing, always kissing, like he just can’t help himself, lips roaming over any patch of skin he can reach. When he finally draws his hips back, he does so carefully, softening the distance with more kisses when you whine at the loss of him.
“C’mere,” he pants, breath still ragged as he rolls onto his side, tugging you in until you fit flush against him. “I’ve got you.”
Warm, gentle strokes against the curve of your back as you level out together, syncing your breaths. The window’s cracked just enough to let the evening air roll in, cooling against heated, buzzing skin.
“You okay?” he murmurs after a while.
You hum in response, nodding once as you tuck your nose closer to his chest, breathing him in. Citrus cologne. Sweat. Steve.
“Wow,” he exhales, half a laugh caught in his throat. “What was that, three times?”
“Four,” you mumble, words muffled against his skin.
“Oh my god,” he laughs fully now, warm and boyish, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dips his head to press a quick kiss to your temple. “We’ll do five next time. Promise.”
You groan softly and shove at his shoulder, rolling away to hide your face in the pillow.
You hear him chuckle behind you as he slides off the bed. The soft pad of bare feet follows, sliding across hardwood, then the click of the bathroom light. Water trickles quietly from the sink.
You’re still catching your breath when the mattress dips again.
His fingers brush the backs of your legs, gently coaxing you to turn onto your back. You do, cheeks burning as he carefully swipes the warm, damp towel between your thighs, focused and attentive.
It’s something he’s done countless times before.
And still, it’s the part that always makes your chest tighten.
You push yourself upright once he’s done, settling against the headboard. He tucks the sheets around your waist, smoothing the fabric over your hips before reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.
Brings it to your lips.
“Steve,” you laugh softly, still flushed, “I don’t need you to hold it.”
“Ssh,” he murmurs, lips quirking. “Small sips.”
You narrow your eyes at him but drink anyway, hands folded uselessly in your lap while he keeps the glass steady. When you’re done, he takes a long drink himself before setting it aside.
He turns back, catches you staring.
“What?”
You shake your head, smile faint. “Nothing.”
He studies you for a beat longer, searching your face, but doesn’t push. Instead, he stretches with a low groan, shoulders rolling until something pops.
“God,” he mutters. “You hungry?”
“Sure. I could eat.”
“You said there’s lasagna, right?”
“Uh-huh.” You start to scoot toward the edge of the bed, but his hand lands firmly on your arm.
“Woah, hey. Where are you going?”
“To... get the lasagna?”
He shakes his head, already moving away. “Nope. Just tell me where it is.”
“Steve, it’s fine, I can—”
“Not happening.” He nudges you back against the pillows, then tucks another one behind your back for good measure. “I got it.”
You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already pulling his boxers on.
“Is it in the oven?” he calls over his shoulder.
“...Yeah.”
“'Kay. Be right back.” He leans in for a quick kiss, lifting a finger at you as he backs toward the door. “Don’t move, alright?”
You purse your lips, watching him go.
He’s back not ten minutes later, balancing two plates in his hands. Steam curls from the lasagna, edges crisp and bubbling.
“You gonna feed it to me too?” you ask dryly as he settles beside you.
He doesn’t even blink. Just picks up a fork and starts cutting into one of the slices.
“Jesus, Steve,” you laugh, grabbing the plate from him. “I was kidding.”
He hands it over with a grin, watching you take the first bite before digging into his own.
“Oh, hey,” he asks after a while, swallowing around a mouthful. “Did Toby like the new glove? Didn’t see him with it today.”
“Yeah,” you nod. “He loves it. I think he’s saving it for when the old one gives out.” You hesitate before adding, quieter, “Thank you, by the way. You really didn’t have to do that.”
Steve pauses mid-bite, fork hovering for half a second before he lowers it, lips pressing together.
“Yeah,” he nods softly. “Of course.”
You glance down at your plate, tracing a smear of sauce with the tip of your fork. “You know… if he knew it was from you, he’d probably never use it. He’d want to put it on a shelf or frame it or something.”
He snorts quietly. “Guess it’ll be our secret then.”
“Hm,” you nod, the sound coming out thin.
You don’t eat much after that. Staring at nothing, just pushing the food around, lost in thoughts much heavier than hunger.
Steve notices.
He looks up from his plate, cheeks full, a smudge of tomato sauce at the corner of his mouth. He chews slowly, studying you over the rim of his fork.
“Hey,” he says once he swallows. “You okay?”
You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
He watches you for another beat, then sets his plate aside and slides closer. His hand settles on your knee, rubbing small circles.
“Did I, uh…” He glances down, then back up, eyes sheepish. “Wear you out too much?”
You nudge his ankle with your foot, managing a small smile despite the ache blooming in your chest. “No. It’s not that.”
“Okay,” he says softly, not quite smiling back. “Then what is it?”
“It’s... it’s nothing. Stupid.”
“Baby,” he reaches for your hand before you can pull away, fingers threading through yours. He shuffles closer until your knees press together. “Talk to me.”
You close your eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, then another. Your chest tightens on the exhale.
“Is... is this about…?” His voice trails off, gentle, circling the truth carefully.
You sigh and turn your head, but he follows, refusing to let the space grow.
“’Cause if it is,” he rushes on, urgency bleeding into his tone, “I’m ready. Whenever you are. I mean it. I want to—”
“Steve, stop,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You can’t.”
He freezes, lips parting like he wants to argue. The light in his face shifts: eyes drooping, brows pulling together. So young, stripped of his usual bravado, it hurts to him look at him like this.
“Why... why not?”
“Because I can’t ask you to do that.”
He shakes his head, grip tightening as he pulls your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart.
“Ask me to do what? Be part of your life? Be around your kid?” He shifts closer, trying to catch your eyes. “I… I wouldn’t—look, I care about Toby. I really do. And I care about you. I lov—”
His voice falters. He swallows hard, throat working around the word.
“I love you.”
You stare at a spot on the sheets, blinking hard, vision going blurry at the edges.
“Baby,” he murmurs, thumb sliding gently under your chin. “Look at me. Please.”
You do. Lashes heavy, eyes shining despite your efforts. He smiles at you then, soft and steady, certainty radiating in a way that makes your chest ache.
“I love you,” he repeats. “I want… I want to be with you. Wake up next to you, go to sleep next to you. Take you places.” He lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, that old caravan I bought is a total mess, but... I thought we could fix it up together. Travel a little. Go see the country.”
His smile softens, expression sobering a bit. “And I want to be there for Toby. I know what it’s like to have a shitty dad. I would never do that to him. Ever.”
You make a small, broken sound and turn away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps tracing the same soothing path over your knuckles.
“And I’m not saying we should get married or—or move in or anything. Just… maybe a couple nights a week? I could come over, help with homework, hang out with him, just be there however you need m—”
You surge forward, pressing your lips to his in a desperate, trembling kiss. He freezes for a heartbeat, then melts into it, arms winding around your waist and lifting you onto his lap with careful, fluid strength.
You cling to each other, kissing in a messy, gasping rhythm, until the salt of your own tears brushes against his lips.
“Hey,” he whispers, pulling back, gently drawing your face into his chest. “It’s okay, it's okay."
You let yourself fold into him, cheek pressed against his bare skin.
"We’ll figure it out. We'll be okay, I promise."
You melt against him, surrendering to his warmth, letting the steady, gentle strokes of his hand calm the storm of thoughts in your head.
Eventually, a small, wet laugh slips out.
