It’s Letterman o’clock on an ordinary Tuesday, and Steve’s just been having one of those days where nothing’s wrong, but nothing feels particularly right, either. That sort of petty, inevitable restlessness that comes with having a body and mind both capable of becoming too tired to relax. Like his skin shrank in the wash last night, and today it doesn’t quite fit. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, for probably the fifth time in as many minutes. Nancy looks over from her corner, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” she asks, and it’s so inconsequential, it’s not even worth putting into words.
“Nothing.” He shifts again, and she watches him.
“Come here,” she says, after a moment. She uncurls her legs and puts her feet on the floor. “Lie down.” He looks over blankly. “Come on,” she insists, and pats her thighs. He gives her an I’m-humouring-you sigh, and stretches out on the couch. Rests his head in her lap. She gently weaves her fingertips through his hair and starts stroking it. Grazes his scalp with her manicured nails. His head lights up in tingles, and in terms of instant relaxation, it’s up there with sodium pentothal. He sighs again, no humour, just you. “Better?” she asks.
He doesn’t even open his eyes. “Mmm-hmm,” he replies, basking. After a while, as she’s mindlessly watching the tube and he’s about ready to liquefy, he turns over to look up at her. She smiles down at him, and resumes stroking. “I’m thinking about cutting it,” he says, and it’s kind of out of nowhere, but also kind of not.
“What?”
He flicks his eyes towards his forehead. “My hair.”
She raises her eyebrows a little, but doesn’t otherwise look shocked or horrified, and doesn’t stop her attention. “Don’t want to be The Hair anymore?”
“I have a bigger stand-out feature now,” he says, nodding down at the topographical map of scars decorating his belly lately. It’s just a joke, but she clicks her tongue anyway.
“Oh, yeah, I guess,” he mutters. “I thought you were gonna say my arms or something.”
She laughs. “They were next on my list.” She massages deeper, and the tingles start to travel down his spine. “You should cut it, if you want. I change my hair all the time.”
He frowns up at her. “What do you want, though? I’m not gonna do it if you’re gonna hate it.”
“How could I hate it? It’s you,” she says, and he didn’t even realize he was fishing for it until he caught it. He smiles. “Cut it, shave it, dye it blue, I don’t care.”
“Oh, I was actually thinking hot pink . . . “
“You’re right, that’s your colour. Definitely.” She leans down, and he leans up, and they meet in the middle in a kiss.
“Thanks,” he murmurs when they part, and then moves to sit up straight again.
“For what?”
He shrugs. “Everything.” He smiles at her again, and puts a little sauce on it, and she smiles back like she’s picking up what he’s putting down. “C’mere,” he says, and pats his lap.
She bites her lip, like she’s really gotta think about it, but only for a second. Then she straddles him, and kisses him, and brings her hands back up into his hair. Gives it a yank while she grinds her hips onto him, and now it’s not tingles but full-on high voltage. Travels down his spine to the base of his cock and back again. He moans, and she grins against his lips, and he knows what to do to make his skin fit right. She does it again, pulls his hair and rolls, and he thinks, briefly, Maybe I won’t cut it. Then she takes her top off, and he stops thinking at all.
Stancy. Fluffy angsty. Epilogue to Punch Drunk. Shortly post-finale. Spoilers through Season 4 Volume 2.
--
The first ring just stuns him, jolts him blind and disoriented out of a corpse-deep sleep. It rings again, and he recalls some basics, like the Earth and his continued residence there. He finds the wherewithal to throw a searching arm in the general vicinity of the telephone, and bumps it with his hand just as the third ring starts. The receiver clatters to the floor. After a grumbled, “Goddamnit,” and a bit more fumbling, he finds it and lifts it to his head. “Hello?” he says, though only half the word makes it out audibly. He clears his throat. “Hello?” Silence. Shuffling. Louder, “Hello?”
“Oh! . . Hi, Steve.” Nancy. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I think I am, too,” he replies thickly, steady-breathing back against the jackhammer thumping in his chest. He grinds his knuckles into his eyes, and wills himself up through the syrup into alertness. “What’s going on? Are you okay? What’s the matter?”
“Yeah, no, nothing. I’m fine,” she rushes softly. “Holly had a nightmare, and she woke up the whole house. I can’t get back to sleep.”
“Oh,” he says dumbly. Then, with just a bit more intelligence, “You’re alone?”
“Yeah.” She hesitates a second before explaining, “We wanted to spend the night with our families, after today.” That makes perfectly reasonable sense to him under the current apocalyptic circumstances, but it’s still interesting, all the same. He tries to check the clock, but his eyes haven’t remembered how to see yet.
“Time is it?” he asks, rolling over to lie, carefully, on his back.
“Little after five-thirty,” she replies, sheepishly.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” she says in a self-conscious tumble. “That’s crazy, right? Crazy people phone at five-thirty in the morning.”
He chuckles silently, both at her and at the general buckwild insanity of things. “No crazier than the rest of it, Nance.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. Sighs heavily. “God, what are we gonna do? What are we supposed to do now?”
He wads up his pillow so he can half-sit up. “I dunno,” he admits. “This one might not be up to us.”
“But it has to be, doesn’t it?” she insists, with cool steel certainty. “Don’t you think it has to be us?”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But we’ve got Supergirl again, and all those Mission: Impossible guys in helicopters, and let’s not forget Lady Rambo here, so -”
“Don’t sell yourself short either, Sgt. Reese,” she interrupts, and it’s really not that kind of conversation, but he can still hear the smile curled up around the words.
He smiles back, bemused. “You saw The Terminator?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Are you that surprised?”
“I guess not,” he replies, after a moment’s thought. “But you’re proving my point. What do we have to worry about? We’re the heroes. We’re invincible.” He hears it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, crosses fingers that she’ll cut him slack and let it go. She doesn’t.
“Not Max,” she says. The smile audibly drops. “Not Eddie.”
