â· summary: youâre the captain of the briar girlâs volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadnât known to exist until now
â· word count: 5464
â· warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and donât know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if itâs completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, weâre gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)
Ë˰âą*ââ·
It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvardâs girlâs volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two pointsâ the points that both teams desperately neededâ would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.
And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.
Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppyâ or at least, it felt like you hadâ and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts.Â
But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.
And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.
It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball.Â
It didnât help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made senseâ since your freshman year, youâd been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldnât stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadnât left since.
And thatâs because youâ to be totally, completely humbleâ were a really fucking amazing libero.Â
Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didnât let it get to your head, of course. You couldnât, even if you had tried. You werenât like thatâ you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.
So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.
And, to be honest, right now, you didnât feel great.
Or good.
You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this setâ despite it being in the beginningâ you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldnât get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.
You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didnât help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was âBriar Blackoutâ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?
This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.
And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally âgot thisâ.
The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.
In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.
Youâre pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.
But you couldnât be thinking about the hockey boys right nowâ you couldnât be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.
It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind.Â
That was no good.
You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make itâ not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.
And, fuck, you really couldnât have that.
So you did what you always didâ you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb.Â
You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your headâ and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.
However, you were not where you were supposed to be.
No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.
In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken toâ hell, you didnât even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadnât flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.
To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, âOh, shit!â
You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.
As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.
You only get a quick glance of the guyâs baffledâ but heavily amusedâ eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, itâs lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court.Â
Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammatesâ Liliana Amatoâ bumps it up and over to Louisa.
Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvardâs side of the net.Â
Their libero isnât fast enough.Â
No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.
You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadnât actually saved the ball.Â
This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the âbig threeâ. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.
All you needed now was one point.
One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then youâd win.
If you guys got this point, youâd make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasnât been to in over ten years.
The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.
And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God youâve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to workâ the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, youâve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.
Like now.
You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvardâs middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didnât even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and youâre pretty sure youâve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second youâre on your back, and the next youâre on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.
You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.
But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?
It couldnât be out.
There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.
Everyoneâs eyes are on the ref, whoâs talking to the other referees. Theyâre huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like itâs in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.
It had gone in.
The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.
Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.
In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coachesâ who have yelled at you more times than you could count this gameâ joining in. Youâre so ecstatic that you donât even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.
The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.
Ë˰âą*ââ·
Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadnât done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Maloneâs for a late night meal with three of your teammatesâ your best friendsâ and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.
Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Maloneâs with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner.Â
You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.
âHoly shit, itâs her!â Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. âSheâs literally right thereââ
âYeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,â Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, âCan you be quiet?â
âWhy?â Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. âYouâve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and itâs obvious you already have a massive crush on her.â
âI donâtââ
âYouâve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,â Garrett interrupted with a snort. âIâm pretty sure youâve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.â
Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group.Â
Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, âSheâs interesting.â
âYeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,â Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter.Â
Logan glared harshly at Tucker, âThatâs not why I find her interesting.â
âSure,â Dean drawls out.
âDude, Iâm serious,â Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blondeâs head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, âSheâs good at her sport. It's fun to watch."
âI think heâs so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,â Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. âAnd thatâs new for any Briar hockey boy.â
âOh, definitely,â Garrett agrees.
Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesnât deny it. He canât deny it, because itâs true.Â
Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briarâs sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.
Now, one thing about you was, you didnât do hockey. Like, at all. Youâve never been to a game before. You didnât understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.
It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.
The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didnât know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didnât do hockey.
âAlright,â the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. âNow, kinda venturing off⊠we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.â
You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, âOh yeah?â
âJohn Logan. How are you feeling about that?â The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldnât for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.
âSorry, who?â
Yeah, you couldnât have picked a worse fucking response.
But, in John Loganâs eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Maloneâs after the gameâ because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reasonâ he couldnât help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.
The reporterâs smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the schoolâs media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, âUh⊠John Logan?â
âYeah, um... Iâm really sorry, I have no clue who that is.â
âThe guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.â
âOh,â you respond. And because for some fucking reason you canât help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, âHockey boy.â
Like a fucking idiot.
Or, in John Loganâs eyes, like a fucking angel.
â...Right. He plays right wing for Briar menâs hockey,â she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, âYou didnât know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?â
And, of course, because for some reason your brainâs goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.