“Toby’s gonna lose his mind.”
Steve pulls back a little, meeting your eyes. “You think he’d be weirded out by it?”
You shake your head, a smile breaking through. “No, he’d love it. He already worships you. And then you two would just… gang up on me every day.”
Steve laughs, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, soft and intent as he lingers over the lines of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling. “I’m pretty sure I’ll always be on his mom’s side.”
⚾︎
epilogue
Toby sits at the very end of the dugout bench, where no one else is sitting.
He’s six and a half years old, not a baby anymore, but his legs still don’t touch the ground when he sits. They just kick the air, swinging back and forth, back and forth, cleats cutting little half-circles in the air. He scoots down an inch so the tips of them can scrape the dirt, and he finds a small pebble near the bench post. He nudges it with his toe, then nudges it back, careful not to kick it too far.
Everyone else is out on the field.
There’s the loud crack of a bat, and all the kids start shouting at once: “Mine!” “Run!” “Heads up!” The ball pops straight up into the air, and bonks Nathan Foster on the head when he tries to catch it. Everyone laughs. Even Nathan laughs, rubbing the back of his head like it didn’t hurt, even though it probably did.
Coach Steve says that kind of thing is okay. Messing up is how you learn.
Coach Steve knows a lot of things.
He knows how to line your fingers up on the bat, and how to breathe out when you throw so the ball goes straighter. He says baseball is supposed to be fun, even when you strike out, even when you’re not the best player on the field.
But Toby isn’t having fun.
He keeps his glove in his lap, hugging it tight with both arms like it might slide off if he lets go. It’s new. It's the one Coach Steve bought for him, even though his mom said his old one still worked fine. This one is stiff and smooth and smells good—like a store, or like the inside of Coach Steve’s car. Toby presses his fingers into the leather and traces the thick stitches with his thumb, over and over.
It helps a little.
There’s a worry sitting in his chest. Heavy and squishy, like when you step in mud and it won't let go of your foot right away.
He hasn’t told anyone about it. Not Miss Collins from art class. Not his mom. He didn’t even whisper it to his glove, even though sometimes he tells the glove things—like how fast pitchers make him freeze, or how scared he was on his first day of school.
Today, the worry stays stuck inside, pressing down.
A part of Toby thinks maybe he shouldn’t be worried at all.
Coach Steve said that everything would stay the same. Normal. And most of the things Coach Steve says turn out to be true. So maybe this will be too.
But Jeremy Miller said something different.
Jeremy knows stuff. His dad’s a doctor, and doctors are smart. They do important things.
Toby kicks the pebble a little harder than he means to. It skitters across the dirt floor and disappears under the bat rack with a soft clack.
“Hey, buddy.”
Toby looks up.
Coach Steve is standing at the opening of the dugout, blocking out part of the sun. His whistle hangs from his neck like always, bumping softly against his chest when he steps closer.
“You hiding from me?” he asks, grinning. “’Cause if you are, this is kind of a bad spot.”
Toby shrugs and drags the toe of his cleat through the dirt, making a crooked line. He sort of misses the pebble he kicked away. “I’m not hiding.”
Coach Steve comes in and sits down beside him, the bench creaking under his weight. His knee bounces once, then goes still.
“So,” he says, leaning his elbows on his thighs, looking out at the field. “I was kinda thinkin’ today might be the day you show off that rocket arm.”
The heavy feeling in Toby’s chest squishes tighter.
The words fall out before he can stop them.
“Are you and Mom gonna get married?”
Coach Steve freezes.
Just for a second, but Toby notices. His grin fades, and he blinks like he forgot what he was about to say. His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck.
“Uh…” he clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, buddy.”
Toby nods. He already knew that. Mom had told him. Coach Steve had told him. Grandma cried a little on the phone when they both told her together. Still, hearing it out loud again makes his stomach feel all twisty.
“Is that…” Coach Steve says, then stops. He presses his lips together. “Is that still okay with you?”
Toby sighs and draws another line in the dirt next to the first one, pressing hard so they match.
“I guess.”
Coach Steve moves a little closer, his arm brushing Toby’s. He rests a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, thumb rubbing slow circles like he does when Toby’s nervous before a game.
“Hey, if you’re feeling weird about me and your mom, that’s okay to say.”
Toby swallows. His throat feels tight, like when he’s about to cry but doesn’t want to.
“No, it’s just—” He stops, frowning. “I just want you to be my coach, still.”
Coach Steve turns his head sideways, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I still be your coach?”
Toby’s shoulders curl in. “’Cause Jeremy said that if you’re family, sometimes you can’t do stuff for each other.”
“Jeremy Miller?”
Toby nods. “Yeah. His dad’s a doctor. Jeremy had to have surgery ’cause his ap-pen-di-sigh-tis was broken, and his dad couldn’t do it. They didn’t let him.”
Coach Steve lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Oh.”
Toby grips his glove tighter. “So, if you’re my family… you can’t be my coach anymore, right?”
Coach Steve’s face goes a little funny. His eyebrows pull together, and his mouth does this wobbly thing, like he’s trying to smile and can’t figure out how. He reaches out and gently pushes Toby’s hair back, his thumb brushing across his forehead.
“Toby,” he says softly, “that’s not how that works.”
Toby frowns. “But Jeremy said so.”
“I know, bud. And sometimes grown-up rules are really confusing.” He lets out a small huff of a laugh. “Doctors have rules like that. Coaching’s a little different.”
He waits until Toby’s looking at him.
“I’m always gonna be your coach, Toby.”
Toby wants to believe him. He really does.
“…You promise?” he whispers.
Coach Steve’s face scrunches up more, eyes shiny like maybe some dust blew in from the field. “Yeah, buddy. I promise.”
Toby sticks out his pinky. He doesn’t do that at school anymore, because he’s a big first-grader now, but he still knows it’s the strongest kind of promise there is.
Coach Steve smiles, hooking his pinky around Toby’s, giving it a firm shake.
Satisfied, Toby launches forward. It’s all of him at once, knocking the air right out of Coach Steve.
“Oof, okay—” Coach Steve laughs, arms coming up to catch him. He pats Toby’s back, holding him closer as he rocks him side to side.
Toby squeezes back just as tight. The heavy feeling in his chest lifts, like taking off his backpack full of books at the end of the day.
He pulls back, smiling now, and says the thing he's been scared to say since the day he talked to Jeremy.
“Love you, Dad.”
Coach Steve goes very still. Then he clears his throat and quickly blinks up at the sky, like he definitely got some dirt in his eyes that time.
When he looks back at Toby, that funny, wobbling smile is back.
“I love you too, buddy.”
Toby grabs his glove and hops off the bench. His feet hit the ground, solid and steady.
Coach Steve stands too, quickly scrubbing the dirt from his eyes before turning back to him.
“So. You wanna go show your mom that throw we’ve been practicing?”
₊˚⊹ more than the damage | steve harrington x reader
summary: steve hands her his keys like it’s nothing. after a red light and a drunk driver, she learns the hard way that the thing he values most was never parked in the driveway
warnings/tags: car accident, drunk driver, hospitalization, concussion, cuts and bruises, panic response, crying, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, protective steve harrington, soft steve harrington, steve harrington in love, reassurance, trauma response, no use of y/n
wc: ~3k
───୨ৎ───
The keys are cold when Steve drops them into your palm.