“I know,” he grumbles. “Don’t feel like you have to sugarcoat it or anything.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.”
“It’s fine,” he mutters. “But I wouldn’t count the kid out just yet.”
“You sound so sure,” she says.
“Not sure,” he admits. “But I have hope.”
She scoffs softly. “How do you do that? How do you still have hope?”
Because you’re still breathing. “I dunno, ignorance is bliss, I guess.”
“Stop that,” she admonishes.
“Yes, miss,” he acquiesces. “No, here’s the way I look at it. If I stay hopeful and we win, then great! I was right! Party at my place! And if we lose, I probably won’t be in a position to care anymore, anyway. So, I might as well stay hopeful, right?”
“That actually makes a lot of sense,” she replies.
“Told ya,” he says, nodding in the darkness. “I know things.”
“Well, which is it?” she asks, and he can hear the smile again.
“Huh?”
“Are you ignorant, or do you know things?”
He laughs. “If you’re trying to confuse me, I’m pretty much at maximum confusion already these days,” he says. “And I’m very tired.”
“I’ll let you go back to sleep,” she says. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he replies, casually, as if the fact she turned to him tonight means nothing. “Feel any better?”
She sighs. “It’s just so dark out there,” she says, and there’s no cool steel now. Just little-girl longing for safety. “I wish the sun would come up.”
“It will,” he says.
“You hope.”
“I know.” He can finally see well enough to read his watch, and it’s coming up on 6:15. He gets up out of bed, stretches, grimaces as prickly pains and stiff aches ripple across his shoulders. He lifts a hand to crack one of the blinds he’d sealed last night against the nightmare sky’s nauseating clotted-blood glow. He looks out, and it’s still glowing, but the totality of the blackness is draining away. “I’ll wait with you.”
“Okay.”
He keeps watching out the window, sees cruel crimson lightning strobing in the distance. He clenches his jaw. “So you’re a secret Schwarzenegger fan,” he remarks. Beats talking about the weather.
“I wouldn’t say I’m a fan,” she demures. “I just happened to catch The Terminator when Mike was watching it.”
“No, that’s all right. I would never shame you for your taste in movies. I was just gonna ask if you had a preference between Conan the Barbarian and Conan the Destroyer. Barbarian is the classic, obviously, but I actually like Destroyer better. It’s funnier, and it’s got Olivia d’Abo.”
She laughs softly. “I only understood about every third word you just said.”
“Now you know how I feel when you talk about anything,” he replies.
“Stop,” she says sternly.
“Right,” he remembers. “You know, this basically wipes out my entire sense of humour. If I can’t self-deprecate, what have I got left?”
“The hair?” she suggests.
He chuckles. “I guess.” Out the window, a tiny, blurry half-circle of sun starts to peek above the treeline, pure and white against the hazy sanguine sky. “Are you watching? You see that?”
“Yeah,” she says, and sounds relieved. “I see it.”
“One sunrise, as requested,” he says, letting his blinds fall closed again.
Softly, “My hero.”
“Yeah, right,” he murmurs. “Come with me if you want to live.”
“Right,” she breathes, and it hangs in the air a while.
“Okay, Lady Rambo,” he says, to stop himself from saying anything else. “Time for bed.”
“Okay,” she says sleepily. “Stay safe.”
“You, too,” he replies. If nothing else, God; if I never get anything else in my life, you too.
“Good night, Steve.”
“Good morning, Nancy.” They hang up.
He looks longingly at his disheveled bed for a moment, then flips on the lamp on his dresser. The incandescent glows golden, turning the room a blinding yellow-white, and he gains a new appreciation for its artificiality. There’s more than one way to see the light. He rubs the last of his sleep out of his eyes, and puts one foot in front of the other.
Prompt: Stancy + As The Stars by Lauren Hoffman from @anotherwinchesterfangirl. Explicit. This song is lovely so this is the most lovely scenario I could think of. Hope you packed your toothbrush.
--
Against the raucous, bass-thumping cacophony of the party, this room is a quiet oasis. Steve (only slightly) stumbles hurriedly around it, two of his sheets long lost to the wind and the last one hanging on by a thread. He haphazardly dumps a paper bag of rose petals on the fashion-catalog bedspread and congratulates himself on his own preparedness. The sound of running water from the bathroom suddenly stops, and he rushes harder.
He pats himself down for a lighter and finds one, inexplicably, in the little breast pocket of his vest. He’s positive it isn’t his, and uninterested in the mystery, as long as the damn thing works. He gives it a flick, and it gives back a weak, tiny, blue wisp of flame. Good enough. The first votive candle he’d stashed by the bedside catches on the first attempt, but the lighter rebels on the second one. He shakes it impatiently and flicks it another few times, finally catching the wick, along with half the pad of his thumb. He hears shuffling from the bathroom. "What's taking so long?" he calls, before bringing his singed skin to his mouth to suck the sting out. "You fall in?"
“No, I didn’t fall in!” Nancy calls through the door, sounding so affronted that he can’t help but laugh. He smartens up, and lights the rest of the candles with the first one. “What kind of question is that?”
“A hilarious one,” he says, but only to himself. “Just lookin’ out for you,” he calls back to her. The response is unintelligible muttering, and he laughs again. He fumbles a cassette into the portable player. Presses play. The bathroom door opens.
“Really, Pretty Woman?” she says.
“No good?” he asks. He starts to turn. “I brought Dirty Dancing if you-“ She’s leaning against the doorframe in a draped-open white satin robe, with back room rental-level lingerie underneath. And she’s smiling at him. He loses his train of thought and about half the blood to his brain.
She steps into the room and notices the set dressing. “What’s all this?”
He shrugs. “Thought you’d want it to be perfect.”
“It is,” she agrees, with a batting-eyelash grin that turns his insides to warm maple syrup. “If a little clichéd.”
