Debbie and Fester Addams
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
Rick and Evelyn O'Connell
One | Two | Three
Harley Quinn
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six
10th Doctor and Rose
One | Two
Scooby Gang
One
Jedidiah and Octavius (from Night at the Museum)
One | Two
Queen Clarisse Renaldi
One | Two | Three | Four
Leverage Crew
One | Two (you're here!)
It's me, ya girl, back again with another part to a niche au you never knew you needed
Anyway, as always, if you see any typos no you didn't :^)
--
For his first three months at Nana's, Steve observed. He was good at figuring out expectations and hierarchies from body language. Hardison was the top-dog, and a girl named Monica came in second. Both were older and helped contribute the most to the house.
Hardison's help was legally dubious. Nana tight expression, somewhere between fond and exasperated, when he told her bills had been paid or extra groceries had been bought were evidence of that. She never asked questions, though. Steve figured she preferred not knowing.
The kids who most struggled to adjust were the ones like Steve. They came from more affluent backgrounds, were used to moreâŠeverything, really. The other foster kids expected Steve to be the same. They seemed particularly relieved when he wasn't.
On his fourth month, Steve decided to help. He had to, right? How else could he be useful? He couldn't laze around all day if he wanted to stay.
And Steve did want to stay. He liked it there. He liked Nana and enjoyed helping in the kitchen. He liked never feeling alone and abandoned in the house. He liked getting a fresh start at a school where nobody expected anything from him.
So, Steve decided to help the only way he knew how: by being rich.
Or, well, pretending to be.
The places Steve could go and the things Steve could do with the right clothes and attitude were endless. Steve had spent most of his life being rich and still had some of the clothes. All he had to do was show up when and where the rich people gathered.
For two months, he smooth-talked his way into country clubs, art galas, high-class weddings, and one birthday party for someone's pet tortoise. He took party favors, pocketed silverware, accepted gifts from drunk seniors who wanted him to meet their granddaughters. He smiled and took, and then he pawned each item at different stores until he was flush with cash to replaces shoes or cover field trips or pay off school lunch debts.
He was caught by Hardison, which he should have seen coming. Nothing could happen in Nana's house without Hardison knowing about it.
He sat Steve down the night of a movie premiere (the after-party was Steve's hunting ground for the night) and asked, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Steve didn't bother trying to lie. "Izumi needs braces and Dennis broke his glasses. I'm taking care of it."
"Are you out of your damn mind? Do you know what Nana's gonna do if she catches you?"
"Hit me?"
"Worse. She'll say she's disappointed in you."
Oh. That was worse. Unlike his attitude toward his parents, Steve actually gave a shit about what Nana thought of him. He frowned and looked away, nervously smoothing down his hair. "But I want to keep helping."
Hardison stared at him long enough that Steve almost wondered if he'd lost his train of thought. "Okay," he finally said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. But you're gonna be smarter about it. We're working together so you don't get caught."
"What are you gonna do?" Steve asked, looking Hardison up and down. "You don't know how to be rich. You'd get caught right away."
Hardison scoffed, rolled his eyes. "Haven't you seen all those heist movies? You're the front man, Steve. I'm the guy in the chair."
"Okay. What's the plan?"
````````
"There is no plan."
"What do you mean there's no plan?"
"He means we haven't decided how to approach this one yet."
Steve looks between Hardison and Nate, eyes narrowed. "Aren't you always on top of this shit? What happened?"
"The details becameâŠ," Nate trails off, searching for the right word.
"Complicated," Sophie offers.
Nate nods. "Exactly. Complicated."
A moment of silence passes before Steve turns to Parker. She hasn't lied to him before; she won't start now. "What's the problem?"
"It involves your dad. You know, the shitty one."
"He's only ever had the one, Parker," Eliot says, rolling his eyes when she simply shrugs in response.
"Oh," Steve says. Everyone's hesitation makes more sense now. They didn't need to, though.
When Steve thinks of his father, he feels nothing. Maybe, years ago, he'd have felt anger or a deep-seated desire to gain the man's approval. But now? After growing up with Nana and understanding how a parental figure should actually act? Steve doesn't care.
"Doesn't that make things easier?" Steve asks.
Nate and Sophie share a look, and while they're distracted by each other, Steve and Eliot share a look of their own. They'll stop dancing around each other eventually, but that doesn't seem to be any time soon.
"Theoretically," Nate says, looking back at Steve. "As long as you're okay with being around the guy."
"How come he's never this caring when it comes to us?" Parker asks.
"Cuz we're adults," Hardison says.
"Hey, I'm 23," Steve says.
"And I pay income taxes for at least a hundred different aliases," Hardison shoots back. "Talk to me when you can match that."
Steve rolls his eyes. "Yes," he says, returning his attention to Nate. "I can be around him. Why? How is he related to all this?"
"Your sperm donor got released a few months back," Hardison says, swiping the screen of his tablet. A photo of Richard Harrington appears on the screen grid on the wall. "He laid low for a bit, but then started moving. He and a few buddies set up a charity. One of those Make-A-Wish clones."
"Apparently, they scam both donors and the families they grant wishes for," Sophie says, frowning as she crosses her arms. "Wishes are granted, all seemingly for free, but then the families are charged thousands a few weeks later. If they can't pay, their belongings are repossessed and they're hounded by collection agencies. Your father and his friends get away with it by sneaking fine print into supposed liability waivers."
Steve's nose wrinkles in disgust, suddenly remembering a federal agent trying to explain the concept of embezzlement and different types of corporate fraud. Most of it went over Steve's head at the time, but he understands it all now. Even after spending time behind bars, his father hasn't changed.
"What's the plan, then?"
"You're the plan," Nate says.
"Are we running a Lost Heir?" Parker asks, her eyes brightening some.
"Sort of," Sophie replies, finger tapping her chin as she studies the photo of Richard Harrington. "I get the feeling we have to approach this carefully. This can't be a loving reunion."
"He'd suspect me right away," Steve says, running a hand through his hair. "But I can't be totally apathetic to him, either. I need to want something, and part of that has to be his approval."
"More like a Prodigal Son, then," Eliot says.
"A healthy mix of the two," Sophie decides, turning to Steve with a smile. "Let's take you back to your roots, Steve, dear."
````````
Steve doesn't spare the server a glance as he takes a canape from their tray. He pops it into his mouth and drops the used napkin back in its place. The food slides heavily down his throat as the server walks away without him offering so much as a 'thank you' in response. "Man, I hate this," he mutters, looking around the room.
"Don't worry about it," Hardison says, his voice clear in Steve's ear. "I'm already depositing very generous tips in the waitstaff's accounts."
"Save that for later, Hardison," Nate says.
Steve spots him across the room. In the crowd of fancy dresses and suits, Nate sticks out like a sore thumb. His suit is fancy, sure, but the way he's styled himself, from his hair to the cuff links on his sleeves, screams new money and desperation. If Steve were casing this party out, Nate is an easy mark he'd keep an eye on.
But Steve isn't here for that. He scans the room again, gaze drifting over the art on the walls and the people pretending to know anything about it. Finally, he spots Richard Harrington. The man is above the crowd, leaning over the railing of a second-story walkway.
"I'm going in," he murmurs, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing server as he makes his way through the crowd.
"Remember, Steve, you're reconnecting because you want something. He's going to want to see someone he can mold into himself, a protege that he can take advantage of," Sophie says.
It takes all of Steve's will to not roll his eyes. "Trust me, Sophie," he says, voice low and lips near still despite his speaking, "I know how to approach my father."
Once he reaches the second floor walkway, Steve downs half of his champagne. The warm, bubbly feeling in his stomach gives him the momentum he needs to approach Richard Harrington.
"So, what do you do if someone figures out the art is fake?" he asks, standing a step behind his father and to the right.
He watches as Richard Harrington stiffens and turns around. Whatever the man was about to say dies on his lips as he gets a good look at Steve. Despite the roiling champagne in his stomach as he realizes how much he looks like his father, Steve flashes an easy, confident smile.
"Long time, no see, old man."
Shock, interest, and amusement pass over Richard's face before he finally settles on a neutral smile that once made Steve want to curl in on himself. "Steven," he says, one hand pushed into the pocket of his slacks as he looks Steve up and down. "It's like looking in a mirror."
Yeah, Steve really wants to throw up now. "Guess I lucked out then."
"You know, plastic surgery is an option," Parker says in his ear, "If you wanna look less like him, I mean."
"What are you doing here? Last I heard, you'd been given to the state. That doesn't look like the suit of someone given to the state," Richard says, eyebrow raised.
Steve huffs out a laugh, looking away as he takes a sip from his glass. "I wasn't living the way I wanted with the state. Decided to change that, pull myself up by other people's bootstraps."