They make a solid, unmistakable sound as they land there, heavier than you expect, the metal biting lightly into your skin. You look down at them immediately, brows knitting together, your fingers curling instinctively like you might drop them if you don’t hold on tight enough.
You don’t look up right away and Steve can’t help but notice.
He’s leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, already watching you with that familiar half-smile that means he knows exactly what you’re thinking. The late afternoon sun spills in through the window behind him, catching in his hair, turning it softer somehow. The house smells faintly like coffee and whatever Jonathan burned earlier trying to make breakfast.
“Don’t look at them like that,” he says, amused. “They’re not gonna bite.”
You finally glance up at him, eyes wide. “Steve. These are your keys.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “That’s kinda the point.”
Your grip tightens. “Your car.”
“My car,” he repeats, nodding, like he’s agreeing with a completely reasonable statement.
“You love your car.”
He scoffs softly. “I like my car.”
“You wax it.”
“Because I respect craftsmanship.”
“You talk to it,” you add.
That earns you a grin. “She listens better than most people.”
You shake your head, lips pressing together as you look back down at the keys. The maroon BMW sits visible through the front window, parked neatly in the driveway like it knows it’s being discussed. It looks expensive and pristine. It looks like something you absolutely should not be trusted with.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you murmur.
Steve pushes off the counter and steps closer, the floor creaking softly beneath his feet. He stops just in front of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne.
“You’re just running errands,” he says gently. “Grocery store. Pharmacy. Maybe that little place with the good bread if you’re feeling real crazy.”
“I could walk.”
“It’s thirty minutes away.”
“I could bike.”
“It’s winter.”
“I could—”
He reaches out and tips your chin up with one finger, forcing you to look at him. His expression softens immediately, teasing giving way to something warmer and more sincere.
“I can come with you,” he offers. “If that makes you feel better.”
Your chest tightens just a little.
“But you already have plans,” you say quietly. “You’re hanging out with Robin and Nancy and Jonathan. You’ve been talking about it all week.”
Steve shrugs. “They won’t care.”
“I will,” you say, quick and instinctive. “You should go.”
He studies your face for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push or not. His thumb brushes absently over your jaw, light and grounding.
“You sure?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
A beat.
Then his grin comes back, brighter this time, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay. But.”
You groan softly. “There’s a ‘but.’”
“There’s always a ‘but.’” He reaches past you, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and slips it on. “Rule number one: no scratches.”
“I’ve never scratched a car.”
“You scratched my arm that one time.”
“That was different.”
“Rule number two,” he continues, ignoring you, “no mysterious dents.”
“I don’t mysteriously dent things.”
“You ran into a door last month.”
“The door ran into me.”
Steve laughs, the sound warm and easy, and leans in to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “And rule number three,” he adds softly, lips lingering there. “If anyone gives you trouble, you don’t play nice. You leave.”
You nod, swallowing.
He steps back and jingles the spare set of keys in his hand. “And bring her back in one piece.”
You lift your eyes to his. “Her?”
“My Beamer,” he says seriously. “Try not to hurt her feelings.”
You can’t help it. You laugh, shaking your head as you slide the keys into your pocket like they’re something precious. “You’re ridiculous, Harrington.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But you love me.”
You playfully roll your eyes, but still can’t keep the small smile off your face as you look at your boyfriend. “Mhm, I do.”
With that, Steve grabs his wallet, slings his arm around your shoulders as you walk toward the door together. Outside, Jonathan’s car honks once, impatient but familiar. Robin leans out the window, yelling something unintelligible.
Steve squeezes you once more before letting go. “Be careful,” he says, quieter now, this time you know he’s talking you and not his car.
“I will,” you promise.
He watches you walk toward his car, eyes lingering just a second longer than usual, before turning back toward your friends.
───୨ৎ───
Your favorite Tiffany song plays through the car’s speakers as you hum along, your thumbs tapping rhythmically on the steaming wheel as you wait for the light to turn green. You’ve been nothing but careful this entire trip, taking extra long to run the errands you’ve been putting off for ages, making sure not a single thing happens to Steve’s precious Beamer.
But then the light turns green.
You ease your foot off the brake, smooth and careful, the way you’ve been driving this whole time. The intersection opens up in front of you, wide and familiar. You’re already thinking about what you still need to grab for dinner, about how Steve will probably tease you for taking longer than you said you would, considering the sun is already setting, about how you’ll hand him his keys back like a small offering and wait for his grin.
You don’t hear the other car at first.
The engine is loud, too loud, revving in a way that doesn’t match the flow of traffic. There’s a split second where something feels off, a prickle at the back of your neck, and then—
Headlights. Too close. Too fast. Coming from the side.
“No—”
The impact is explosive.
Metal collides with metal in a violent, teeth-rattling crash that feels like it tears the world open. The sound is deafening, a sharp, screaming crunch that vibrates through your bones. The BMW jerks violently to the right, momentum throwing your body sideways as the seatbelt snaps tight across your chest, knocking the breath clean out of you.
Your head slams against the window.
Pain blooms instantly, white and blinding, radiating through your skull. Glass shatters outward with a sharp, crystalline sound, fragments spraying across your arms, your lap, your hair. The steering wheel wrenches hard beneath your hands as the car spins, tires screeching against asphalt, the world outside the windshield blurring into color and motion and noise.
Someone is honking. Someone is yelling.
You scream without realizing it was even coming from you.
The car skids, fishtails, then slams to a stop with a final, sickening jolt that leaves everything eerily still.
For a moment, there is nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the echo of the crash ringing in your ears and the pounding of your own heart, loud and frantic, like it’s trying to outrun what just happened.
Your vision swims and the edges of it darken. You blink hard, sucking in a shaky breath that burns your lungs.
“Oh god,” you whisper, barely audible. “Oh god.”
Your hands are shaking when you lift them from the steering wheel. Tiny cuts line your fingers, glass glittering against your skin. Blood wells slowly, red and shocking against the pale interior. Your head throbs dully now, pain settling in behind your eyes like pressure.
You look up and notice the windshield is shattered completely, spiderwebbed and caved in. The hood is crumpled, maroon paint warped and torn, steam hissing faintly from beneath it.
Steve’s car.
The thought lands heavy and crushing in your chest, stealing your breath all over again.
“No,” you choke. “No, no, no.”
The tears come fast and hot, blurring everything in your vision. Your whole body starts to shake, adrenaline crashing into panic. You don’t even notice the ache in your ribs or the blood on your temple. All you can see is the damage. All you can think about is Steve’s face when he sees it.
You fumble for the door handle, hands clumsy and numb.
Voices rush in suddenly, overlapping and loud. Someone is shouting angrily from the other car. A man’s voice, slurred and unsteady, words tumbling over each other. You catch the sharp, unmistakable smell of alcohol when he staggers closer, yelling about lights and blame and not seeing you.
A woman pushes past him, her face pale as she crouches by your window.
“Don’t move,” she says firmly, eyes scanning you. “He ran the red light. Someone already called it in. An ambulance is on the way.”
You barely hear her.
“I ruined it,” you sob, chest hitching painfully. “I ruined his car. He trusted me.”
She stares at you, stunned. “Honey,” she says gently, “that man was drunk. This wasn’t your fault.”
You shake your head over and over, tears dripping down your chin. “You don’t understand. He loves that car.”
───୨ৎ───
Time loses its shape after that.
You remember hands reaching in carefully, voices asking you questions you answer on autopilot. Your name. The date. Where you are. Someone slips a neck brace around you, cool plastic against your skin. The world feels distant, like you’re underwater, everything muted and slow.