“I’m clichéd?” he challenges. “My love, you’re wearing white.” She gasps in adorable outrage and goes to take a swing at him, which in Nancy-code generally means grab me and kiss me, so he does, with enthusiasm. She tastes like champagne and vanilla frosting, and the satin beneath his fingers feels like cool water. He steps back to admire her. “How’d you sneak this past me?”
“With difficulty,” she says, turning her concentration to unbuttoning his vest.
“Well, you look like a Penthouse Pet,” he says, and she gives him a raised-eyebrow glance as she slips his necktie out of its knot. “In a good way,” he adds, and she chooses not to strangle him with it.
“I’m glad you like it,” she says, while she pulls off his cufflinks, and he watches. “Because I‘m not sure I know how to get it off again.”
He takes a very long, considerate look at the webs of ribbon and lace gilding her lily, and scoffs. “I’ll get it off,” he says. “With my teeth, if I have to.”
“You’d better not!” she protests, pausing mid-placket on unbuttoning his shirt. “This was expensive!”
“Honey, I’ll buy ‘‘em if you’ll wear ‘em.” She pushes his shirt and vest off his shoulders, and he lets them fall to the floor. The air conditioning hits his skin like alpine air, and she runs her hands down over his chest. He hums happily.
“You’re warm,” she observes, unbuckling his belt, and pulling it free of his trousers.
“Not hot?” he asks, as she unbuttons his fly.
She smirks. “That, too.” She slides down the zipper, and the pants fall to the floor at his feet.
“Ma’am,” he admonishes. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
She bites her lip. “Is it working?”
“Obviously,” he agrees, and she giggles, and he kisses her. He slides the satin robe off her shoulders, lets it join his pants on the floor. He grabs her around the waist and lifts her up, then lays her down on the bed. He pauses to appreciate a picture come to life.
“Care to join me?” she asks, when he doesn’t stop staring.
“I know you want me, but have a little patience,” he teases. “What’s your hurry?”
She looks at the bedside clock and sighs. “We have to be at the airport in four hours.”
He shrugs. “So we’ll sleep on the plane.”
“I have to finish packing,” she frets.
“You’re telling me you haven’t had everything packed for a month already?”
“I said finish,” she corrects him. He laughs.
“Look where we are, Nance,” he says. “Take a minute.”
She sighs, smiles. “You’re right. There’s no hurry.” He peels off his socks, and then climbs onto the bed alongside her. He props himself up on one elbow, and with his free hand, starts slowly sweeping his fingertips along all her exposed skin. She smiles deeper, and starts to relax beside him. “Did you have a fun night?”
“Mmm,” he considers, running his fingers down one side of her arm and up the other. “It was all right. Went on far too long.” He passes a ticklish spot, and she giggles.
“You just said you weren’t in any hurry,” she objects, though her heart doesn’t seem to be in it. He moves to stroke her other arm, grazing a satin-covered nipple on the way. She gasps softly.
“Not anymore,” he agrees, circling back to brush a thumb over the nipple he missed. She arches her back. “That feel good?” She nods, and he finds a loose end of ribbon to pull. A swath of satin peels satisfyingly away, baring her breasts. He’s still warm, but she’s chilled, perked hard and trembling. He rolls over her, rests between her thighs. Runs his fingertips down one side of her leg and up the other. Then he settles down lower and nuzzles her, bumps his nose against her clit through damp satin, and she gasps again. He looks up at her, and she smiles back with a Cheshire-cat grin. He pulls another loose ribbon and unravels the rest of her teddy. Then he dips his tongue, thinks of champagne and vanilla frosting again.
He watches her dissolve until he can’t stand it anymore, and he’s witnessed the phenomenon, but it’s different. He shoves down his briefs and he takes her, claims her, fucks her, and he’s reached that particular nirvana before but it’s different. She tells him she loves him, spills it over and over, like a little goddamn prayer, and it’s different. They come together, for the thousandth time, and it isn’t any different, not really, but it is. It is.
The room comes back into focus, and she sighs contentedly, burrowing naked and shivering beneath the comforter. “You know, it’s legal now,” he says, and rolls to plant a kiss on her forehead. “You’re stuck with me.”
She rolls her eyes, mascara-smudged and celestial. “You are such an idiot, Steve Harrington.”
He smiles, and if he died and went to Heaven right now, it’d be just like this. “You are so beautiful, Nancy Harrington.”
Prompt: Stancy + slow dancing from @anotherwinchesterfangirl. Fluffy, mildly spicy, mildly angsty (It took a turn).
--
It’s what passes for a lovely evening these days (mild with just a 10% chance of brimstone), and the Ladies’ Auxiliary Fundraising Committee has done a fair job of dressing the rec centre up like a ballroom. She thinks she can do without all the twinkle lights, but the flowers are pretty. Even if they’re fake. It’s nice to have an excuse to dress fancy. Nice to see smiling faces. She’s getting the hang of this optimism thing.
“Nancy,” Dustin says, stepping up to the folding table where she’s currently manning the door. “May I say you look smoking hot this evening?”
“No, you may not!” Steve says, appearing behind Dustin in the doorway.
“I can speak for myself,” she tells Steve, and the little pursed-lip grin on her face speaks for itself, too. She turns to Dustin. “No, you may not.”
“Sorry,” he says, endearingly penitent in his spiffed-up suspenders. Steve slaps down a tenner and waves away her attempt to give him change.
“Go find your friends, Don Juan,” he says, waving Dustin away as well. Then, when he’s gone, “The little turd stole my thunder. I was gonna say you look smoking hot this evening.”
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from all-out cheesing, with limited success. “I didn’t say, you may.”
“Ask forgiveness, not permission,” he says, with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“Steve,” she warns, as a fresh wave of teens drifts into the hall behind him.
“Forgive me,” he says, flashing her a grin and following his ward into the dance hall. She tries to shake off the warm fuzzy butterfly feeling in her chest. It won’t shake, and she’s all fumble-fingered flustered until the next volunteer comes to relieve her.