"I know you, and I still want to punch you," Eliot says, his voice low like he's sliding past people as he speaks.
Richard Harrington's smile turns a little more genuine, a little more interested. "And you came looking for me?" he asks.
Here it is. Steve hums, mirrors his father's posture by slipping a hand into his pocket, and flashes a smile he remembers from his childhood. It's smarmy, oily, speaks of getting what he wants and making people think he's doing them a favor in the process.
"Ugh. Now that is a rich asshole smile," Hardison says, and Steve almost nods in agreement with the disgust in his voice.
"I got far by myself," Steve says, using the hand holding his champagne flute to gesture to his suit and then the party. "But I want more. Figured you're the expert in getting it. You know, when you're not getting caught and jailed."
"Uh, Steve? Maybe don't remind him of that," Parker suggests.
He can see why she'd be worried, but Steve knows he's made the right call when his father barks out a laugh and finally removes his hand from his pocket. He steps close and claps Steve's shoulder, a cocky, self-satisfied grin tugging at his lips. "I always knew you'd be a chip off the old block, son," he says, maneuvering Steve so they're standing side-by-side at the railing. "Here, let me catch you up on my new business."
----
Tag List (there's room, so let me know if you'd like to be added!)
Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words âHawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.
Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, canât hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.
He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore.Â
Itâs just. He thought. Hawkins hadnât exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this showâs focus.Â
But enough, apparently. Obviously.Â
Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble.Â
For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. Itâs not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That thereâs no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed?Â
Hellfire has been his companion through it all and nowânowâ
Eddieâs talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry.Â
He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Loverâs Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theoriesânone close to the truth.Â
The thing is. Heâs becomeâfond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesnât care about cryptids, isnât interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, itâs the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. Theyâre funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddieâs voice makes him a little melty? Well, thatâs between him and 3am.Â
Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.
They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."
And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."
"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.
"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."
"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"
He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.
The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.
"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--
"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.
"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"
"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."
"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."
"Eddie..."
"What do you know about Hawkins?"
"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."
"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"
"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.
"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"
"I'm being serious."
"It's cute."
"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."
"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."
"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."
Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"
"Nothing," too quick.
"Are you lying to me?"
"I can't say."
"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."
"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."
"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."
"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."
"What's stopping you?"
He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.
"NDAs."
Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.
That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--
The line goes dead.
"Fuck."
He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.
"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.
"Called into a radio show about monsters."
The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.
"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.
---
Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.
He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.
It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.
It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.
Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.
He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.
There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.
"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.
"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.
A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.
Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"
"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."
He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.
Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.
Iâm really set on like Alpha/Beta/Omega AUs soooo
Maybe an AU where Steveâs parents send him to an all Alpha summer camp, because Steve hasnât presented yet and heâs 17 going on 18 but his parents are like POSITIVE heâs an alpha so they bribe the camp owner into letting him attend. He gets roomed with none other than Billy Hargrove whoâs like the Top Alpha at Camp. And even though Steve is covered in Alpha Cologne his father gave him, so nobody would get suspicious, Billy smells right through it and realizes that Steve is an unpresented omega and he can tell because Steve is his mate. But he keeps his distance, heâll let the little omega pretend to be a big bad Alpha for the summer, no harm done, especially since nobody else knows. But heâs always and I mean ALWAYS watching Steve. While heâs hanging out with friends, listening to music by the beach, doing camp activities or when Steve is in a deep sleep, Billy will sit up in his bed and watch his omega sleep, just waiting for the moment for him to present. Steve doesnât present while at camp though, and after a few awkward run ins with billy, and even an instance where Billy told him he knew that he wasnât an Alpha, Steve decides to switch rooms for the last few weeks of camp.
Then they go their separate ways never to see each other again...
JKKKKK
OF COURSE within the week before school starts, Steve goes into heat and FINALLY presents into a Male Omega, and his parents are surprised because dang, for sure thought heâd be an alpha, because both parents are alphas, but theyâre also happy because having a male Omega is rare (says every FanFiction ever sorrynotsorry) and they take pride in their son and then when Steve goes back to school EVERYONE AMD THEY MOMMA KNOWS and itâs weird for awhile with every alpha trying to mark claim on him and bringing him flowers and leaving stuff by his locker, carrying his books to class and going easy on him in gym class before he settles into a regular routine until Billy transfers to Hawkins two months later and he can smell his mate is here and he smells like cigarettes and cinnamon rolls. So billy finds him, after the halls clear out and everyone is in class, except his omega who is still putting things in his locker and a few desperate Alphas(male and female) who still think they may have a chance. Steve looks up though, a different scent hitting his nose, it smells like ashes and warm sunflowers and when he looks up and makes eyes with the Alpha all the way at the end of the hall, a book bag slung over his shoulders and a smirk that says heâs in charge, the alpha he roomed with at camp, the alpha he can smell a mile away and realize, this is mate, he realizes thereâs no use running. The look in Billyâs eyes says it all.
Billys on the run. Heâs done too much crime and now a lot of bad people are after him. Realized that he doesnât have much time left, he decideds to do something really stupid (suicidal even) that may get him killed⊠but then this random guy, riding by, sees him and rushes to help/stop himâ and gets himself killed in the process.Â
Billy is the only one there and heâs like âo shittt i def shouldnt have done thatâ and now heâs in a panic. He goes through the guys things and sees that he was on his way to a new town, all his bagage on his horse â and billy has this idea! Nobody knows this guy is dead. He could just take over his life, cant he? He has all his thing, all his documents.Â
So he goes BUT as he arrives it turnes out this guy was supposed to be the new town priest (or sheriff)
Chrissy Cunningham wears bright eyeshadows because it distracts peopleâs attention from her crooked teeth.
Chrissy Cunningham wakes up half an hour before to curl her ponytail to create the impression that she has more hair than she actually has.
Chrissy Cunningham wears oversized clothes because it creates the illusion that sheâs smaller.
Chrissy Cunningham has been shaving her legs since she was eight years old.
All of Chrissy Cunninghamâs underwear is cotton white, and her mother cuts all the decorative little bows off.
Chrissy Cunningham hasnât slept more than five hours at night in years, because perfection takes time.
Chrissy Cunningham hasnât finished any meal since she was eleven, because it makes her look exemplary to her parentsâ friends when she says sheâs full before finishing, even if she's still hungry.
Chrissy Cunninghamâs mother taught her all of this.
So, itâs safe to say that every morning, when she wakes up from yet another short sleep, Chrissy Cunningham doesnât know who Chrissy Cunningham is. She feels like her own skin isnât hers, itâs just some character that her mother has carefully created, and itâs a role she canât break free from.Â
Chrissy Cunningham doesnât exist, not really.
Her friends donât talk about this. They occasionally whine about the food or their body size, but they always take a few minutes to look at themselves in the mirror of the school restroom to style out their hair, or to put some make up on that they have to hide from their parents.Â
Chrissy hates mirrors, because she always has the supernatural feeling that her reflection is someone elseâs, but it was starting to get suspicious that she didnât even put lip gloss, so she bought one last summer at Starcourt mall.Â
She liked the mall. It was one of the few places she was allowed to go with her friends without her motherâs scrutinizing eye on her at all times. She used to side eye that one lingerie shop, wondering if she would ever wear one of the lacey black panties.
Well, not actually those, but something that is not white. Hell, if she was honest to herself, she would settle for just keeping the little bows. Sheâd settle for her mother not manipulating her intimate clothes.
She thought of stealing a pair of hot pink panties, but sheâs too much of a coward.Â
Thereâs something Chrissyâs friend used to do every time after shopping, though, and it would later keep her awake at night out of pure guilt. They would go to the ice cream parlor. She couldnât buy an ice cream, actually, because her mother always counted the money and made her give it all back, then asked for the receipts, and she couldnât just see one of an ice cream because thatâd mean that she wonât have dinner for the following week (unfinished meals every night are better than no meal at all).
But she would go there, anyway, and let her friends engage with the Harrington boy so they could get a discount from him, and sheâd glance more than once at the display of several flavors behind the glass, fantasizing how many scoops sheâd have, or which ones she would choose, and then, with no fail, the other cashier, Robin Buckley, from school band, would come to ask which one she wants to try. It makes Chrissy feel naughty, she always picks a different one, but buys nothing.Â
That happens several times. She tries not to think how sad it is that this little thing is actually thrilling. Something so small that makes her feel like she still exists.
Robinâs in uniform but she manages to own it. Her shoes are scribbled all over, she wears a lot of trinkets, little chains, silver (her mother doesnât let her wear silver, just gold), her hair is cut unevenly, and looks like she tried to make highlights at home with cleaning bleach, and her smudge eyeshadow seems to be done with her finger.