The ambulance smells like antiseptic and rubber. The siren wails as they pull away, sharp and relentless, vibrating through your skull. Every bump in the road sends a dull jolt through your body.
You stare at the ceiling, blinking back tears that won’t stop.
Steve’s face keeps flashing in your mind. His teasing smile. The way he pressed the keys into your hand. I trust you.
Your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.
At the hospital, the lights are too bright, too white. They wheel you through hallways that all look the same, the gurney rattling beneath you. A nurse presses gauze to your head, apologizing softly as she cleans the blood away. Another checks your pupils, her voice calm and practiced.
“You’ve got a concussion,” she tells you gently. “Some cuts and bruising. We’re going to keep you for observation.”
You nod weakly.
“Your emergency contact?” she asks.
The words stick in your throat. “Steve Harrington.”
She smiles reassuringly. “We’ll call him right now.”
Panic spikes instantly, sharp and overwhelming.
“No,” you whisper, grabbing weakly at her sleeve. “Please.”
She pauses, concern creasing her brow. “Sweetheart, he needs to know you’re okay.”
“He’s going to be so mad,” you say, tears slipping down into your hair. “Please. I just need a minute.”
She squeezes your hand, her touch warm and steady. “I promise you,” she says softly, “he’s not going to care about the car.”
You turn your face toward the pillow, shoulders shaking as you cry. You don’t believe her.
───୨ৎ───
Steve is mid-laugh when the phone rings, sitting down on the worn couch as he waits for you to return home.
The four of them had just gotten home less than an hour prior and Robin has just said something ridiculous, Nancy is smirking and rolling her eyes playfully, Jonathan is half-listening while fishing his keys out of his pocket. Steve stands up and walks over to the phone and answers without thinking, still smiling.
That smile disappears from his face almost instantly.
His face goes slack as the nurse speaks. The color drains from his skin so fast Robin reaches for him automatically, fingers digging into his arm.
Car accident.
Hospital.
For a second, the words don’t make sense. They slide off him, unreal. Then they sink in all at once, heavy and brutal.
“What?” he says hoarsely. “Is she— is she awake?”
He doesn’t remember hanging up. Doesn’t remember telling the others where he’s going, doesn’t remember Jonathan tossing him his own set of car keys. Just the way his hands shake as he grabs his jacket, the way his chest feels tight and wrong, like it’s collapsing inward.
The drive is a blur.
He speeds without realizing it, knuckles white around the steering wheel, heart hammering so hard it makes him dizzy. Every red light feels like an eternity. Every second stretches unbearably long.
His thoughts spiral wildly. Blood. Sirens. Hospital beds. The worst possibilities crowding in, relentless and cruel.
Please be okay. Please be okay.
By the time he reaches the hospital, he’s barely breathing.
He pushes through the doors, breathless, voice breaking as he gives your name to the front desk. They point him down a hallway.
When he finally sees you, lying small and still in the bed, tears streaming your pale cheeks, bandages stark white against your skin, something in him cracks wide open.
“Oh god,” he whispers.
Your eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice.
The relief lasts exactly half a second before raw fear rushes in immediately.
“I’m sorry,” you sob, words tumbling over each other. “Steve, I swear I didn’t do anything wrong, he ran the light and I tried to stop and—”
He’s at your side instantly, hands gentle but shaking as he cups your face. “Hey. No, no, no. Baby.”
You flinch, bracing yourself.
The sight alone guts him.
“Oh no,” he breathes, tears spilling freely now. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”
You do, eyes glassy and terrified.
“I don’t care about the car,” he says, voice breaking completely. “I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s totaled. I don’t care if it’s gone forever.”
Your breath stutters. “You’re.. you’re not mad at me?”
He lets out a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. He leans forward carefully, resting his forehead against yours, hands still cradling your face like you might shatter.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits quietly. “That’s all I could think about.”
He gathers you into his arms slowly, mindful of every injury, pulling you against his chest. You cling to him immediately, fingers fisting in his shirt as sobs tear out of you, your whole body trembling.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs over and over, rocking you gently. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
His hands move in slow, grounding circles over your back, his cheek pressed to your hair. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t pull away. He lets you cry until your breathing evens out, until the shaking starts to fade.
He doesn’t even let go of you when the nurse steps back.
He loosens his hold just enough for her to check the bandage on your forehead, for someone to murmur about concussion protocol and observation and lights being dimmed, but the moment she’s done, his arms come back around you like he’s afraid the space might swallow you if he leaves it open for too long.
You’re curled against his chest now, knees drawn in carefully, his jacket draped over you even though the room is warm. His hand rests flat between your shoulder blades, steady and grounding, moving just enough to remind you that he’s still here. That he hasn’t gone anywhere.
Your breathing finally starts to slow.
It surprises you, the way your body listens to him so easily. Like it’s been waiting for permission to stop shaking.
“I’m really sorry,” you murmur again, the words slipping out quieter this time, less frantic but still heavy. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, just at his side. “About the car.”
Steve exhales, a long, careful breath, and tips his head back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are red now. Not just watery. Red in a way that tells you he’s been holding something back too.
“Hey,” he says softly, but there’s an edge to it, a gentle firmness. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”
You nod once, small and obedient.
He brings one hand up, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with reverent care, like he’s afraid even that might hurt you. “That car?” he says quietly. “It’s metal. It’s paint. It’s replaceable.”
You swallow.
“You?” His voice cracks on the word. He presses his forehead to yours again, eyes closing briefly. “You’re not.”
Something in your chest gives way at that, the last tight knot finally loosening. Tears spill over again, but they’re quieter now, slower. You don’t fight them. Steve doesn’t either.
He just holds you.
He lets you cry into his shoulder, lets the weight of it all sink out of you in small, shuddering breaths. His fingers trace slow, soothing patterns against your back, grounding you in the present. His other hand stays curled protectively around your arm, thumb brushing over your skin like a promise.
“You scared me,” he admits again, softer this time. “When they called, I—” He swallows hard. “I didn’t even hear the rest of what she was saying. I just heard your name and hospital and that was it.”
“I didn’t want you to hate me,” you whisper.
Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Hate you?” he repeats, like the idea doesn’t even make sense. “Baby.”
The way he says it is full of ache and tenderness and something dangerously close to breaking.
“I don’t love you for how careful you are with my things,” he says. “I love you because you’re you. And because you were scared and still got behind the wheel anyway. Because you were thinking about dinner and errands and getting back to me.”
Your throat tightens.
“And because,” he adds quietly, “even after everything, you were more worried about my stupid car than about yourself.”
He shakes his head, a small, helpless smile pulling at his mouth. “You don’t ever have to earn your place with me. You’re it for me. Not that car.”
You just nod briefly and then press your face back into his chest, breathing him in. He smells like the soap you picked out for him and the faint trace of outside air, something clean and familiar, something that settles deep in your lungs and tells your body it’s safe to unclench. Home, even here in this hospital room.
it’s instinctive now — the way his head lifts, eyes scanning automatically, like his body just knows when you’re close. the practice is still going, kids running bases, yelling too loud, dust in the air. steve has his cap pulled low, whistle hanging around his neck, sleeves rolled up.
then he sees the tote bag.
his mouth curves into that soft, private smile he only ever saves for you.