“Pull yourself together,” she mutters, heading for the punch bowl. She spoons herself a cup of the pineapple/Kool-Aid/7-Up monstrosity, and scans the room. Steve’s gaze draws hers like a magnet, and he waves from across the room. He’s two-chair lounging at a table alone. She spoons another punch and heads over.
She plunks the cup in front of him and pulls up a chair beside. He picks it up and eyes it dubiously. “What’s in this?” he asks.
She shrugs. “Sugar, chemicals, I think it might have touched a fruit cocktail at one point.”
“Well, you wouldn’t poison me, right?” he says, and tosses it back. “Sweet,” he grimaces. “Don’t know what I expected.” She takes a sip, and it really is so sugary it loops back around to mouth-puckering again. She sets the cup down at arm’s length away. “Sorry if I was an ass,” he says.
She blinks innocently. “Hmm?”
“At the door,” he clarifies. “I should be a better gentleman.”
She snorts. “Well, don’t strain yourself or anything.”
He laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think I can be a gentleman?” She looks at his feet propped up on his second chair, then eyes him dubiously. He deliberately plants them back on the floor. “Starting now,” he says. “You look lovely this evening. Respectfully.”
She feels the fuzzy butterflies again, firmly swats them away. “Thanks.” She averts her eyes. “How have you been? We haven’t talked in a while.”
“Oh, you know,” he says, with an exaggerated nod. “Uh, I’d say pretty bad, overall.” He chuckles, and she laughs with him. “Don’t love living in the end of days. But other than that? Yeah, good. On the right side of the ground, like my dad used to say.”
“What a philosopher,” she remarks.
“I’m sure he thinks so,” he agrees. Overhead, the poppy dance track fades out on the speaker, and the lights fade out into disco-ball glitter. Time After Time starts to play, and he hops to his feet. He extends a chivalrous hand towards her. “May I have this dance?” She sighs, come-on pleads no with her eyes. “It’s Cyndi Lauper,” he cajoles her. “Don’t you just wanna have fun?” She puts on a put-upon frown, and takes his hand.
He helps her up from her chair, and doesn’t let go. He keeps his fingers curled tightly around hers, and pulls her along to a space on the dance floor. Then he holds the hollows of her waist in the palms of his hands, feels warm and strong through the filmy fabric of her dress. She clasps her hands at the back of his neck, pretends she doesn’t notice the way the soft baby hairs there tickle her fingers. They begin to sway. “Just like being back in high school,” he says.
“Such a long time ago,” she teases.
“Feels like it,” he says. “I feel about a thousand years old.”
“Well, you don’t look it.”
“A compliment,” he jokes. “I’m unworthy.”
“Shut up,” she says, and he grins.
“It’s good to see you, Nance,” he says, and pulls her in close up against him. She tucks her chin into his shoulder, and he rests his jaw against her head. Between them, a heartbeat slams, and she’s hard pressed to say who it belongs to. They spin until she starts to feel dizzy.
“You’re still wearing the same perfume,” he murmurs, and the viscosity in his voice sets her on edge.
“I like it,” she says carefully. He moves his hands on her back, slips one fingertip just barely beneath one of the straps of her dress.
“I like it, too,” he whispers. “I miss it.”
“Steve,” she says, stopping him, doing the last thing she wants to do right now.
“Sorry,” he mutters. His hands squeeze a little where they’re resting on her skin. He turns his head, nuzzles into her face until they’re forehead to forehead. “This is harder than I thought.”
“What?” she breathes, softly, all jackrabbit panic underneath.
He doesn’t move from where he’s pressed to her, hovers just within striking distance. “Being a gentleman.”
“Well, don’t strai-” she starts, and the song ends, and the lights start flashing neon. He lets her go.
“Thanks for the dance,” he says, with a wavering smile, and he walks - retreats - away. She stands dazed for the first few bars of the next synthy pop tune, then makes a break for the fire exit. She hurries out into the night, and the fresh air doesn’t quite refresh as it used to, but there’s still more to breathe than in the room she left behind. She takes a big lungful and looks up at the sky, twinkling with scarlet-hued stars. She exhales slowly. Takes another breath. Has the next one knocked out of her.
He appears from a shadow out of the thin air, grabs her hand and pulls her into the darkness with him. He presses her back to the brick wall and pins her there, lays his hands on either side of her face, and kisses her. Her jaw drops, stunned supple, and he slips his tongue in her mouth. Kisses her deep enough that she tastes pineapple on the back of his tongue. She doesn’t stop him, just stands there and spins.
“Sorry,” he pants, releasing her. He steps back, looks at her with a blend of frustration and regret and abashedness and lust.
“I thought we said friends, Steve,” she says, finding her own breath a bit tough to catch.
“I’m feelin’ friendly! Aren’t you?” he says sharply, as frustration appears to win out.
“Steve.”
He steps away and wide-arm shrugs. “I can’t help it, Nancy. You look hot. I’m only flesh and blood, here.” She knows the feeling. “Respectfully,” he adds pointedly, and walks away.
She slips back inside, and it’s more stifling than ever, and she hurries to the washroom to wipe off her ruined lipstick. She paints on more, paints on a smile. It’s pretty, even if it’s fake.
okay but also talking about rep speedwagon a stancy fic thats kinda like hunter nancy walks into steves bar and drags him into the world of supernatural that would also be fun
oh we thinkin with the big big brain today (I got your other prompt too but if you don't mind I'll hold onto it bc it might fit into the sequel to Punch Drunk I'm trying to develop please pray for meee)
--
It’s the latest in a long line of hot, sweaty dog days that drone into dog evenings and finally dog-tired nights. The bar is droning softly with the buzz of jukebox tunes and actual circling flies, and Steve’s about ready to fall asleep on his feet. He nearly does, nearly drops the pint glass he’s been mindlessly polishing for going on five minutes, when the bell above the door chimes and a stranger strolls in. That’s unusual in and of itself; he never grew up dreaming he’d just trade one dead-end town for another, but the treasure amongst the trash is that he knows every face that frequents his humble establishment. And he’d certainly know this one, because as near as he can reckon, it’s the prettiest he’s ever seen.