Chrissy likes that so very much. Robin shows through the uniform. She slips through the cracks, like yelling at the world that Robin exists, that Robin is.
Itâs not nice to compare, but she looks at her group of friends and thinks that they all⊠they all kind of look the same. And they worry about the same silly stuff that seems ordinary but is out of Chrissyâs reach, like parents not going for a weekend so they can sneak their boyfriends in.
They all share that they won't see Chrissy, either. Not really.
Not ever.
Because they are all the same person.
Thatâs an unkind thought.
Maybe Chrissy is unkind.
Then the Starcourt mall burns down and it feels like a divine intervention for how secretly petty she is when sheâs there.
It happens in July, and since Chrissyâs mother wonât let her go to any parties, she starts training near the school for when the cheerleading season begins again, and thatâs when she meets Jason Carver.Â
Heâs on the basketball court and sheâs running laps. They steal glances and thatâs exciting, because the boy is beautiful. His smile looks like the prologue of a tragedy and she falls in love with that feeling. They exchange more than glances and smiles and she wants things she never wanted before. It all fades into the blur of a far away memory right when school begins and they trade hot kisses and love bites for holding hands in the hallway.Â
She feels nothing for him when Chrissy realizes Jason loves the curated version that her mother has made out of her, not actually her. He loves that sheâs girly, and perfectionist with her looks, that sheâs fit and petite, that unnatural lovely hair swirl, that she wears cute colors on her eyelids and that she always leaves fries for him whenever they go to a diner.Â
Nothing.
And whatâs about her to love, anyway? Who is Chrissy Cunningham? Sheâs justâ
She is just gone.
Maybe she was never there to begin with, inside this tight suit of skin and heavy bones she wears everywhere.
She keeps avoiding the stranger in the mirror when she realizes she only can see what her mother sees wrong in her, or she can only hear the comments of Jason about her bony hips that one time they were at the backseat of his car. Chrissy knows how to do her makeup without using the cursed mirror, she knows how to style her hair without it, and itâs weird, thatâs why she always helps the coach to store all the stuff they used, coming into the dressing room after her team, and fakes to take more time in the shower after practice, to be the last one to leave. To dress herself with the profaned underwear without looking at it, to reconstruct the image she hates so much and not having to put a smile upon her face while she fades away one day more.
That time sheâs not alone when she comes in, all sweaty in her uniform.
Thereâs the ice cream girl, Robin. They had band practice and she was the only one who actually took it seriously about practicing with the stiff jacket of the uniform for an upcoming rally. She heard the rehearsal from the gym.
Robin hasnât seen her yet, and Chrissy just canât move. Robin is listening to something that sheâs humming to in her walkman, that she stops with a loud click and puts away, unbuttoning her shirt.
Something is happening inside Chrissy when she sees Robinâs ducky bra.
A ducky bra.
Sky blue background and a god damned yellow ducky pattern.
Chrissy has never in her life seen something like that. That looks⊠Okay, that doesnât even look the right size. Maybe itâs from past years and she still uses it. It looks comfortable, though, even if a little old.
It has the little, bright orange bow between her breasts.
She gasps audibly, and Robin spots her.
They lock gazes and Robin actually looks like a deer caught in headlights. Pink cheeks, big, blue eyes focused on her.
Sheâs so gorgeous without even trying. She always has been.
Chrissy is in a strange chokehold. It has to be nice to be someone, she thinks to herself, and not being afraid to exist.
They talk, but Chrissyâs not even paying attention to what she is saying. Sheâs only looking at Robin, and Chrissy must have said something funny because Robin laughs. She canât look away, notice Robinâs cheeks growing darker, her hand accommodating her hair behind her own ears, the low conversation taking place in an empty space.
She does remember asking Robin if she could kiss her, though.
She does remember standing there in silence before their mouths meet halfway, experimental and new, soft and wet.
Chrissy hears herself whine in Robinâs lips, and dares to ask for more. Begs Robin to touch her and sheâs feeling Robinâs cold fingers around her waist, lips locking, mouth opening, tongue curling around hers.
Robin is chatty, but Chrissy doesnât mind. She spares a few words here and there in between kisses, and then Robin whispers to her ear, over, and over again, âI saw you. At the mall, I saw you. Every time.â
Chrissy gasps and kisses her again, grabs her hair, puts her body against her, skin touching skin, they fall to the floor and keep kissing until her lips are sore and someone opens the door of the locker room and they both hid from that uninvited person to keep kissing in silence, which was rather hard, but ultimately thrilling and funny.Â
Itâs hours later, under the safe covers of her bed when she realizes that for a little while she actually felt her skin as her own. And thatâs new, thatâs fresh.Â
Thrilling. Something so small that makes her feel like she actually exists.
To show his hatred for one King Steve, Eddie begins to weld beautiful flowers with insults imbued into them to gift Steve. Steve does not know flower language.
Misunderstandings, Falling in love, etc.
Will be on AO3 soon.
<Part1>
Steve was having a pretty shit day. Sure he had a party later and it would be great, but he had failed another test and was unsure if he would pass his classes. Maybe if he went to Nancy sheâd help him study, but he didnât feel the best about running to the cute girl he wanted to date about how stupid he was. Tommy assured him that a few drinks would cheer him up and he had reluctantly agreed to go to Emmaâs party.
The shrill bell invaded his ears and made him wince, it reverberated in his ears and he could almost feel the first inklings of a headache. He was frustrated and annoyed and just generally wanted to punch something. All these little things accumulated under his skin and itched fiercely.
He walked to the bathroom just trying to do something with his legs to sort through the mess of adrenaline filled emotions invading his head. He opened the door and went to the sink, turning on the faucet and using his hands to splash his face. His hands lingered, fingertips pressing at the hard line of his brow. The cold water had done little more than soothe the tense muscles in his face.
He patted his face with a paper towel and tossed it in the trash. Steve reentered the busy hall with a straight back and hard steps that spoke to years of not only belonging but dominating every space he entered. People generally avoided knocking into him because wherever Steve lingered his lapdog Tommy always seemed to be present.
When a purposeful, unfamiliar hand landed on his shoulder Steveâs lips immediately prepared to curl in distaste. He followed the hand and found soot smeared skin with grease lines making veins down his arm. He wore a dirty wife beater that clung to his sweat slicked skin. A fluffy and wild halo of curls shrouded his face and hung just above his shoulders. His face was similarly soot streaked which contrasted sharply with the pale skin but maintained a cohesive aesthetic with the hard lines of his face. His wide, coal pit eyes pierced into Steve.
His demeanor made Steve pause and the strange boy gave him a wolf-ish grin that flashed blinding white. Before Steve could get a word out from his parted lips, the boy was on one knee, head tilted defiantly at Steve as he knelt at his feet. He presented a flower, with an oil slick iridescence a twisted hunk of metal gave the form of a sunflower.
The flower was a dark opalescent with swirls of color that reflected in the light. There was a faint gradient of yellow on the edges that subtly blended with the shining grey of the metal. The petals were finely crafted and looked soft. They lacked the hard edges that welded objects always seemed to have. If not for the fact it didnât yield to the boyâs movement Steve would have assumed it was spray painted.
âMy liege, please accept my humble offering.â The boy said it with a tightness in his body and a goading glint in his eyes.
Steve took it, admiring the delicate handiwork. All Steve could do was gawk at it. All the previous tension and frustration Steve held melted from his body. But, The boy was already up on his feet though, pushing past Steve.
âThank you.â Steve barely managed to get out, but the boy gave no indication of hearing him.
There were many shocked onlookers, but Steve ignored them. He made his way to his next class in a daze, ignoring the way his fingers became similarly tainted with soot left over from the strange boyâs hand. He traced over the grooves in the flower and the subtle feathering of yellow along the ends of the petals. Tommy soon fell into step beside him, his hushed criticisms falling on deaf ears.
âHow could Eddie âthe freakâ Munson have the goddamn audacity to pull that shit? I should beat the shit out of him.â Tommy smiled with a tense jaw, bumping shoulders with Steve.
âDonâtâ Steve interrupted quietly.
âWhat?â Tommyâs sneer dropped as he barked out in surprise.
âI said donât.â Steve repeated in a stronger tone.
âFine, your fucking funeral when that fag comes back around.â A jealous sneer emerged on Tommyâs face, but none of its ire was actually directed at Steve.
Steve got to his next class, quickly checking in for attendance before heading to the office with a pep in his step.
âHello, I was wondering if the school was still running that tutoring program?â Steve asked, nervously tapping the ornate flower he had been unable to put down.