But, no, you werenât a fool in Loganâs eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.
âI knew they were here. I just donât have a clue who they are.â
âYou donât know Garrett Graham?â
âUh⊠nope? I donât think so.â
âDean Di Laurentis?â
âNot ringing a bell, sorry.â
âJohn Tucker?â
âThe guy I ran into?â
Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.
âWhat? Noâ no, that was John Logan.â
âRight.â You shake your head and you laugh, âToo many Johnâs, am I right?â
The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.
Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. Heâd played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.
And not caring when finding out who he was.
Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.
âJust go talk to her, dude,â Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. âSheâs two tables down.â
Logan followed Garrettâs gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.
God, he hadnât even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.
âNo,â he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.
âOkay, this is painful,â Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. âGive me thatââ
Dean had reached forward, plucking Loganâs phone from his loose grip.
âWhatâ dude, stopâ give it backââÂ
But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Loganâs phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.
And, oh, if looks could kill.
âAre you fuckingââ
âShhhh, thank me later.â
Ë˰âą*ââ·
âNo way.â
âWhat?â Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, âWhatâs up?â
You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.
John Logan has requested to follow you.
âHoly fuck,â Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, sheâs already leaning far away from you, âOh, we are accepting this right nowââ
âNo! No, we are not,â you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. âHe literally just followed me. If I accept now, heâll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so giveââ
âAnd, accepted! Alrightly, follow back⊠and look at that, he already approved it!â
âI hate you,â you groan.
âBro,â Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, âhe was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.â
âYou guys are all delusional,â you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know itâs because Maloneâs is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.
âI donât think youâre grasping the severity of this situation.â
ââThe severity of the situationâ?â You repeat Jadeâs words. âThe hell does that mean?â
âThat you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled himââ
You feel your face burn, âI did not straddle him.â
âBabe,â Louisa interjects, âyou absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?â
You groan, âThey already posted it?â
âGirl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,â Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulderâ you only hadnât because he had held you against him.Â
âOh,â Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. âSo thatâs Garrett Graham,â she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, âand thatâs Dean Di Laurentis,â and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, âThatâs John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.â
âHow do you know all this?â
âLiterally everyone does except you, apparently.â
âOkay, whatever.â
Jade groans loudly, âCan we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks youâre hot.â
âNo, he doesnât.â
âGirl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.â
Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guyâs face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.
Fuck, it was kinda hot.
âThat doesnât mean anything,â you choose to say instead.
âOh, Jesus Christ,â Jade groans. âLook, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?â
You shrug, lying, âI dunno. Didnât get a good look at him.â
âAlright, Liliana, pull up the edit.â
âWhat the fuck do you mean, âthe editâ?â You question, absolutely baffled. âThis guy has edits made for him?â
âHeâs a college hockey player, and heâs fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, heâs got editsâ but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I meanââ
âYou guys are disgusting.â
âHere,â Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song âDo I Wanna Know?â by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.
âOkay,â you say once the edit finishes, âheâs hot. I get it.â
âSee!â Jade grins, âHeâs hot, and heâs definitely interested in you after tonight, which means thatââ
But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someoneâs phone. Itâs you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.
âShit! Dean, turn it downââ
It was too late, though.
You and your friendsâ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six othersâ five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.
The sixth being John Logan.
You canât even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group thatâs only two tables away, âHoly shit, heâs right there, oh my Godââ
âI can see that, Louisa,â you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, heâs making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, âWhere the fuck are you guys going?â
âTo a different table so we donât block his cock.â
âOh myââ
You canât even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Loganâs friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.
Loganâs friends didnât seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.
You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really donât know whatâs with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth arenât something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.
âMy victim.â
You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?
But you donât leave, not when Johnâs smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, âMy attacker.â
âI wouldnât call it an attackââ
âWhat would you call it?â He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.
âA collision on the playing field,â you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. âIâm sure youâre used to those. With hockey and everything.â
âSo you know who I am now?â He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.
âHard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?â
âAbsolutely,â he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. Heâs got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. Heâs still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. âYou tackling me, me catching youââ
âStraight out of a sports romcom,â you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, âWhat a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we wouldâve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!â
âOh, I know,â he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. âWeâve been snubbed.â
Fuck, he was fun to banter with.