She scans the room as she approaches the bar, noting the clusters of college kids and biker toughs with equal cool disinterest. He’s seen little lambs taller than she is, but she carries herself like a lioness. He’s just about settled on a June wedding when she takes a seat at the bar, eyes him with the same unconcerned detachment she seems to have for everything, and he notices something else. Something he definitely has seen before. Something that makes his blood boil.
“Pint of whatever’s on tap, please,” she says, and it’s pleasant enough, but she’s looking right past him with her one perfect eye and the other one ringed in barely-concealed purple. He nods, starts drawing the pint. Looks up surreptitiously when he sees she’s looking down. She peels off her pink plaid workshirt, visibly stiff in the shoulders, and lets it fall to the back of the barstool. Beneath it she wears a grimy white tank, steel-cable arms, and a whole constellation of scars, scrapes, and bruises. And, jarringly, a big black tattoo painted stark against her breast.
“Here you go,” he says, setting a napkin and the glass of beer in front of her. “I have an amber on tap too, if you don’t like it.”
She spares him another glance. “Thanks.” She pulls her wallet out of her pocket, and while she’s fishing for a bill, he peeks down at the card slots. Sees a couple of IDs. Patricia Smyth, of Massachusetts. Deborah Harry, of Illinois. She pulls out a fiver and tucks the wallet away. “Keep the change,” she mutters, nudging the bill towards him and draining half the glass. “It’s good,” she reports, nodding, when he stands there watching her drink.
“Good,” he says, and tucks the cash away in its drawer. Then, careful and deliberate, “Can I help you with anything else?”
She looks up again, and this time, she sees him. Graces him with a generous, world-weary smile. “I’ll have another one of these,” she says, holding up her half-finished drink. “Otherwise, I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yup,” she says, with finality. “I’m sure.”
He starts pulling the next pint, and mulls over the conflicting virtues of leaving an uninterested lady alone, versus catching out a rat when he smells one. He opts for the choice that keeps her talking with him. “Haven’t seen you here before, are you new in town?” he asks, just shoot-the-shit casually, as he replaces her empty beer glass with a full one.
“No, just a work thing,” she says. “Just passing through.”
He picks up a rag and wipes the clean bartop. “Oh? What do you do?”
“Game and Wildlife Commission,” she replies.
“You like working with animals?”
She snorts softly. “You could say that.”
He leans down to rest his forearms on the bar, near enough to detect the blend of lilac, vanilla, copper pennies, and gunpowder wafting from the soft, curly cloud of her hair. “Did an animal give you all those bruises?” he asks, barely above a whisper. She glances at him, well inside her bubble of personal space, and doesn’t flinch.
“What’s your name?” she asks evenly.
“Steve,” he says.
She smiles sweetly, but it’s ice water underneath. “Steve, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t need it. Really.”
“Okay,” he concedes, and stands upright with palms upraised. “Backing off.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“One more question?” he asks, nothing if not a tireless pusher of his luck. She raises an eyebrow. “Will you tell me your name?”
She smiles again, and he can see it thawing. “Nancy,” she says. Adds, after a moment, “Wilson.”
“Nancy Wilson,” he repeats, wonders if it's any truer than Patricia, or Deborah. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too, Bartender Steve.”
“Bar Owner Steve,” he corrects.
She chuckles, and drinks another large dent out of her beer. “I beg your pardon.”
It’s coming up on Happy Hour and a fresh wave of sadsacks starts filtering in, and he’s too busy to talk until the night shift comes in - that being his best friend and only employee. She eyeballs him and the stranger with raised-brow suggestion, and he shrugs. She takes up a position at the opposite end of the bar, just as he notices Nancy getting ready to leave.
“Sick of me already?” he asks, hurrying as unhurriedly as possible back to her spot.
“Duty calls,” she says, dropping another bill on the bar, and he wishfully thinks he hears a note of regret.
“Wildlife emergency?”
She rolls her eyes. “You have no idea.” She stands and retrieves her shirt from the chairback, then flashes him another smile. “Maybe I’ll stop in again the next time I pass through.”
He smiles back. “I hope you do.” She turns to leave, and he’s midway through the mental math of shooting a Hail Mary when she flips the plaid back onto her shoulders, and he notices the handgun sticking out of the back of her jeans. She disappears through the door, and he makes a decision. “Robin, watch the shop,” he shouts, grabbing the self-defense swatter he keeps by the cash drawer and vaulting over the bar. She yells something confused-sounding back, but he’s dashing too fast to hear it.
He hits fresh air and waning daylight, looks around, and sees her climbing into her wagon. He runs over and puts himself between her headlights and the exit. It only occurs to him when she’s blaring the horn how serial-killer insane he must look. “What the hell are you doing?” she shouts angrily out the window. It’s a fair question, and he lets the bat drop before he answers it.
“I know something bad is happening,” he says. “I saw your fake IDs. And your gun.”
“That’s none of your business, Steve!” she shoots back.
He shrugs slightly. “You bring a gun into my bar, I get to make it my business.”
She huffs, considers. “It’s really not what you think, you know.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “So what is it?”
“For Christ’s sake,” she grumbles. Then, “Get in. Bring the bat.”
He comes around to the passenger side, and he doesn’t quite know why, but he’s thrumming with anticipation. She gets the wagon moving as he’s buckling up, and she grins over at him. “If anyone asks, we’re on a hunting trip,” she says. “How do you feel about tattoos?”