âYes, we are. Sessions are after school and we can match you to a tutor based on the classes youâre having trouble in.â
âUh, Iâm having trouble in History.â Steve supplied quietly.
âYouâll be with Robin Buckley then.â The receptionist supplied.
âOh okay, thatâs it?â Steve questioned.
âYouâll meet in the library after the last bell.â The woman replied in a flat tone.
With the ghost of another ok on his lips, he left. He couldnât help but trace the name of that strange boy in his mind.
âEddie Munsonâ
He was like a curly haired spector. Steve couldnât help but have his attention drawn to the little whispers of information about Eddie he was given. The flower was the fruition of what had to be hours of hot and heavy labor. Each petal was painstakingly crafted, which left Steve a little dizzy at the thought.
He twirled and twisted his fingers about the flower, feeling every subtle contour. He privately wondered if he would ever be able to put the thing down.
Steve had never received a better gift and he wasnât sure if he ever would unless another artist expressed their love for him in a large mural.
No.
Not even that would be enough.
Because he could see the pain of burnt fingers and sweat imbued into this gift. It was a labor of intense emotion and determination to see its fruition.
He knew it was wrong, but Eddie had endeared himself to Steve in a way nobody ever had before.
Steve was giddy for the remainder of his classes, he was unsure if he could even go to the party tonight because he couldnât imagine spending his evening any other way than admiring this flower.
When he arrived at the library after school, he spoke to the librarian who directed him to an empty table. It was maybe 5 minutes later that there was a girl with a pale, freckled face and wavy bob. Her hair was either half highlighted or the result of too much time spent at a pool. She glared at him as she moved towards him. She dropped herself into the seat across from him.
Steve could tell that she was waiting for an opportunity to sneer.
âHi, Iâm Steve.â
The air between them seemed to tense and strain, her lack of a response creating a malicious silence.
âIâm curious Steve, What are you going to do to Eddie?â She asked, the sneer finally blooming on her face and rage embedded itself between his brows.
âWhat?â Steve jolted back, shocked at the accusation.
âI mean heâs another one of us freaks, what are you going to do to him for daring to speak to royalty such as yourself?â She leaned forward, her voice lowering dangerously.
âWhy would I do anything?â Steve shrunk into his seat when faced with her ire.
âBecause all your fucking cronies are going to jump him once he leaves Hellfire tonight.â Her hands planted on the table, raising herself and staring furiously into his eyes.
âWhat?â Steve asked, but she revealed no answer.
She instead continued to glare at him, righteous fury pouring off her in waves. Steve sputtered.
âI- I know youâre angry, but I swear I had nothing to do with this. I can explain but you have to promise not to tell anyone.â Steve begged as he pulled the flower from his bag, clenching the stem as he prepared to impart his shameful feelings to a stranger.
âFine, itâs not like anyone would believe me anyway.â She sneered.
âItâs the best gift Iâve ever received, itâs beautiful, just look at it.â Steve offered the flower to her for her inspection with shaking fingers.
She seemed similarly bewitched by the beauty and detail of the flowers. Her eyes and posture softened and she collapsed back into her seat.
âWow, I heard about it, but I never saw it.â She breathed out.
Suddenly skittish she said âSorry about that, Iâm Robin.â She winced a bit at her misplaced anger.
âHellfire ends at 4 if you want to do something about it.â Robin said quietly. âIf itâs the best gift youâve ever gotten, then maybe itâs worth doing something about.â
Steve nodded, fingers beginning to move restlessly.
âIf theyâre going after him, then theyâd probably wait by his car.â Steve recounted, shameful at his admission of knowing what his cronies got up to.
âOkay, so we just need to pick them up.â Robin suggested with a smile. âIâll get him to come with me. Then Iâll bring him out to your car. Wait at the entrance by the gym, itâs on the opposite side of the building from where Hellfire is held.â
âYouâre not a tutor for no reason, youâre really smart.â Steve stated, in mild awe of how easily the plan came to her.
âWell, Iâve never had the power and confidence of King Steve behind me.â Steve wasnât sure what it was, but when she said that nickname there was still a sort of resentment in her eyes, despite the fact she was smiling.
âNow!â Robin clapped, drawing the attention of the librarian who shushed her. âWe can get some studying, weâll need to be done around 3:45, so we have about an hour and a half.â
âGreat, um I suck at the unification of Germany and Italy. I can never remember the wars.â
âWell they both used France. Bismarck used France as a way to threaten the German States to run into his arms for Prussian Protection.â
âŠ
Robin waved goodbye to Steve as he left to get his car. Steve jumped in his car and drove around, uneased by a group of his friends hidden behind a van. It was one of the last cars left in the lot.
Steve waited by the gym entrance. Tapping the steering wheel as a shouting Eddie Munson left the building.
âOf course, Heâd pull some shit like this, nothing without his goddamn mongrels!â Eddie sneered, manic laughter emerging from his throat. Robin seemed uncomfortable next to him, a sharp contrast with her earlier furious defense of him.
Robin wordlessly tapped Eddieâs shoulder and gestured at Steveâs beemer.
Eddie looked up, his brows furrowing and the beginnings of furious anger tickling at his tensed jaw. Before Eddie could speak, Robin interrupted.
âThe King liked your gift.â Robin said sharply. âDecided he didnât want to see you beat to shit.â
âThen why doesnât he call off his fucking dogs?!â Eddie asks in an accusatory, rage filled tone.
âI didnât know what they were doing. Tommy said something earlier, but I told him no.â Steve said with a mouselike tilt to his voice.
Robin opened the passengerâs side door and ushered Eddie inside.
âNow, fair lady it is time to get in your carriage.â Robin says mockingly, pushing Eddie towards the seat.
Eddie gets in, heâs still tense. Steveâs eyes trace the lines of his arms which unexpectedly bulge with more muscle then Eddie seems to have at first glance.
Robin crumples into the backseat, looking fatigued.
âAddress?â
âForest Hills, the trailer park.â Eddie spat with a sneer on his face.
They drove in silence, Eddie departing as quickly as possible once they stopped at the trailer park. Robin seemed tired from dealing with Eddie, social fatigue rolling off of her in waves. Steve dropped Robin off too, she smiled at him wearily before departing to her house.
Notes: I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing daily. The prompt I got today just screamed Billy. So here it is. This will eventually go up on Ao3, but for now I'm just going to share it under the format that the prompt community uses. This isn't edited if I'm honest, and was written in under an hour. It was more of a 'get back to getting words on a page and refuse to regret them' than anything else.
Title: Remembrance
Fandom: Stranger Things
Wordcount: 2,026â
Rating: M (References to events in S3, so you can guess why)
Warnings: References to deep depression, borderline suicidal ideation that never quite gets there, references to deaths in S3
Prompt: 'He doesn't want to forget, but he can't quite bear to remember.'
Summary: Walking through the morning of an important day that he can't quite forget
It felt like his head has barely had the chance to meet his pillow before the alarm beside the bed was screaming for his attention. After a night like the last one he normally would grab his pillow and throw it over the noisy thing, hoping that he could justify missing his alarm by being a 'sloppy' sleeper. Any other day he thinks he'd do it too. But not today.Â
Because of course, he had seen the calendar all throughout the previous day and knew that there was no way he could risk that today. The date had been sneaking up on him, like it had last year, and the year before, and even the year before that. Crept up like a wild cat stalking its prey, but even more inevitable. The cat might get bored, might get distracted, might size things up as too dangerous to consider, or too much of a waste of energy for not enough reward.Â
For him there was no avoiding today.Â
With a sigh he reached out, switching the device off. His head was still throbbing from too much drink, his lip aching from the split opened into it after too much lip thrown at the wrong guy at the party. Really, he should know better than to start shit the night before this, but it was the only way he felt like he could face what was coming next.Â
There was a routine for greeting this, the worst of all days. It started with hauling his hungover ass out of the bed, one leg swung over the edge at a time. They hit hard, bare feet on thin carpet over shit ass wood and aluminum or something. Once both were under him he pushed up to his feet, didn't bother to stretch, and immediately turned around to address the bed. No reason to leave a mess for others to deal with after all.Â
In the shower he let icy water roll over his already abused skin. It woke a new sting in his busted lip, shook some of the alcohol from its grip over his body, and numbed the tingle of bruises that speckled his skin. They painted his sides, his chest, black and blue underlying stretches of what was normally the glossy white of scar tissue. So much scar tissue. The ache they left him with was always familiar, and always far from good enough. His fingers carded through his hair as he tried not to think, just enough effort put in to wash the smell of alcohol and smoke and sweat from his skin. Anything more felt like too much vanity.