All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.
You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didnât even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Maloneâs, except for the staff.
And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Maloneâs until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you canât help but agree.
Which is where you found yourself now.
Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache.Â
He presses more kisses to your lips. Theyâre firmer, eager, and itâs now that you know you have to break the news to him.
âWanna know another thing about me, John?â You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.
He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, âWhat?â
âI donât do hook-ups. Or casual.â
You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured thatâs what would happen, but you didnât necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you werenât going to change your rules for a guy you had just met.Â
But, no, Logan doesnât react how you were expecting at all.
No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.
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And if they call me a slut
You know it might be worth it for once
Steve Harrington doesn't care what people think of you.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 2.9k
contains: angst, eventual fluff, friends to lovers, established relationship, misogyny, misogynist slurs, slut shaming, mention of previous bullying, explicit language, references to sex and sexual acts, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: day 7 of the 2k followers special! final day đ„șthe request for a fic inspired by 'slut!' came from @aecd27 a couple of months backâthank you for the suggestion!
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The word âslutâ has followed you since you were sixteen years old.
It had begun with a rumour. You were pretty sure you knew who had started it. You were almost positive that it was Sarah Mackenzie who had told Charlie Sharpe that you had lost your virginity to some guy at the trailer park. You knew it was her because you had accidentally thrown a ball in her face during volleyball practice and given her a nosebleed. She had clearly taken it very personally. Because despite the fact that the rumour was completely unfounded and not at all true, Charlie had believed it anyway. Not only had he believed it but he had told his friends who told their friends who toldâwell, everyone.
The word had been graffitied in obnoxiously pink paint over your locker before lunch the next day.Â
You didnât really understand what the big deal was. Firstly because, the rumour wasnât true and even if it was, the double standards felt painfully obvious. Guys at your school would talk quite openly about sex. Theyâd brag about it even, going into great detail about whoever they had hooked up with at a house party that weekend. But no, somehow being known as a slut was far worse than being a guy who jumped from girl to girl like they were disposable.
You thought the rumour would die eventually. That people would move on. But they didnât.
Because another rumourâagain, untrueâcame only two weeks later. About a different guy. One who had a girlfriend. Apparently you had given him a blowjob behind the bike sheds. You hadnât but that didnât matter. You werenât sure if Sarah was also behind the rumour but you wouldnât have been surprised. People started to whisper about you as you walked by. Not only were you a slut, but also a homewrecker. You pretended as though you didnât care. Like the word âslutâ hadnât crept beneath your very skin and refused to leave.
The word had followed you through all of your junior year and into your senior year. You became numb to it at some point, rolling your eyes instead of bursting into tears. Guys treated you differently, girls were wary of you.
Had your best friend Robin Buckley not been by your side during your later high school yearsâyou may have lost your mind. Whispers followed you wherever you went. You avoided guys like the plague. You didnât want to draw any more attention to yourself, plus the guys who were interested in you were only really interested in you for one thing. You told yourself that you only had a few more months until you graduated and you could finally leave this small minded town where people still believed a rumour from when you were sixteen.
But then the earthquake happened and Hawkins was put under a strict quarantine. No one could leave. You graduated without knowing when you would be able to go to Smith College with Robin. And you were stuck with those same damn labels hanging over your head.
It had become very apparent to you that Robin was trying to set you up with her friend Steve. She had been dropping hint after not so subtle hint. It was amusing and even you could admitâSteve Harrington was incredibly attractive, funny and on the occasions that you had hung out with him (through Robin), you couldnât deny that fluttering feeling you got in the pit of your stomach when heâd walk into the room.Â
And maybeâjust maybeâyou were beginning to come around to the idea.
âCâmon,â Robin practically pleads as she flops down onto your bed dramatically. âSteveâs great! Really. Not a creep. Not a murderer. He thinks youâre pretty, heââ
You blink several times, turning to look at Robin with raised brow and a face that was starting to feel a little hot.