“alright, five-minute water break,” he calls, already walking toward you.
you lean against the fence, all cozy and pretty, holding up the bag like a prize. “you forgot lunch. again.”
he exhales a laugh, hands immediately finding your waist through the chain links. “i didn’t forget,” he says. “i just… knew you’d save me.”
you roll your eyes but lean in anyway, forehead resting against his. he smells like sunscreen and grass and that familiar steve warmth that makes your chest feel full.
“you’re impossible,” you murmur.
“yeah,” he agrees easily, kissing the corner of your mouth. “but i married you, so i’m clearly doing something right.”
you hand him the bag and he opens it like it’s sacred. his shoulders drop the second he takes the first bite.
“jesus,” he sighs. “this is so much better than cafeteria food.”
you watch him chew, watch the way he stands closer than necessary, one hand always touching you — your hip, your wrist, your back. married steve is like this: casual affection, constant closeness, like he never wants space from you.
one of the kids yells, “coach! is that your wife?”
steve doesn’t even look back. “yep.”
you smile. “very proudly married, apparently.”
he grins, leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. “always.”
when he finally finds the note, he reads it quietly, lips moving just a little. something in his expression softens even more — like he’s storing the moment away.
“hey,” he says softly, catching your hand. “thanks for taking care of me.”
you shrug, playful. “that’s kind of the deal.”
he squeezes your fingers. “best deal i ever made.”
the whistle blows again, reluctantly. he steals one last kiss — quick, sweet, familiar — before stepping back onto the field.
and you watch him go, heart full, knowing he’ll be home later, tired and smiling, ready to be loved all over again.
steve harrington who gets all squirmy when u kiss his scars
steve harrington x reader [0.7k]
“i can’t tell if you’re trying to be annoying or you have some weird scar kink.”
you don’t look up. your mouth is already on him, pressed to the long, pale seam cutting over his bicep. if you answer, you’ll smile, which would give you away. instead you kiss it again, slower, feigning thoughtfulness.
steve exhales heavily through his nose. it’s not a groan solely because he refuses to give you that. his hand curls into the sofa cushion beneath him, knuckles tensing as if he can white-knuckle his way through affection.
“you know,” he goes on, voice edged with snark but undeniably fond underneath, “most people kiss, like. normal places.”
“well,” you say mildly. “i think this is quite normal.”
“you’re not normal.”
you shift, knee sliding between his thighs—he gets way too excited at your positioning here, judging by the hitch in his breath—and lean down to his chest. the scars wrapping around from his back are older now, no longer an angry red, but the skin is permanently marred. steve doesn’t talk about them much, but you know they’re a sore spot. they mess with the pretty boy thing he pretends not to care about. you follow one with your mouth, careful but not delicate. you don’t treat him like he’s made of glass.
his breath stutters again anyway.
“yeah,” he says tightly through gritted teeth. “there it is. that. god. that’s weird.”
you feel it before you see it: the way his torso pulls back instinctively to avoid your careful fingers sliding up his back while your mouth roams his collarbone. his reaction makes something pleased curl in your stomach. mean, maybe. but you love him.
“ow. not that one.”
“sorry,” you say, absolutely not sorry, and kiss it again. your lip twitches against his skin.
“don’t smirk,” he warns, eyes still closed. “i can feel it.”
you hum in lieu of a reply, lips brushing another scar on his ribs—just a ghost of a bite now—and his whole body jumps like he’s been shocked. he gives a sharp, breathless laugh when his arm jerks. eventually he just gives up, letting it fall heavy around your shoulders, hand resting loosely on the back of your head.
“this is so unfair,” he complains, because bitching is his coping mechanism. “i’ve been in love with you for years and now i get jumped by demon bats and suddenly, what, you want to worship me?”
you pull back just enough to look at him. his face is flushed, hair a mess, mouth a pretty pink from where you’d been kissing it earlier. he looks annoyingly handsome. at least you can call him yours.
“shhhh. i’m just exploring,” you tell him. “hold still.”
“absolutely not.”
he does.
you kiss another scar on his arm, one that twists when he flexes it. his fingers twitch by his sides. you can feel him shift again, restless, all the feeling going straight to his nerves.
“you’re getting a kick out of this,” he accuses.
you don’t deny it. you like the way he’s flushed and embarrassed, and maybe just a little bit insecure. it’s rare enough that you can’t resist taking advantage of the moment. you kiss him again and again, mouth warm as he squirms beneath you. he sucks in another breath through his teeth, letting it out in a shaky laugh.
“gross. i hate how that feels,” he huffs, immediately betraying himself when he follows it with, “do it again.”
you do. he tips his head back, exposing his throat, resignation written all over him.
“they’re kinda disgusting,” he says, a touch more timid. he opens his eyes to watch you, warm and dark and a little unsure the way he gets when he’s nervous. it’s the same way he looked at you the first time he kissed you. the memory warms your heart.
“they’re not. they’re part of you.” you sit up to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then back down again. logically, it makes no sense, but you feel like you’re proving a point. each kiss is unhurried, soft lips brushing against him until he’s sighing and the tension in his shoulders melts away.
“see? still you,” you whisper.
then your hand grazes a particularly ticklish spot on his side and he jolts forward with a hiss. you giggle, retracting your hand in an exaggerated display of penance.
“you’re such a jerk,“ he says, fond and wrecked.
you smile and duck your head to kiss him properly.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: coach!steve harrington x teacher!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it’s a bright, joyful day with flowers and laughter everywhere… only coach steve is crying. six-year-old eli parker is determined to find out why.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: wedding, afterparty, a very observant child's pov, heartaching fluff and cuteness, light angst bc steve is crying happy tears!, a brief cameo ;), post-s5 (2.8k)
𝐚/𝐧: part of my teacher!steve series. eli is one of steve's students and the flower boy for their ceremony. you can read pt.1 here, though it's not necessary for this fic | first dance song
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
Coach Steve is crying.
Eli knows this because Coach Steve’s shoulders are doing that shaky thing they do when someone’s crying but trying really, really hard not to let it show.
He’s seen it before. Once when Jeremy Miller scraped his knee badly in P.E. and tried to act tough, and once when his mama stood very still at the sink for a long time when she thought Eli had gone to bed.
Eli noticed right away, because Coach Steve is usually loud.
Even when he’s serious, he’s loud. His whistle is loud. His laugh is loud. When he cheers during kickball, you can hear him from all the way across the field, even if the wind is blowing.
So when Coach Steve suddenly isn’t loud at all, Eli pays attention.
It’s not like when kids cry at school. There’s no screaming. No teacher rushing over with tissues saying, It’s okay, it’s okay.
Coach Steve’s crying is smaller than that. Almost invisible. Just that little shake in his shoulders, like he’s cold, even though the room is warm and full of people and music and shiny lights.
The party is loud.
Eli stands near the edge of the dance floor, holding a plastic cup of juice with both hands so it doesn’t spill. It tastes like apples, but also a little like flowers, which is weird. Everything here smells like flowers. Eli thinks maybe the smell sneaked into the juice when nobody was looking.
He’s supposed to be staying where his mama can see him.
He is doing that.
Mostly.
He’s watching you and Coach Steve dance.
This is the ‘first dance.’
Eli knows that because earlier, someone with a microphone said, “Alright everyone, if we could have your attention for the couple’s first dance,” and suddenly all the grown-ups stopped talking and turned their heads at the same time.
Coach Steve’s hands are around your back. Yours are on his shoulders, and then one moves up to touch his cheek. Eli can see your mouth move, but he can’t hear the words over the music. Whatever it is, it makes Coach Steve close his eyes.