From there it was on to a meager breakfast. Instant oatmeal, unflavored save for a splash of milk to make the texture just a bit more bearable. A handful of pills from a pale blue case labeled with the days of the week. The purple one with his night time dosages was still tucked away in the drawer, the previous night's pills untouched. It made the pain more acute, just like skipping the small, off-white tablet did now.Â
Pain kept him grounded on the anniversary. Made him remember what he deserved. What the universe had somehow failed to dish out. The other meds he downs with a swallow of water. Supplements to make up for what his GI tract couldn't quite manage on its own anymore no matter what or how much he ate. Pills to try and help his immune system which had been shot in the whole process of everything. One that had something or other to do with kidney function, and another that was meant to keep his nerves functioning properly or something.
Frankly he didn't bother remembering what most of them were for. When the doctors wrote a new prescription he tuned out on the why. At this point he only got them filled because he knew she would be disappointed if he didn't. So every month he took a special trip out to get them refilled, and he let her fuss every Saturday night and Sunday morning over refilling the pill boxes. Let her lecture him on not skipping his pain pills. Let her look at him with worry out of the corner of her eyes when she thought he wasn't aware.Â
Let her wonder if maybe she should have argued with him more about the antidepressants.Â
That was the one line he wouldn't let anyone cross. No fucking with his brain. He'd done the research, gone to the library to look up all the sorts of things that could be given for that, and made sure to check the prescriptions to see if there was anything in there about them.Â
Three times now he'd thrown out prescription papers with the instructions for one. Soon he expected the doctor was going to be going behind his back and delivering them in person. He would cross that bridge when he got to it.Â
Though on days like today he wondered if maybe...
Oatmeal done he shook himself from his thoughts. Tired. So tired. He could feel it in the sluggishness of his muscles. In the ache of his joints. In the fog around his thoughts.Â
Next step, clothes. The terrycloth robe that had been forced on him last Christmas comes off, replaced with the same outfit as every other year. Jeans, though not as tight as they used to be. Something easier to get into and out of, for the days when the pain was enough to make something more skin tight too much to handle. A white tank top that coincidentally covered every inch of scar but left him all to aware of where they were when the cotton rubbed over skin.Â
Or maybe he didn't feel that at all. Phantom sensations, the doctors called it. His brain remembering what he had felt then, projecting it onto the moment. Might even make sense, given how fucked up his brain was. Given how much less sensation he got from the scars than from anywhere else.Â
The shoes are different. Easier to get on sneakers that he usually left just loosely tied enough to slip into but also tight enough that they didn't come off without some work. Bending over far enough to get something sturdier on was a serious bit of work these days. Not the sort of work he was willing to put in for a gesture.Â
For a moment his hand hesitated near the jewelry box by his bed, then jerked back like burned. No. Not this year. Not yet. He had sworn that he wouldn't take it out again until he was worthy of it. Of what it represented.Â
If he could ever be worthy.Â
With a sigh he pushed off of the bed once more and glanced at his alarm clock. Four in the morning. An hour for bakers and cops and late night diners. For people who couldn't sleep, who wouldn't sleep, who maybe shouldn't sleep. It was an hour he knew well. It was an hour for private things, private contemplation, private pain.
And was there any pain more private than this?Â
The routine stopped him in the kitchen only long enough to open the fridge and pull out the only thing prepared the day before. This too was the same thing as always. A small bouquet of purple flowers. When he'd asked for something appropriate the first year the florist had said purple hyacinths were a good way to show sorrow. By the third year there was always a bundle of them set aside and waiting for him when he came in the day before. For all that he wasn't a creature of habit, he really had fallen into a few that defined his life.Â
With the flowers and his keys it all got a lot easier. He headed out and climbed into the beat up old Ford, carefully put the flowers onto the passenger seat, and prayed for all he was worth for the engine to turn over. It was a small miracle to have it do so, but enough to keep the routine in progress.
On another day the drive would be noisy. Either from her in the passenger seat or her friends in the back, or from music. From talk and laughter and life. There was no space for that today. There was barely space in the car for himself and the weight of the date. Of the memories. The darkness and the fear that lingered in him, that pulled at his heart, that left him screaming inside for release.Â
Like it had then. Like he had then, with tears on his cheeks and a desperate desire to run free. A sentiment that had decorated his childhood, his school years, his life since then.Â
Strange how he could classify his life as before and after the darkness and screaming and burning pain, yet at the same time find the underlying need to run on both sides. Even now he could. Leave everything behind, just point the car for the interstate and drive until the money in his wallet ran out and he was left... What? Lost? Stranded? Waiting for the universe to finish the job it should have?Â
Except running wasn't an option now. Not with what he had to live for. Not given the weight he had to carry.Â
Everyone else could boil the whole thing down to 'such a tragedy' and set aside the grief, the pain, move on with their lives. He couldn't. He never could because if he did...Â
If he ever did...
And then there he was. When had the time passed? He didn't know. It was like driving on autopilot when he came out here at night, with the smell of hyacinth in his noise and darkness in his head and tears stinging at his eyes. The car gets parked, but he doesn't turn the headlights off.
The light framed what laid before him. A granite pillar, with a bronze plaque. Names cover it. Each name important. Vital. Eached into his heart and his soul.Â
With a groan of pain, because of course he hurt, he hauled himself out from the car with the flowers in hand. The door gets slammed but he didn't bother turning off the headlights. What was the point? Sure, he could do the steps from the car to the memorial blindfolded. Sure, he knew each and every name worked out in metal and didn't need to see them to remember. But if he didn't let himself look on them in the light they felt more and more like ghosts.Â
He was already haunted enough as it was, thanks.Â
One. Two. Ten. Twenty paces to the stone and metal. The flowers found their place at the base, the same spot as every year. Later in the day others might join them, depending on how much the families still cared. But these ones... He swore no matter what, no matter where his life took them, he would always leave these flowers here.Â
Because the only thing that keep him from his hour of quiet, contemplative grief each and every turning of the year would be his death. One that should have come years ago.
Maybe then they would still be alive.Â
"I'm sorry," he whispered out, his voice rough with the pain of the memories.
He could remember each and every one of them. Remember them in the dark, weeping, shaking, struggling. Whether he had been the one to hold them down or not, he remembered them all. They dogged his every step. Lives cut short, when somehow he was allowed to continue on.
And he would. Every damn day, month, year, he would continue on. Because it was suffering to keep living. They deserved his suffering. He deserved his suffering, no matter what the doctors said. No matter what the others said. In control or not the truth didn't change.
There would always be blood on Billy's hands, and nothing he did could escape that fact. So it was his duty to never forget. Never forget, even when it hurt to remember.Â
Knight Commander Stephan Harrington, Champion of Light, right hand to the newly crowned (and very young) Queen Elaine, was tied up on the floor.Â
Unfortunately, so was Eddie.
Which wasnât intentional--it certainly had not been the plan (not that kidnapping two royal knights had been the plan either)--but it was the outcome that had happened and so, Eddie had to deal.Â
Now if only he could get the damn bespelled ropes from entangling himâŠ
âYou are incredibly bad at this.â The knight informed him in an amused tone. âLike, insanely bad. You should be ashamed levels of bad.âÂ
âŠwhich would be a lot easier if he wasnât being heckled.Â
âI am not!â Eddie defended, as he finally managed to free himself, throwing the offending, wiggling ropes across the room. Never again would he buy from the cheap spell stall in the market.Â
âThis is a clear and obvious ploy to get you to feel like I am in over my head and you--both of you!--are falling for it!âÂ
He leapt to his feet, spinning around and staring down at his captives with a look he hoped was threatening.
(It wasnât.)Â
âWe've been kidnapped a handful of times, you know.â Knight First Class Robin Buckley spoke up from her position tied next to her commander. âPeople tend to put way more thought into it than this.âÂ
Sheâd adjusted her position sometime between her initial capture (a spell he'd purchased that Eddie had intended to hit the royal carriage and not the knights escorting it) to sit cross legged, hands bound behind her back.
âAt least one thought, anyway. You gotta admit this feels pretty desperate.â Stephan piled on. Heâd been more entertained than pissed ever since Eddie had taken himself down with his own tools, and the wisecracks were getting worse.Â
âThank you, Sir Stephan--â
âYou can just call me Steve, man.âÂ
ââbut some of us are on a tight deadline here. And for your information,â He brought himself to his full height, trying to loom over them menacingly, ânobody goes around kidnapping royalty unless theyâre absolutely desperate.â
Not that heâd succeeded in the âroyaltyâ department, but heâd gotten close enough.Â
âOh that reeks of a tragic backstory.â Robin said, like she was seated at a dinner party and not on the floor. âDid you get cursed?âÂ
âHe looks like the type of guy to get cursed.â Steve agreed, head tilting like a faithful dogs as he examined his captor.Â
Frustration overwhelmed him in a wave and Eddie went to angrily yank on his hair before catching himself in the act. As good as it would feel in the moment, it would not help him convince the idiots before him that this was serious, dammit!Â
The result was that he flung his hands around wildly for a moment, before storming off across the room of the little abandoned cabin heâd found, face burning a brilliant, obvious red.Â
âI didnât get cursed, I got accused of--oh. Oh, no, I will not be caught monologuing, fuck you!â
He whirled on his heels, pointing a finger at their stupid faces. âWhy I did it doesnât even matter!âÂ
(Or rather, it did matterâa lot, actuallyâbut not right now. Not to them.