Stancy. Supernatural AU. Continuation of this piece prompted by @beachesgetpeaches : a stancy fic thats kinda like hunter nancy walks into steves bar and drags him into the world of supernatural
No warnings except it’s pretty uh suggestive and I might continue that thought separately
Part II
--
“Hit her!” Nancy shouts, and Steve sort of hears her in an underwatery way, but it’s nowhere near loud enough to distract him from the mesmerizing maw of deaths, both big and little, grinning wide before him. The thing winds up to strike, and he knows those jackknife claws aren’t aimed anywhere good, but it kinda seems good, anyway. Seems like he should let it happen. Like he even wants it to.
Nancy fires her shotgun at the moon, and the thing whips her head around and roars, and the spell is broken. He takes a swing the Babe would be proud of, and she staggers to her knees. “Get back!” Nancy yells, reappearing out of the ether. He jumps, lands sprawled flat on his ass, and watches her upend the spice jar over the swiping, shrieking lady-beast. Then she steps back, flicks her lighter on, and tosses it. The thing goes up like a scarecrow soaked in gasoline, and showers them both in greasy soot that reeks of rotten eggs and Greek barbecue. It’s out as fast as it caught, and the night resumes its indifferent silence.
“Nancy?” he asks, with what he feels is commendable calm in the face of his heartbeat sonic booming in his ears, “What the fuck?”
She comes striding over, and he can practically see the exhilaration coming off her in waves. She smiles with a hunger that looks eerily familiar, and reaches out a hand for him. “That was great!” she says, as he takes her hand. He rises, but doesn’t truly find his feet until she lets go again.
“That was great?” he repeats, brushing off his jeans with equally dirty hands. “That was a horror show! What the fuck?”
“I love it when a plan comes together,” she says, and starts marching off in another inscrutable direction.
He follows. “That wasn’t an animal. That definitely wasn’t a person. What the fuck was that thing?”
“I told you,” she says, without looking back. “A lamia.”
“An actual, real monster,” he presses.
This time she throws him an impatient look over her shoulder. “Yes!”
“Because monsters are real.”
She stops, turns to face him. “Yes! I told you! Weren’t you listening?”
“I heard you,” he says defensively. “I just thought you were being eccentric.”
She snorts. “And you followed me anyway?” He shrugs helplessly. “Then, that’s on you, tiger.” She starts forward again, and he plods along in sulky silence for a few dozen feet.
“What are we looking for now?” he asks eventually. “Are there more of them?”
She shakes her head, then lifts a dead bough half-obscuring a cavelike entrance to a thicket. “I think this is it.” She ducks inside and shines her flashlight around, and he takes a half-step in behind her. Counts one . . . two . . . five corpses, all Cryptkeeper-dry with ribs sticking up like crown roasts. She looks back at him. “Five missing people,” she confirms, her jubilant mood somewhat dampened again.
“Now what?” he asks, as she sighs heavily and turns back in the direction they came.
“I’ll call it in anonymously from a few states over,” she says. “And then they’ll make up whatever’s easiest to believe.”
“How do you know?”
She shrugs. “You believed I was crazy,” she says, and he can’t, in good conscience, deny it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was wrong.”
She grins. “I’m sorry I used you to lure out the monster.”
“Yeah, I’ve had women use me for my body before, but-“
She gives him a shove, and they laugh together. “I’m glad you were here,” she says. “Don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
“As long as you’re duly impressed,” he replies.
“Starstruck.” A short hike ahead, she turns right at the crossroads in the trail, and he’s once again amazed at her ability to tell one identical stand of trees from a thousand others. After what he just witnessed, he’s not sure he could tell his ass from his elbow.
“So how does one become a monster hunter?” he asks, as they plod towards the rest stop light barely visible up ahead.
“Long, boring story,” she says. “You first. I want to know how one comes to own the Keg Kingdom.”
He chuckles. “Well, I hope you’re ready for a wild one,” he says. “My trust fund matured, and then I bought it.”
“Harrowing!” she exclaims.
“Yours can’t be any more boring than mine,” he cajoles. “I wanna know.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you did,” she replies, and sighs heavily. “I guess you could say I was born into it.”
“In like a family business kinda way, or a shadowy secret society way?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Just like that.”
“You’re very good at talking without actually saying anything,” he observes. “Are you doing that on purpose?” They step out of the trees and onto the gravel, and the night opens up, mild and starry.
“Comes with the job,” she says, and shrugs. She hurries towards the car and unslings her backpack. He follows as she opens the back of the wagon, spots bags and canisters and a full-sized foot locker. She tosses in her things and pulls it closed.
She turns, and he doesn’t back up. “Really,” he asks. “Why are you doing this?”
She leans back against the car. “Because I’ve seen things, and I can’t unsee them. Can’t unknow what I know.”
“Then where does that leave me?”
She smiles softly. “You’re the unsung town hero,” she says, and hops up in her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. He catches her by the shoulders on the downswing, and kisses her full on the lips. She doesn’t shove him away when he lets go. She smiles up at him again, even softer. “Let’s get you back to your bar.”
The ride back doesn’t feel long, exactly. It’s almost nice, with the open-window breezes, the crackly soft-rock radio, and the lulling, lilting tilt of the highway. But he can’t really relax and enjoy it. Not with the goodbye looming. Not with the dangling unless.
They pull into the bar’s narrow lot, and he’s pleased, if not surprised, to see the place dark and intact. “I live on the second floor,” he says, before she can even put it in park. “Come in.”
“Steve . . .” she starts.
“You’re obviously living out of your car. And, no offense, but you need a shower. I’ll take the couch, I don’t care. Come in.”
“You’re full of shit,” she says, but she keeps smiling, so he keeps swinging.
“Don’t you get lonely?” he asks. “Don’t you want to have something?”
“Sure I do,” she replies, and the smile falters a bit. “But everything costs.”
“This doesn’t have to,” he says, aiming for a little cool indifference. “I already let you use me once.”
She eyes him shrewdly. “You know I can’t stay.”
“Then don’t stay. Just come in.”