Eli tilts his head, frowning.
Coach Steve’s face is doing something strange. He’s smiling, but his mouth looks tight, like he’s forcing it to stay there. The corners wobble a little. It reminds Eli of picture day at school, when you have to smile for too long and your cheeks start to hurt, but you’re not allowed to stop yet.
Eli thinks back to earlier.
Earlier, when everything still made sense.
When there were flowers everywhere. Some on the ground, some tied to the chairs, and some way up high on a big curvy thing his mom called an ‘arch.’ There were so many flowers that Eli even got to throw some on purpose and not get in trouble. They were soft and squishy and pink and white and yellow, and they smelled like the fancy soap his Nana keeps in her bathroom.
Eli’s job was to walk down the long, long carpet and throw petals from a small basket. Not all at once—mama told him that—but just tiny little handfuls.
“Walk, baby. Don’t run,” she whispered.
And Eli nodded seriously, because that was clearly a Very Important Rule, and Eli is good at following Very Important Rules.
He walked. Mostly straight. One petal stuck to his shoe, and he thought about stopping to pick it off but decided it was probably okay to leave it there.
People smiled at him a lot. Grown-ups he didn’t know kept telling him he was doing a great job, which made Eli feel good.
When he got all the way down to the arch, a man with long, curly brown hair crouched down, eyes wide and sparkling, and stuck out his fist for Eli to bump.
“Nailed it, little man! You're an absolute legend!” he whispered, grinning so big Eli thought his cheeks might pop. Eli didn’t know who he was—or why his hair was so long—but being called a legend sounded pretty cool, so he bumped his fist against the man's and said, “Thanks!”
Coach Steve was standing under the arch, too.
He wasn’t wearing his PE shorts, or his whistle, or his sneakers. He had on a black suit, fancy and important-looking. His hair was all shiny and brushed back, but a few pieces still stuck up the way they always do, which made Eli feel better. Like Coach Steve was still Coach Steve, just dressed weird.
"C'mere buddy, high five," he smiled, bending down so Eli could slap the biggest high five he can manage.
And then you walked in.
All the grown-ups in the room suddenly stood up, so Eli had to get on his tiptoes to see.
You were wearing a white dress that looked like it was made out of clouds, with tiny flower shapes sewn along the bottom—just like the petals Eli threw, except these were the kind you weren’t supposed to step on.
When Coach Steve saw you, it was like his whole body forgot how to work right.
His eyes got really big, all round and shiny like glass marbles, and his mouth fell open a bit. Eli noticed his chest rising and falling faster than usual, his hands shaking slightly at his sides.
Then the smile came.
It started small, almost shy, but it kept growing, stretching wider and wider until it filled his whole face. It squished his eyes, making tiny, wrinkly lines at the corners.
Eli couldn’t stop staring.
It was the funniest, strangest, happiest face he's ever seen. Coach Steve has never smiled like that before.
Only now, after the dance, that smile is gone.
The slow song ends.
Everyone claps. Someone whistles. Someone yells, happy and loud.
Coach Steve doesn’t clap.
He just pulls you closer.
Eli sees your hands come up to Coach Steve’s face again, thumbs brushing carefully under his eyes. You say something that Eli still can’t hear, and Coach Steve nods.
Then you both quietly back away from the dance floor.
Eli waits a second. Looks around.
Everyone is busy again—talking, laughing, fixing dresses, getting more colorful drinks. His mom is chatting with Miss Collins from art class. A few people start dancing to a different, faster song. Nobody noticed you and Coach Steve leaving.
Well.
Nobody except Eli.
He carefully puts his apple juice on the nearest table, then pauses.
Someone needs to watch it. You can’t just leave juice.
So he looks around until he finds the tall man with the long, curly hair. The one who keeps laughing too loud and waving his arms around.
“Um, excuse me, mister?” Eli says, poking his back. “Can you watch my juice? Make sure no one drinks it?”
The man turns, blinks down at Eli, and follows his little finger to the cup.
He grins wide, crouching down to Eli's height, “You got it, flower boss. I’ll guard it with my life.”
Eli feels pretty sure his juice will be safe.
So he nods, satisfied, and tiptoes after you into the hallway.
He tells himself he’s not following. That would be nosy, and being nosy is rude.
He’s just… going the same way. That’s all.
The hallway outside the party is quieter. The music sounds far away now, like it’s playing underwater.
Eli follows the soft click-click sounds of your shoes, moving the way Coach Steve taught him during blindfolded tag—small, sneaky steps. Like a ninja.
You and Coach Steve go through a door at the very end of the hall, and Eli manages to slip inside before it closes all the way.
The room inside feels soft.
Soft like blankets, it reminds him of bedtime. There are lamps instead of bright ceiling lights, and moonlight slips in through the windows, making pale blue squares on the floor. Flowers are everywhere, but it's not messy like before. These are in tall vases, standing still.
You sit down on a long, fluffy couch in the corner of the room. Coach Steve sits next to you.
You pull him into your arms, holding him close. You pat his back, smoothing his hair the way Eli’s mom does when he can’t fall asleep and asks for just one more bedtime story. Coach Steve has his face pressed into your neck, his back turned to Eli, but Eli can still hear it: a shaky breath that sounds wet, like a sniff he didn’t mean to make.
Coach Steve’s shoulders are trembling, more than before.
Eli goes very still.
This is the part he doesn't understand.
Coach Steve just got married. Eli knows that’s supposed to be a good thing. People cheered. Someone yelled woo! really loud. There’s a giant cake waiting on a table just outside this room, and cake means you’re celebrating something. Cake means happy.
But then Coach Steve lets out another sniff, and Eli’s chest feels tight with worry.
He takes a tiny step closer.
“Coach Steve?” he asks, very quiet.
Your head snaps up.
Coach Steve spins around fast, wiping his face quickly with the back of his hand.
“Hey, buddy,” he says. He makes a wet sound that’s kind of like a laugh, but not really. “You... you okay?”
“I’m okay,” Eli nods. “Are you okay?”
Coach Steve pauses, blinking a few times. Then he nods too. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”
For the first time ever, Eli thinks Coach Steve might not be telling the truth.
So he looks over at you instead. You smile at him and gently gesture him over, patting the spot next to you on the couch. Eli shuffles closer, then carefully climbs up, using both hands to pull himself onto the cushions, one knee first, then the other. The couch is tall, and his feet dangle over the floor.
He leans closer to you, whispering so only you can hear. “Why is Coach Steve sad?”
Your smile goes soft. “He’s not sad, honey. He’s just… really happy.”
Eli frowns, scrunching up his eyebrows. That doesn’t make sense at all.
“Then why is he crying?”
Beside you, Coach Steve lets out a quiet huff of air—half a laugh, half a sniffle, like his body can’t decide which one to do.
You rub Coach Steve’s arm while you think. “Sometimes,” you say slowly, “when grown-ups feel too much of something good all at once, their bodies don’t know where to put it. So it comes out as tears.”
Eli tilts his head, still not convinced.
Your purse your lips, trying again. “It’s like… it’s like when you’ve been waiting for something for a really long time. You imagine it a lot. And then when it actually happens, all these big feelings—happy, sad, scared, excited—they all show up at the same time.”
Eli thinks about this very hard.
“Like... when you have to wait to open all your Christmas presents?” he asks.
Coach Steve laughs from behind you. “Yeah, Eli,” he says. “Exactly like that.”