Stupid fucking royal employees and their stupid fucking charmed lives.)Â
He wasnât shrieking, he wasnât--except he was, and both knights traded a look behind his back as he paced wildly about. âI caught you, and I am going to use you to get what I want!âÂ
âRight, sure.â Steve said, nonplussed. âSay, did you maybe touch a weird looking, possibly magical item by chance? Or gave your name to a weirdly attractive looking lady who seems to love yapping about royal court band practices and who definitely wasn't one of the Fae?âÂ
He cast a sly look at his companion with that last line, and was rewarded when her mouth popped open in instant offense.Â
âYou swore youâd stop bringing that up!â Robin said, snapping a leg out in a kick, nailing her companion in the thigh with one thick boot.Â
âI swore Iâd stop bringing up the incident with Nancy.â Steve fired back, taking her kicks with ease. âAnd all those archery lessons you swore you needed, because you apparently hit your head in battle and forgot how a bow worked--â
âShut up, Dingus!â Robin growled, in tandem with Eddieâs mounting panic.Â
This was not, at all, going how this was supposed to. Not that anything had as it was supposed to, since shit went sideways, but the knights were at least could have the decency to be somewhat afraid of him!Â
Or angry.
Eddie could work with angry!
This two bit comedy routine he was being subjected to instead of any rational reaction was just the icing on top of the weird cake of his life and he was this close to having a full blown mental breakdown about it.Â
Which, of course, was exactly when they had to go and make things worse.
Robin stopped kicking her commander and turned back to Eddie, eyes narrowing with the sharpness of someone who had just put something big together. âHey, hold onâarenât you that bard half the kingdom wonât shut up about? Eddie the Balladeer?â
Because naturally, the first time anyone recognized him since his life went to hell, it had to be the people heâd just kidnapped.
(He should have listened to his uncle and become a woodworker.)Â
âI was.â Eddie grumped. âMore like fuckinâ Eddie the Banished now. But again,â He stressed the word with a harsh flick of both hands, âthat doesnât matter.âÂ
âWhy not?â Steve pressed him. âPretty sure Dustin is planning on you playing at his birthday party. Heâs obsessed with that weird song you do. The one with the bed spring noises.âÂ
Eddie did not know who Dustin was, but after the chaos of the past two weeks, it was only a matter of time before word of his so-called crimes reached the capitol and shredded whatever remained of his reputation.
âConsidering Iâve been accused of murder and my entire damn hometown thinks Iâm leading satanic rituals, I seriously doubt that,â he sneered, aiming for something haughty and menacingâanything that would make them start taking this whole thing seriously.Â
Steve and Robin exchanged another look, the kind only two people sharing a single brain cell could, the unspoken agreement loud and clear on their faces: âDo Not Laugh Right Now.
Which was, frankly, insulting, given the sheer level of trauma that came with being branded a murderer.
âWho accused you of satanic worship?â Steve managed to ask, clearly struggling to keep his words giggle free. âYou look like one of those wobbly baby deer. You know, with the big, cute eyes.â
Eddie glowered at him. âAre you deaf? I just said it was the entire town!âÂ
(He determinedly ignored the fact that Steve had just compared him to a damn woodland creatureâand called him cute, on top of it.)
âIs this one of those things wrong place wrong time things?â Robin tacked on, like this was a fun puzzle and not Eddieâs life spiraling wildly out of control. âLike, âthereâs a dead body on the floor and Iâm holding a knife but I swear I just walked in here right before the constable didâ type of situations?âÂ
Which is exactly what happened, the fucking dick.Â
Jaw swimming with his attempts to get out too many words at once, Eddie sputtered. âOf course she isnât dea--I mean, I, no!âÂ
âHa! Steve you totally nailed it.â Robin said, leaning back in triumph. âWhich means Dongus here was trying to kidnap one of the Princes to get someone to listen to you. God thatâs so cliche.âÂ
âItâs not like I asked for it to happen!â Eddie shrilled, tone hitting notes he hadnât been aware his throat could make.Â
âMan, I'm good.â Steve said, ignoring Eddie entirely. "I should've been a detective."
âPlease, youâre much better at looking intimidating than actually being intimidating. Why do you think Hopper made you Champion, Mr. Model?âÂ
Eddieâs hands were in his hair again, and this time, he gave up all pretenses of looking cool and evil and let himself tear at it.Â
âWhy Iâm doing this doesnât matter because itâs not like you two can fucking help me!âÂ
That, at least, cut through the good cheer, succeeding in finally getting both knights to shut up.Â
âIâm dead if I donât fix this, but worse is if they go on and target Wayne, or Gareth or the rest of the band, or--â He wasnât exactly hyperventilating, but he was breathing awfully fast. âI canât let that fucknut Carver go on a whole rampage and hurt everyone who ever associated with me!âÂ
Wayne was fairly talented at talking the village down, but that had always been when Eddie had been accused of selling fake potions or replacing the town flag with Jasonâs undergarments.Â
He was not going to be able to fight off an angry mob, should they decide to make the trek to him.Â
âHey.â Steve said, his voice losing all the humor it had before. âItâs okay.â
âItâs not okay!â
âWe can help make it okay.â Robin said gently and it become abruptly clear that his kidnapping victims were now trying to comfort him, because life just had to kick him while he was down. âWeâre Knights of the Kingdom, after all.âÂ
âOh and I suppose Iâm just supposed to untie you and youâll--what?â Eddie glared at them, hands pulling hard at his hair. âJust let the whole kidnapping thing go? Help me out of the goodness of your hearts instead of arresting me and throwing me in the stockades?âÂ
Steve shrugged. âI mean, yeah.âÂ
âI donât believe you.â Eddie said flatly.Â
âDoes it help if we tell you this isnât a contender for the top ten weirdest situations weâve been in?â Robin asked. âLike, itâs not even close.âÂ
âNo. No it does not.â
âOkay.â Steve said, in a âthinking aloudâ sort of voice. âHow about this? We give you our words as knights that weâll help clear your name, and you can stick with us so no one else tries anything until we do.âÂ
Like Eddie was dumb enough to fall for that bullshit.Â
âAnd why would you do that? What's in it for you to help clear my name?â He challenged them. âWe both know the second I untie either of you, youâre going to overwhelm me and take me in. Iâm not taking that chance.â
Not with Wayne on the line.Â
âHas anyone ever told you you have trust issues?â Steve asked, pushing Eddie right over the edge.Â
âI was convicted!â He dropped his hands in a crazed movement, only to smack the back of one against the other's palm in time with his shrieking. âOf! Murder!âÂ
He must have hit another shrill note, because Steve and Robin both winced.Â
âEasy.â Steve soothed. âYou know who I am, right?â
Eddie snorted. Sir Stephanâs face was plastered across a shitload of banners all over the kingdom. You couldnât go anywhere without knowing who the Queenâs Champion was, and Robin was nearly just as famous.
âYes.â He grit out.Â
âThen you know that while I myself donât have any kind of magic or power, I am tied directly into the Kingdomâs power.âÂ
In an impressive display of athleticism, Steve maneuvered himself up into a proper kneel, hands still tied behind his back with softly glowing ropes.Â
He looked up at Eddie through thick lashes, expression earnest. âIf you want, I will tap into it to make you an unbreakable oath. That way I canât betray you.âÂ
Stunned into stillness, Eddie stared at him, before his eyes swept to his companion, trying to check if this was some kind of trick or trap or--something else he was too stupid to catch.
Instead of an answer, Robin looked just as shocked as Eddie, her jaw dropping.