“Is that enough for you? If whatever this is begins and ends now?”
“Yes,” he lies, and neither of them believe it, and they both let it stand. “If it’s a choice between now or never, then I want you to come in now.”
She takes a deep breath, and grins, and turns off the ignition. He gets out, and she follows, and he feels exhilarated. Like he just vanquished the monster. Chooses not to think about things seen that can’t be unseen, or things known that can’t be unknown. Chooses to stop thinking with his brain altogether.
“Nancy,” she hears, on the third or fourth repeat, and her eyes fly open. She looks up in disoriented panic at the silhouette of Steve gently shaking her by the shoulders. “You’re dreaming.”
“What?” she asks, heart slamming and struggling for breath.
“You were having a nightmare,” he replies, and reaches up to sweep some hair out of her face. Sticks around to stroke her cheek. “It sounded really bad.”
It takes a second for the words to get through, but they get through. She feels the bed beneath her, sees the shadows of the room take shape around her. Feels her pulse slow by a few RPM. Feels his arm and leg curled over her. Anchoring her. “Okay,” she says. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, and settles back onto his pillow. “You okay now?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I think so.”
He splays his hand out on her chest, like he needs to see for himself, and it somehow feels easier to breathe. “What was it?” he asks softly, when she’s mostly back on planet Earth again. “Bats again? Barb?”
“Oh, no,” she answers, and suddenly feels ridiculous. “I was late for an exam, and when I got there, I realized I never went to the class.”
“Oh,” he says, and she can hear the laugh suppressed beneath it.
“It was scary!” she insists.
“It sounded terrifying,” he agrees, and a chuckle breaks loose. He moves his arm around her waist, and pulls her in closer. “I’m glad I saved you from the scary exam.”
“Shut up,” she says, and burrows in.
“I mean it,” he says. “If it makes you feel any better, I had a bad one the other night, too. I was starving, and I ordered a pizza, and it took forever but it finally arrived. But then, when I when I opened the box, it was empty except for a note that said, Avoid the Noid! Woke up in a cold sweat.”
“You’re an idiot,” she murmurs, and knocks a heel into his shin, but he can hear the smile in her voice.
He chuckles. “Actually, I have no idea what I dream about, I hardly ever remember them.”
“Lucky,” she says.
“You think so?” he asks. “Because sometimes I wake up feeling some kinda way, and I’d really like to know what that’s all about.”
“Hmm, I wonder,” she giggles. She takes a deep breath, lets it out in a yawn. Wiggles deeper into the little spoon slot. “I always remember my dreams,” she says, as the gravity of sleep starts to pull at her again.
He tightens his hold around her waist. “I hope they aren’t all bad.”
“No,” she says, and her pillow is soft, and he’s warm and solid around her, like hearth and home. “There are nice ones sometimes, too.”
“Like what?”
“Mmmm,” she considers. “One time I dreamed I was locked in a tower like Rapunzel, and you came and rescued me.”
He laughs softly. “Nancy Wheeler, you have never needed rescuing in your life.”
“That’s why it’s just a dream,” she says, in drowsy self-defense. “I had another one like that, too. I was Sleeping Beauty, and you kissed me awake.”
“Did I kill a dragon, too?” he asks, bemused.
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, slipping further downstream. “I was sleeping.”
“All this time, all she wanted was Prince Charming,” he teases, and nuzzles against the back of her hair.
“They’re just dreams,” she whispers, barely there, now. “Don’t let it go to your . . .”
It does, though. A little. He waits for the morning, and kisses her awake.
Stancy. Explicit. Supernatural!AU that started with this ask from @beachesgetpeaches
A/N: I seriously considered keeping the smutty bits separate from the main story, because I know I have readers who aren’t keen on it. However, that’s kind of just who I am as a writer and a person so, I must be true to myself. Feel free to skip. It’s nothing I haven’t implied, just a lot of Nancy introspection and a trip to pound town. :)
--
The water pressure’s better than it has any right to be, given the carefully maintained shabbiness of the building, and Nancy takes her time. Lets the provenance of the commercial hot water tank ease her mind and her muscles with its limitless, steamy heat. Watches streams of grime run off her hair and vanish down the shower drain. Wonders if Steve will rinse out as clean as his spicy-sweet shampoo.
This is a mistake. Hard fact. But there are harder facts, like vengeful ghosts, and vampires, and literal Hell itself. There’s the fact that on a bad day, she can barely tell herself from the things she’s sworn to destroy. But, to err is human, and if she can look this towering Colossus of a mistake square in its Bambi eyes and make it anyway, it proves she must be human, too. Can’t do the wrong thing without the free will to do it.
Can’t just take something she wants without rationalizing it, either. Can’t just want to feel good, for goodness’ sake.
She turns off the shower with a pang of regret and steps out, grabbing the fluffy towel he sent her in with. She pats herself down, wrings out her hair, and tucks the towel around her chest. Takes a moment to inspect the state of her arms. No fewer bruises, but no new ones. A fresh scrape or two, but nothing bleeding. She swipes a hand across the fogged-up bathroom mirror and checks her face. The shiner’s uglier than ever, going yellow-green at the edges, but there’s not much to be done about that now. She gives her wet hair a tousle, makes a kissy-face at her reflection, and calls it good enough. Slips on her skin of well-rehearsed self-confidence like a glove. There’s no time like the present, and there’ll be hours to overthink on the road.
She opens the bathroom door, and the steam all flows out in a rush, and the breeze that replaces it is AC cool. Steve looks over from his kitchen, towel-damp and drowsy-looking, in a thin pair of sweats. “You feel better, right?” he asks.
“Much,” she agrees, and starts padding over. “You have a nice place.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I did the reno myself. It was practically bare studs when I bought it.” He pulls out one of his kitchen chairs, and offers it to her. Then, he offers her a t-shirt from the pile of laundry on his table. “In case you don’t just want to wear a towel,” he explains. “Not that I’d object.”