Eli peeks around you to look at Coach Steve’s face. His eyes are still shiny, but now the corners crinkle the way they usually do when he smiles.
“You waited a long time?” Eli asks quietly.
Coach Steve swallows, then takes a deep breath. “Yeah, buddy. I did.”
Eli’s not sure what to say next.
So he does the best thing he can think of.
He hops off the couch and walks over to Coach Steve, wrapping his arms around him as tight as he can.
A full-body squeeze, the kind Eli likes best.
Coach Steve laughs and hugs him back just as tight.
Then, without warning, he scoops Eli up by the middle, hoisting him high into the air.
Eli kicks his legs and flings his arms out like Superman, squealing so loud it bounces off the walls. After being quiet all day, after holding in all the noise at the wedding, it feels amazing—like a huge balloon bursting inside him, full of giggles and shouts.
Coach Steve laughs too, gently lowering him back onto his lap. Eli wiggles a little, trying to catch his breath.
“Hey, Eli,” Coach Steve says, still smiling. “You think your parents would be mad if we took you home with us?”
You gasp and tap Coach Steve on the chest. “Steve!”
Eli blinks, thinking it over. “Maybe. But I have to bring my dog. She can’t sleep without me. And my toothbrush. Oh, and snacks.” He squints between you and Coach Steve, doubtful. “Do you have snacks in your house?”
Coach Steve laughs—a big, real, Coach-Steve laugh, the kind that shakes his shoulders and makes his eyes crinkle. The tears are gone now.
Eli smiles too. He doesn’t think what he said was very funny, but he likes that Coach Steve isn’t crying anymore.
“Hey, Eli?” Coach Steve says, reaching out to ruffle Eli’s hair.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for helping out today. You were awesome.”
“I know,” Eli says, because that part is true. He walked slowly down the aisle. He didn’t run. Mostly.
Coach Steve nods, letting out another soft laugh.
Eli fidgets with the hem of his shirt. There’s something else he’s been thinking about since earlier. Something important. He has to get the words exactly right.
“Coach Steve?”
“Yeah, buddy.”
“Is today the... hardest day?”
Coach Steve frowns a little, tilting his head. “What do you mean?”
“You said… when you were standing under the big arsh. The one with all the flowers and stuff? You said, ‘I choose you, even on the hardest days.’”
Eli looks up at him. “Is today the hardest day?”
Coach Steve goes very quiet. His eyes blink slowly, lashes dark and clumped together. He takes a deep breath and gently pushes Eli’s hair back from his forehead.
“No,” he says softly. “Today’s a really, really good day.”
“But you cried.”
Coach Steve smiles a little. “Yeah. I did.”
Eli waits. Crying always means something went wrong. He’s still trying to figure out why this doesn’t fit the rule he knows.
“Hard doesn’t always mean bad,” Coach Steve says, rubbing slow circles on Eli's back. “Sometimes it just means… a lot.”
“A lot of what?”
"A lot of..." Coach Steve thinks for a second. “You know when you’re holding something really heavy? You love it a lot, and you don’t want to let go, but sometimes... your arms can get a little tired.”
Eli thinks about the big bag of P.E. stuff they have to carry after class, the one that’s almost as big as he is. Coach Steve always lifts it like it weighs nothing at all.
“Uh-huh,” he says.
Coach Steve nods. “Some days are hard because you’re tired. Or nervous. Or because you want to do something really well, and you’re not sure you can.”
Eli thinks back to walking down the long white carpet earlier, holding the basket of petals. Remembering not to run. Remembering not to step on your dress. That was hard.
“But you still do it,” Coach Steve says. “Because it matters to you.”
Eli chews on that for a second.
“So… hard days aren’t always bad?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
“They’re just… days?”
“Yeah. Just days.” Coach Steve glances over at you, and Eli watches both of you smile at each other. “And when you get married to someone, you choose them on all those days. The easy ones and the hard ones.”
You smile grows wider as you lean over to kiss Coach Steve on the cheek. He turns his head and kisses you back.
Right on the mouth.
Eli’s eyes go wide.
This has happened once before, back under the arch, when all the talking and serious grown-up stuff was over and everyone started cheering.
He was not okay with it when it happened, but there were too many people around, and mama said it was rude to say that word out loud, so he stayed quiet.
But now—
“Ew!” he blurts.
You both laugh and pull apart.
Coach Steve shakes his head, grinning. “You think that’s gross, huh? Just you wait, buddy.”
Eli’s not sure what that means, so he ignores it.
Instead, he snuggles a little deeper into Coach Steve's lap, pressing his face against the crinkly fabric of his white shirt. He dangles his feet off the edge, tapping them against Coach Steve's legs.
With all his questions answered (for now), Eli is happy. Warm, a little sleepy, he feels like the time he finished that 300-piece puzzle, all by himself—when he slid the last one in and sat there for a bit, staring at the picture, not wanting to do anything else.
He looks up between the two of you. At your pretty dress, at your hair, a little looser than how it was at the wedding but still very beautiful. At Coach Steve’s smile, big and easy again, the way it’s supposed to be. His eyes catch the moonlight from the window, sparkling like tiny pools of melted chocolate.
Speaking of which, Eli’s just remembered something extremely important.
“Can we go do the cake now?”
And the laugh that bursts from you and Coach Steve is the kind that makes Eli giggle too, just from being squished right in the middle of it.
Steve Harrington x fem!reader who has suffered a head injury [1.9k words]
summary: Of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up after suffering a head injury unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school in your severely concussed state.
CW: hospital fic, brief mention of a fall and injury, Robin's POV so it's a little spirally, mostly fluff
Robin honest to God feels really, really bad and wishes she could take back her internal moaning and groaning about how she wished you would just wake up already and save her from this boredom because this is much, much worse.
Really, she should have just relaxed and been grateful that you’re still kicking it at all; head injuries are no joke. Still, unconscious people make terrible company.
But now she wishes she was merely bored again.
You see, a good friend – an average friend, even – might’ve responded to you waking up for the first time in over fifteen hours after suffering a head injury by saying things like oh, thank god you’re awake! Or, are you okay? How are you feeling? Do you want some water? Let me go get a nurse.
But maybe Robin isn’t a good friend because her immediate response to the sound of you shifting in your bed before blinking blearily up at her is “oh my god, thank god you’re awake. I’m so bored. Also, Max said something really funny to Mike earlier and I’ve been dying to tell you.”
You blink at her – not unlike a frog, if she’s being completely honest, one eye closing before the other – with furrowed brows before your eyes flit towards the stark whiteness of your surroundings.
“Hospital.” She explains at your confused expression. “You fell. Big time. We thought you were dead at first. Steve was hysterical and wouldn’t let anyone touch you until Nancy called an ambulance. He’s going to be so pissed that you woke up while he was gone.” Robin recounts with a nervous chuckle. You really did scare the shit out of her; out of all of them.
“Steve?”
Robin misinterprets the confusion in your tone as she shifts her chair closer to you. “Yeah, he’s been here the whole time; the nurses were not impressed, but he wouldn’t leave. Dustin finally managed to convince him to leave long enough to shower and change at least. We had to tell him he was starting to smell bad. He didn’t, mind you, but don’t tell him that.”
You blink at her again, this one less amphibian in nature. “Steve?”
“Yes…Steve,” she parrots, wondering how long the two of you might sit here volleying the man's name back and forth.
“As in Harrington?”