âDingus, you canât be serious,â She protested, while Eddie finally found his voice to choke out;
âWhy would you do that?â
âBecause weâre the good guys,â Steve replied, with a smile so bright it could probably power the sun. âand the good guys help people.âÂ
That was said a little oddly--like he was quoting someone whoâd said it many, many times before.Â
Eddie opened his mouth, struggling to form the words.Â
âHow,â he started, his voice cracking on the word. He paused, biting his lip before finally gathering the strength to ask, âHow do you know Iâm not just lying to you?â
âYou?â Steve echoed, the word practically a challenge, but he was still looking up at Eddie through those damn eyelashes, his expression calm, like they'd known each other for a hundred years and would know each other for a hundred more. âNo way.âÂ
They stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment. Eddie didnât know what Robin was doing, didnât have room in his brain to even recall her presence in the room. It felt like he and Steve were connected, his entire life was teetering and this moment would decide the outcome.Â
Steve had been right. Eddie did have trust issues. Big ones, and this entire situation had only made them worse, but somehow, in that moment, he felt like he could do the impossible.
He could trust Steve.
âOkay.â He said quietly, all his bluster and wild hand movements gone.Â
Steve beamed at him.
âKneel down in front of me.â The knight instructed, and as if drawn by an invisible thread, Eddie did so, dropping down so his face was level with Steveâs.Â
âCome closer.â Steve ordered, and waited as Eddie shuffled, closer and closer, until they were barely a breaths width apart, so close he could see the streaks of gold in Steveâs warm, brown eyes.Â
âI,â Steve started, in a voice that was both powerful and intimate, âSir Stephan, Knight Commander of the Kingdom of Light, Queenâs Champion and head of House Harrington, call upon the bonds that make me and that I have made in turn, to hereby swear to you,â
He paused, waiting, and it took Eddie a moment to realize he had never given the man his name.
âEdward Munson, of Town Hawkins.â He muttered, bespelled entirely by the warmth in Steve's eyes.Â
âEdward Munson, Bard of Town Hawkins,â Steve said, and oh, what the addition of the word âbard.â did to Eddieâs stomach. The flips it made when he realized just how well Steve was continuing to read him, better than anyone else in his life ever had.
(It made him feel insane.)
âthat I will aid in clearing your name, restoring your reputation, and ensuring your safe return to the life you were meant to live.âÂ
Something built up between them, humming with the buzz of magic. The weight felt tangible, the threads growing thick tying Eddie and Steve together.
âBy the powers that be.â Steve whispered, leaning ever so slightly forward, eyelashes lowering.Â
Eddie repeated the last line back to Steve, guided by the nudging insistence of the magic that circled them.Â
For a second the oath become visible, strings of bright yellow magic surging about, and Eddie was almost drawn to look at it, had he not been distracted by Steve closing the distance between them.
âWha--â Eddie started to ask, only for Steve to draw the word into his own mouth, sealing their oath with a kiss.Â
In the songs Eddie sung, the world exploded when one experienced true love's kiss. Birds sang, and people cheered, fireworks rose to explode in the air.Â
This kiss was nothing like that.
This kiss felt like coming home.Â
Steve ended it as chastly as he started it, pulling back to smile at him. âAnd there you have it. One sworn Knight Commander, duty bound to clear your good name.âÂ
âUh huh.â Eddie said, blinking rapidly, trying to come back into himself, trying not to look as dazed as he felt. âRight. My uh, name.âÂ
Steve beamed at him. Tentatively, Eddie smiled back, and if a moment could be warm then this one was the warmest thing Eddie had ever experienced, like a gentle blanket being draped across them both.
It was ruined entirely by the forced coughing that started up next to them.Â
âIf you two are done now, my arms are going numb.â Robin announced, making Eddie jerk back and Steve roll his eyes.Â
âSorry.â Eddie said automatically, face going red for the third time that day. âIâll uh. Iâll do that now.â
In his mad scramble to get to his feet and hide how aroused he was, Eddie missed the smug look Steve gave Robin.
In his attempts at removing the spelled ropes from her wrists, he equally missed the sarcastically mouthed âSlut.â Robin aimed back at him.Â
He did, however, somehow understand that Robin came with Steve, and that he had just damned himself to their bantering.
Weirdly, it made him feel better instead of worse.
xXx
 âSo out of curiosity, what name did you give yourself?â Steve asked a handful of hours later, as the three of them began their trek to Castle Hoosier.
Eddie frowned at him. âName?â
âYou know.â Steve nudged his shoulder against Eddieâs playfully, like they were buddies. âYour evil wizard name, or whatever.â
âI never said I was a wizard, Steve.âÂ
âYou cannot tell me someone as dramatic as yourself didnât immediately decide to change your name to something ridiculous.â The knight challenged, and Eddie hated how easily the guy had clocked him. âI bet it has evil in the title. Or Mean. Or--âÂ
âIt was Dread Lord Munson.â Robin interrupted.Â
With a grin so wide it overtook her entire face, she turned a little leatherbound notebook to face Steve. There, in Eddieâs spidery scrawl, was the offending name taking up half the page.Â
âWhere did you get that!?â Eddie squawked, lunging for the book. Robin, in a show of skill he wouldnât have thought her capable of, tossed it right over his head, into the waiting hands of Steve.Â
Eddie spun, cursing wildly as Steve took a look at his personal (!) writings.Â
(He hadn't even seen her grab it, dammit!)
He ducked out of the way once, then twice, laughing the entire time, before closing the book with a snap and holding it out to Eddie.Â
âCome on, Dork Lord, letâs go get your name cleared.â He said, a fond grin on his face.Â
âI hate you. Both of you.â Eddie whined, a blush dusting his cheeks as he snatched his book back, but followed Steve anyway.Â
He had the worst feeling he was going to be doing that for a while, now. Even if his name got cleared.
Fucking knights.
Bonus:
âWe both know that binding ritual does not involve a kiss, Steve.â Robin said, some time later, quiet enough for only her friend to hear.Â
âAh, shut up Robs. Let me have my fun.â Steve said. âBesides, it sets the tone. Now that he knows what kissing me is like, it's all heâs gonna be thinking about.âÂ
âPretty sure all heâs thinking about is clearing his name, Dingus.â
âOkay, yeah.â Steve stressed the word, âbut after we clear it? That little scatterbrained bard is gonna be fully focused on me.â He flicked a finger at his own chest, and gave what he thought was his best winning smile.Â
Robin made gagging noises.
In retaliation. Steve tried to push her off her horse.Â
Chrissy Cunningham wears bright eyeshadows because it distracts peopleâs attention from her crooked teeth.
Chrissy Cunningham wakes up half an hour before to curl her ponytail to create the impression that she has more hair than she actually has.
Chrissy Cunningham wears oversized clothes because it creates the illusion that sheâs smaller.
Chrissy Cunningham has been shaving her legs since she was eight years old.
All of Chrissy Cunninghamâs underwear is cotton white, and her mother cuts all the decorative little bows off.
Chrissy Cunningham hasnât slept more than five hours at night in years, because perfection takes time.
Chrissy Cunningham hasnât finished any meal since she was eleven, because it makes her look exemplary to her parentsâ friends when she says sheâs full before finishing, even if she's still hungry.
Chrissy Cunninghamâs mother taught her all of this.
So, itâs safe to say that every morning, when she wakes up from yet another short sleep, Chrissy Cunningham doesnât know who Chrissy Cunningham is. She feels like her own skin isnât hers, itâs just some character that her mother has carefully created, and itâs a role she canât break free from.Â
Chrissy Cunningham doesnât exist, not really.
Her friends donât talk about this. They occasionally whine about the food or their body size, but they always take a few minutes to look at themselves in the mirror of the school restroom to style out their hair, or to put some make up on that they have to hide from their parents.Â
Chrissy hates mirrors, because she always has the supernatural feeling that her reflection is someone elseâs, but it was starting to get suspicious that she didnât even put lip gloss, so she bought one last summer at Starcourt mall.Â
She liked the mall. It was one of the few places she was allowed to go with her friends without her motherâs scrutinizing eye on her at all times. She used to side eye that one lingerie shop, wondering if she would ever wear one of the lacey black panties.
Well, not actually those, but something that is not white. Hell, if she was honest to herself, she would settle for just keeping the little bows. Sheâd settle for her mother not manipulating her intimate clothes.
She thought of stealing a pair of hot pink panties, but sheâs too much of a coward.Â
Thereâs something Chrissyâs friend used to do every time after shopping, though, and it would later keep her awake at night out of pure guilt. They would go to the ice cream parlor. She couldnât buy an ice cream, actually, because her mother always counted the money and made her give it all back, then asked for the receipts, and she couldnât just see one of an ice cream because thatâd mean that she wonât have dinner for the following week (unfinished meals every night are better than no meal at all).
But she would go there, anyway, and let her friends engage with the Harrington boy so they could get a discount from him, and sheâd glance more than once at the display of several flavors behind the glass, fantasizing how many scoops sheâd have, or which ones she would choose, and then, with no fail, the other cashier, Robin Buckley, from school band, would come to ask which one she wants to try. It makes Chrissy feel naughty, she always picks a different one, but buys nothing.Â
That happens several times. She tries not to think how sad it is that this little thing is actually thrilling. Something so small that makes her feel like she still exists.