“Thank you,” she accepts. It’s worn paper-thin with washes, and sports the ghost of a long-faded high school mascot, and she doubts it’ll offer much more coverage than the towel does. But he respectfully averts his eyes, so she pulls it over her head. Breathes in the homey scent of dryer sheets. Lets herself enjoy something soft, for once.
“Is there time for a drink in your itinerary, or is this more of a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am situation?” He goes to the fridge and grins back over his shoulder.
“I’ll have a drink,” she says, with a playful scowl.
He comes back with a pair of bottlenecks in his knuckles, hands her one, frosty-cold, and sits opposite. He raises his beer towards her. “To a successful hunting trip?” he proposes.
“To the unsung town hero,” she replies, and clinks his bottle, and he hides a bashful little smile behind his beer. She takes a few long, icy swallows. Lets them drape over her like another comfy layer, and cool her off from the inside out.
“So, you never answered me, earlier,” he says, settling into his own bottle. “How’d you get all those bruises?”
She makes a face, looks disdainfully at the black and blue splotches on her arms. “I pissed off a poltergeist,” she says. “It threw an antique shop at me.”
He nearly does a spit-take. “Poltergeist is real?”
“It’s all real,” she says, and takes another long swig. “Anything you can think of.”
“Zombies?” She nods. “Dracula?”
She grins. “I’ve never met him personally, but I’ve heard interesting things.”
“Werewolves?”
“Werewolves, werebears, werehyenas . . .”
“That’s insane,” he says, and she can see his gears turning like a kid who just learned Santa Claus is real, after all.
She shrugs matter-of-factly. “I don’t disagree.”
He leans back, rests a foot on the edge of her seat, and swipes an unruly hank of half-dry hair out of his eyes. “And it’s just you, all by yourself, against a world full of creature features?”
“No,” she says. “There are lots of us.”
“But you prefer to work alone.”
She sighs. “It’s not about preference,” she says. “I work alone, no one else is at risk.”
He chuckles. “Except the odd random you meet in a bar.”
“That was an extenuating circumstance.”
“I’ll say,” he agrees. “You were armed and dangerous.”
“So were you!” she points out. “And I already apologized.”
“And I accept your apology. I’m just saying -“
“I know what you’re saying,” she interrupts, not unkindly. “But that’s what it costs.”
“Well,” he says, and punctuates it by planting his empty bottle on the table, “I don’t accept that.”
She laughs. “Werewolves, you’ll accept. But a woman choosing to fly solo? That’s where you draw the line?”
“I’m not talking about women. I’m talking about you.”
She polishes off her beer, and places her bottle neatly next to his. “You don’t even know me,” she says gently.
“I want to,” he says, shining his big, soulful headlights right into her eyes, and the bitch of it is, she wants that, too. Hard fact. “Another drink?”
The best way to face a hard fact is head on. The second-best way is escapism. Nancy shakes her head, stands, and takes off the t-shirt. Grins at the way his jaw drops when she tosses it at him. Aims for both birds with one stone.
She makes for his bedroom, and hears his chair scrape behind her, and braces for hurricane impact. Only, when he catches her, it’s not that. It’s rough hands brushing softly, and whispery kisses, and arms that encircle without crushing. It’s warm, tropical rain. She turns to face him, and he kisses her, honey-sweet. She lets it wash over her, lets it rinse away all the bullshit. Not a mistake. A choice.
He lays her down on his bed, as wash-worn and homey-soft as the rest of the life that he’s built here. Places delicate kisses on every scratch, splotch, and ugly scar. “You’re beautiful, Nancy,” he murmurs, and from his lips, it sounds true.
“Wheeler,” she says. “Nancy Wheeler.” Not a mistake, but a choice.
He smiles down from where he’s hovering above her, near enough to tickle her forehead with his hair. “Steve Harrington,” he replies.
“I know,” she admits. “I checked your mail while you were in the shower.”
“They keep sending me those magazines, I’ve begged them to stop.” She laughs, and he snakes a hand between her legs, and the laughter chokes off in a gasp. Rough hands brushing softly. He kisses her, lazy-slow and deeply, and circles her clit at the same pace. Keeps going, maddeningly slow and relentlessly steady, until she comes. And again. Doesn’t just forget her own name, but about a dozen fake ones. “Steve,” she breathes, while she can still remember his.
“Had enough?” he asks, and his grin’s a little cocky for her taste, but she’s feeling magnanimous. Among other things. She shakes her head. “Do you want to?” She nods. “Okay.” He reaches past her into his nightstand drawer to fish out a rubber. She watches unabashedly while he slides off his wet-spotted pants and slips on the condom. Feels pretty fucking magnanimous, indeed.
And still, he’s not what she expects. There’s no post-fight frenzy, no adrenaline burn-off. He doesn’t treat her like a china-doll or anything, but he treats her nice. Like she deserves better than all the cold comfort she’s been taking. He doesn’t come until she does, again, and he doesn’t let go of her at all. Even when they’re sleeping.
When she opens her eyes again, she sees thin light, and mechanically - miserably - crawls out from beneath Steve’s covers, and into another day. She moves quietly, putting on dirt-stiff clothes. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, without moving, and she’s heard banshee screams that hurt less in her ears.
She sighs. “I have to.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s okay. I just wanted to say it.”
“I’m glad you did,” she says, and she’s not sure if it’s true, but it feels right. You’ve got to watch, when it feels right. It’s not the red flags you have to be afraid of. It’s the green ones.
She shrugs her shirt on and toes into her boots, and he still hasn’t moved, but he’s watching her. She goes for the goodbye kiss, intending on something sweet and chaste, but he grabs her, and kisses her like he disagrees on every point. It’s hard to dismiss his logic, but she has to. It’s not a mistake, it’s a choice.
“I’ll see you when I’m passing through,” she says, and gets out while she still can.