“No, as in Steve Guttenburg from Police Academy,” she deadpans. “Yes, Steve Harrington.”
“Why on Earth would Steve Harrington care if I was in the hospital?” And Robin can’t even take the time to be proud of you for getting all of those words out together in a row when reality crashes down on her.
Now, Robin will admit that it’s a little shameful how long it takes her to realize something isn’t quite right. She probably could have – should have – assumed, seeing as you are currently laying in a hospital bed; nothing is quite right about a person hooked up to a heart monitor.
Of course, of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up in your severely concussed state unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school, and have been for a while.
Why did Robin insist Steve leave? Why would she tell him she could handle this? Why does anyone ever trust her with anything ever?
Fortunately, she’s saved from needing to find answers to those burning questions at Dustin and Steve’s return. Unfortunately, she has no time to answer your burning question (or warn a certain Steve of the current predicament) either.
“The coconut ruins it,” Robin hears Steve argue with his mouth full as the two boys materialize in the doorway, both too wrapped up in whatever argument they’re having to see the two occupants staring at them in bemusement and horror.
“The coconut rui- the coconut ruins it!? Steve, the bar is coconut. Coconut is the fundamental component of it,” Dustin sputters.
“I just think it’d be better if it was, like, peanut butter or something.”
Dustin scoffs incredulously. “Then you buy Reese’s or a Bopper! Why would you buy an Almond Joy if you don’t like coconut?”
“I didn’t say I don’t like coconut,” Steve argues, looking at the teen as though he was an idiot. “I just meant it would be better if it wasn’t coconut.”
“You’re insane.”
Robin’s inclined to agree.
She clears her throat. “Hey, so-”
“Whoa! Look who’s up!” Dustin interrupts with a smile, Steve’s head whipping to the side to see you staring at them with wide eyes.
“Whoa, hey! Hey, hey hey hey, wow. Holy shit, hi baby. How long have you been up?”
“Uh, not long,” Robin interjects, voice steadily rising in both volume and pitch. “Listen, we-”
“How are you feeling?” Steve continues as he abandons his coconut monstrosity on a rolling table and makes for your bedside, ignoring Robin and the pointed looks she’s shooting at him. “Are you hurting? Are you thirsty?”
You go to respond but Robin beats you to it. “Steve, I-”
“Have you had any water yet? Robin, where’s her water?” Steve continues, fussing with the blankets that have been untucked from your legs as his eyes flit around the room for the bottle of water he’d set aside for when you needed it. “Why haven’t you given her water yet?”
“We haven’t exactly had time, Steve. Listen-”
“Have you called the nurse?” Steve asks, shaking his head before even waiting for a response. “Dustin, go get a nurse.”
Dustin doesn’t hesitate before he’s jogging out of the room in search of a nurse.
“What’s Robin doin’ to ya, huh?” Steve coos at you as he perches on the edge of your bed and presses a careful kiss to your temple, flagrantly ignoring the way Robin is frantically waving at him and mentally screaming Earth to dingus!! “She’s got terrible bedside manners, can’t even take care of my girl properly.”
You turn your horrified gaze to Robin as though you dating Steve the Hair Harrington is somehow her fault (it is a little bit; she’s the one who re-introduced you two, insisting he was a changed man since high school).
“Steve!” Robin finally shrieks, missing the way you wince at the volume as Steve turns to look at her like she’s grown three heads.
“Well, it’s true! You didn’t even get her water, never flagged a nurse-”
“We didn’t exactly have a lot of time before you two showed up,” Robin counters as Dustin returns.
“The nurses are just doing a shift change, said someone will be with her shortly.” Dustin reports as he hands Steve a new, cold bottle of water for you.
“Okay, alright. That’s alright, yeah?” Steve confirms with you as he cracks it open. “Are you in pain? If you’re in pain, I can go tell them you need help now.”
Robin watches as you take stock of yourself before side-eyeing her. “I…don’t think so.”
“You don’t think you’re in any pain?” Steve asks gently, bending over slightly in an attempt to regain your attention. Robin finds her heart squeezing at how soft he’s being with you.
Your heart seems to do the same, eyes flooding with tears as all three occupants in the room tense at the sight.
“Hey, hey hey hey, what’s the matter, huh? What’s with the tears?”
Robin stands. “Steve, I really-”
“Are you in pain? What hurts?”
“Steve-”
“What, Robin?” Steve finally snaps, turning towards her like she’s a fly that finally landed on a lampshade after spending the entire afternoon bothering the shit out of him.
“She woke up a little…” Robin pauses, looking towards your teary form as she considers how to explain this gently, “confused.”
“Confused?” Steve parrots before turning back to you. “Confused how?”
“Confused as in she didn’t understand why Steve Harrington has been haunting her hospital room.”
Steve’s brows furrow as he considers you before realization dawns on his face.
The sound that escapes you in response borders a sob. Robin feels a little bit like doing the same.
“Don’t cry, honey,” Steve all but begs as he scooches closer towards you on the bed, one hand grasping yours and leaning his weight on the other as he rests it against the bed by your opposite hip. “Hey, did Robin tell you about the wicked burn Max delivered to Mike earlier?”
Dustin perks up. “Oh man, he got so red; worse when El started repeating it afterwards.”
“Mike accused Max of purposefully turning El against him.” Steve agrees.
“Again. Hey, when they get here, make sure to call Mike a-”
“I don’t want anyone else in here,” you interrupt Dustin quickly, wiping roughly at your face with the hand not currently occupied by Steve’s. “I don’t- it’s…they’re too loud.”
Robin laughs. “Yeah, they are too loud. You comin’ around?”
You suck in a deep, shuddering breath and let out a noncommittal hum in response.
“Okay, no one else will come in here,” Steve agrees, gaze locked onto your face as he rubs his thumb along the back of your knuckles, cautious of the IV taped to the back of your hand. “Do you want any of us to leave?”
The question is innocent enough, though Robin knows he’s mostly asking you if you’d like him to leave.
You shake your head no, though, and give his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Okay,” he whispers, leaning forward to press another kiss to your head and humming at you in question when you lift your chin, obviously asking for a real one.
Steve hesitates, clearly concerned he’s not reading your queues right and wondering if you’re feeling at all more cognizant. Apparently, though, rushing your unconscious girlfriend to the hospital and being without kisses for nearly sixteen hours makes a man a little desperate, finding him ultimately pressing a cautious kiss to your lips anyways.
“You’re okay, hm?” Steve murmurs into the corner of your mouth, dotting a few more kisses to your face before sitting up. “Scared the shit out of me.”
“M’sorry,” your whisper back.
“Yeah, you should be. He’s been insufferable,” Dustin comments, earning him a glare from Steve and a half-smile from you.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, that’s enough out of you, wise guy. What the hell are you two still doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you guys go alert the others that she’s awake?”
“Alright, dingus. Say less,” Robin sighs as she stands, Dustin playfully muttering about how he knows when he’s not wanted.
You pay them no mind, looking up at Steve shyly; it reminds Robin of when the two of you first started hanging out. Awkward, tentative, careful. Steve looks like he’s shielding you from the entire world with the way he’s leaning over your form, you’re looking at him like he might disappear if you blink for too long.
The two of you are disgusting; she loves you both so much.
Robin pauses at the door to take one last look at two of her favourite people, you bite your lip as you ask Steve a question that Robin can’t hear, he chuckles before replying, a little louder, “’course, sweetheart. You can have as many kisses as you want.”