Robinâs in uniform but she manages to own it. Her shoes are scribbled all over, she wears a lot of trinkets, little chains, silver (her mother doesnât let her wear silver, just gold), her hair is cut unevenly, and looks like she tried to make highlights at home with cleaning bleach, and her smudge eyeshadow seems to be done with her finger.
Chrissy likes that so very much. Robin shows through the uniform. She slips through the cracks, like yelling at the world that Robin exists, that Robin is.
Itâs not nice to compare, but she looks at her group of friends and thinks that they all⊠they all kind of look the same. And they worry about the same silly stuff that seems ordinary but is out of Chrissyâs reach, like parents not going for a weekend so they can sneak their boyfriends in.
They all share that they won't see Chrissy, either. Not really.
Not ever.
Because they are all the same person.
Thatâs an unkind thought.
Maybe Chrissy is unkind.
Then the Starcourt mall burns down and it feels like a divine intervention for how secretly petty she is when sheâs there.
It happens in July, and since Chrissyâs mother wonât let her go to any parties, she starts training near the school for when the cheerleading season begins again, and thatâs when she meets Jason Carver.Â
Heâs on the basketball court and sheâs running laps. They steal glances and thatâs exciting, because the boy is beautiful. His smile looks like the prologue of a tragedy and she falls in love with that feeling. They exchange more than glances and smiles and she wants things she never wanted before. It all fades into the blur of a far away memory right when school begins and they trade hot kisses and love bites for holding hands in the hallway.Â
She feels nothing for him when Chrissy realizes Jason loves the curated version that her mother has made out of her, not actually her. He loves that sheâs girly, and perfectionist with her looks, that sheâs fit and petite, that unnatural lovely hair swirl, that she wears cute colors on her eyelids and that she always leaves fries for him whenever they go to a diner.Â
Nothing.
And whatâs about her to love, anyway? Who is Chrissy Cunningham? Sheâs justâ
She is just gone.
Maybe she was never there to begin with, inside this tight suit of skin and heavy bones she wears everywhere.
She keeps avoiding the stranger in the mirror when she realizes she only can see what her mother sees wrong in her, or she can only hear the comments of Jason about her bony hips that one time they were at the backseat of his car. Chrissy knows how to do her makeup without using the cursed mirror, she knows how to style her hair without it, and itâs weird, thatâs why she always helps the coach to store all the stuff they used, coming into the dressing room after her team, and fakes to take more time in the shower after practice, to be the last one to leave. To dress herself with the profaned underwear without looking at it, to reconstruct the image she hates so much and not having to put a smile upon her face while she fades away one day more.
That time sheâs not alone when she comes in, all sweaty in her uniform.
Thereâs the ice cream girl, Robin. They had band practice and she was the only one who actually took it seriously about practicing with the stiff jacket of the uniform for an upcoming rally. She heard the rehearsal from the gym.
Robin hasnât seen her yet, and Chrissy just canât move. Robin is listening to something that sheâs humming to in her walkman, that she stops with a loud click and puts away, unbuttoning her shirt.
Something is happening inside Chrissy when she sees Robinâs ducky bra.
A ducky bra.
Sky blue background and a god damned yellow ducky pattern.
Chrissy has never in her life seen something like that. That looks⊠Okay, that doesnât even look the right size. Maybe itâs from past years and she still uses it. It looks comfortable, though, even if a little old.
It has the little, bright orange bow between her breasts.
She gasps audibly, and Robin spots her.
They lock gazes and Robin actually looks like a deer caught in headlights. Pink cheeks, big, blue eyes focused on her.
Sheâs so gorgeous without even trying. She always has been.
Chrissy is in a strange chokehold. It has to be nice to be someone, she thinks to herself, and not being afraid to exist.
They talk, but Chrissyâs not even paying attention to what she is saying. Sheâs only looking at Robin, and Chrissy must have said something funny because Robin laughs. She canât look away, notice Robinâs cheeks growing darker, her hand accommodating her hair behind her own ears, the low conversation taking place in an empty space.
She does remember asking Robin if she could kiss her, though.
She does remember standing there in silence before their mouths meet halfway, experimental and new, soft and wet.
Chrissy hears herself whine in Robinâs lips, and dares to ask for more. Begs Robin to touch her and sheâs feeling Robinâs cold fingers around her waist, lips locking, mouth opening, tongue curling around hers.
Robin is chatty, but Chrissy doesnât mind. She spares a few words here and there in between kisses, and then Robin whispers to her ear, over, and over again, âI saw you. At the mall, I saw you. Every time.â
Chrissy gasps and kisses her again, grabs her hair, puts her body against her, skin touching skin, they fall to the floor and keep kissing until her lips are sore and someone opens the door of the locker room and they both hid from that uninvited person to keep kissing in silence, which was rather hard, but ultimately thrilling and funny.Â
Itâs hours later, under the safe covers of her bed when she realizes that for a little while she actually felt her skin as her own. And thatâs new, thatâs fresh.Â
Thrilling. Something so small that makes her feel like she actually exists.
Steve's got enough of anything supernatural on his lifetime. So he fucked off to New York and decided to forget all about Vecna and all the other fuckers that ruined his hometown and his life. At least they never got to his hair.
It's been five years, five years of a rent that's way too high and Dustin bugging him to join the annual "Hawkins Monster Fighters" reunion. No way he's gonna get back.
It's midnight, because of course it is, when it happens. Steve watches Twin Peaks and munches on some stale leftover fries.
There's someone cursing. Loudly. He thinks it's on the street at first, it's New York after all.
"Motherfucker."
Steve frowns. That sounded like it came out of his bedroom. His hands start sweating and suddenly he feels five years younger again.
With a pounding heart he grabs the next best weapon he can think of - a pan. Because his stupid baseball bat is under his stupid bed.
He tiptoes to the bedroom - right when the door of his closet bursts open and Billy Hargrove, of all people, stumbles out of it.
Steve gapes at him, because for someone who died six years ago Billy's face is way too flushed. Hopefully that means no zombies. Or sadly? Maybe if someone just ate Steve's brain he wouldnât have to worry about shit like this.
Billy blinks, eyes darting from the closet to Steve and back. "Was I in your fucking closet?"
He's wearing all black, fabric torn and dried bloodstains on them. His sides are shaved, but the mullet is still there. It suits him. Fuck.
"Apparently," Steve says flatly.
"Kinda messy." Billy grins at Steve crookedly and he wonders if all of Hawkins girls felt like this too, heat rising in his cheeks after one wink of Billy's blue eyes.
Shit, he needs to go on a fucking date.
"I made it back." Billy laughs. Wetly. Like he wants to cry.
"Back from where?" Steve asks. He knows he shouldnât ask questions he doesn't want to know the answers to, because most of the time the answers is "Vecna", "Russians inside the Mall" or "the Upside Down".
"From the other place," Billy says. All of a sudden looks small and scared. "It was like this⊠but not."
So the answer is option three, Steve announces hysterically in his mind.
Billy has been lost in the Upside Down. For six years. Jesus fucking Christ.
"You made it out," Steve says, because he has to say something, otherwise he might hug the guy.
Billy nods, still smiling, faint disbelief in his eyes. "I really need to shower."
"Sure." Steve is not thinking about Billy naked.
Billy winks at him as if he knows the truth. Steve is so screwed.
Billy gets flayed a-la canon, he's this close to dying, but things get different. He gets out of the whole nightmare alive and not even lying in a hospital bed.
And yeah okay, Steve and him .. they've been fooling around for months now, and Harrington has done a lot to save him from the possession, Billy can practically call him his saviour and .. dammit he doesn't want to say goodbye.
"Come to California with me, pretty boy."
And Steve, he wants to .. he fucking wants to but somehow he ends up saying no. He doesn't even say it. He just doesn't show up near the Leaving Hawkins sign at 6 a.m. on Monday just like they've agreed on.
When Hargrove is in California and has sorted out the basic stuff - found a place to crash at an old friend's, next thing he does is go on a bender.
On an epic bender. He drinks vodka like water, and it's all the same to him - he can either stay in his room for the whole day or go party like crazy, listen to music days on end, or just sit quietly chain smoking and always having that bottle by his side.
Max calls sometimes. Everything and everyone's fine there, in the fucked up town of Hawkins.
Until one day there's a knock on the door, and his friends aren't there to get it. Billy flings the door open to find Steve standing on the porch
Me: Billy Hargrove speaks perfect Spanish from living in Socal and when he comes to Hawkins he and Heather talk shit right in front of people. Because they're besties.