âHe said that?â You ask her, trying to appear casual but the hopeful tone of your voice sounded anything but.Â
âHe did,â Robin confirms in a sing-song voice, a bright smile on her face. âHis exact words were âsheâs really, really prettyâ. He also that you were smart and kind andââ
âOkay, okay,â you interject, your face now burning as you throw a sweatshirt at Robin to shut her upâwhich was something you hadnât been able to master in over ten years of friendship. âI get it.â
Robin sits up, her blue eyes bright and hopeful. âSo, will you do it? Please? Will you give him a chance? Just one? Please?â
You mull it over, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before you look back at Robin.Â
Having been your best friend for as long as she has, Robin already knew exactly why you were hesitating.
âYou know he doesnât care about what people say about you, right?â Robin asks you quietly, fixing you with a rarely seen serious expression. âHe knows it isnât true and even if it had been trueâhe still wouldnât care.â
You knewâdeep downâthat she was right. You knew a guy like Steveâkind, caring, incredibly considerateâgenuiely did not care what people said about you. You knew he wasnât the kind of judge nor was he the type of guy who tied your worth to how many people you had or hadnât slept with. But it didnât stop you from caring. It didnât stop your stomach from turning uncomfortably.
âHe doesnât care,â Robin repeats gently. âTrust me.â
And because she was your best friend, you did. And you went on a date with Steve Harrington the very next day.
And unfortunately for youâit had been the perfect first date.Â
You didnât even wait for a second date to kiss him.
And Steve Harrington quietly eased his way into your life like he had always been there.
âYou two are sickening,â Robin tells you both fondly as you sit beside Steve in the booth at Sallyâs diner, his arm slung around your shoulders while you trace your fingertip over his hand gently. You had only been dating a few weeks and you were at the point in your relationship where you were almost constantly touching one another. Robin had thought it was sweet at first, seemingly pleased that her match making had been successful but now? Now she thought you were both incredibly annoying.
âOh, you love it really Buckley,â Steve grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek before he leans over to grab his mug of coffee.Â
âI do not,â Robin counters with a roll of her eyes. âYou two are disgusting. I practically have the word âthird wheelâ tattooed on my forehead.â
Steve snorts into his coffee while you manage a faint smile.Â
You were half paying attention to the conversation because the table directly behind Robin had grabbed your attention.
It wasnât very often you saw people who had been to high school with you, mostly because you tended to keep to yourself but you would recognise those faces anywhere. Because they had been some of the ones behind the whispers. Because they had been the reason why high school had been so fucking awful for you.Â
You try to act natural, try to keep up with the conversation that was flowing between Robin and Steve but your heart was beating fastâtoo fast. Your hands felt clammy and there was a faint ringing in your ears. You squeeze Steveâs hand once to help ground yourself before you get to your feet.Â
âMâjustâIâm just going to go to the bathroom,â you tell both Robin and Steve.Â
âWait, are you okââ
You donât let Robin finish her sentence. Instead, you make a beeline to the dinerâs bathroom, making sure not to pass by the table full of Hawkins High alumni.
The dinerâs bathroom was empty and you breathed out a sigh of relief, resting your palms against the cool countertop and allowing yourself a few moments to calm down. You had to remind yourself that you were no longer in high school. That the rumours about you hadnât even been true, that anyone who still cared about them now were childish and not worth your time. But what you had come to realise was that, though you had become numb to it, though you had rolled your eyes when people whispered about youâyou still cared. You really fucking cared and you wished you didnât.
You feel your traitorous eyes sting, just a little and you curse yourself for being so sensitive. You keep trying to tell yourself that it didnât matter, that it wasnât true. That you were more than what people thought you were.Â
You take another deep breath, turning on the tap so you could splash some cold water on your face. But just as you cup your hands under the running waterâthe bathroom door opens. Your stomach drops and you feel a sense of panic that seems to seep into every nerve in your body and without even looking up, you know exactly who had just walked in.Â
Lucyâor maybe it was Lily, you werenât too sureâsays your name in a sweet greeting that felt laced with poison.
âHey! I havenât seen you in such a long time! How have you been?â she asks, smiling kindly at you and you werenât entirely sure whether or not she was being genuinely kind or simply pretending. It was hard to be sure since Lucy had been the girlfriend of the guy whose dick you had apparently sucked behind the bike shed all those years ago. They had broken up shortly after and she had blamed you for it. And then, she had gleefully joined in with all the slut shaming you had experienced.
But now Lucy was smiling at you like it was all forgotten and it wasâa little confusing.
You blink, unsure whether or not it was some sort of trap. You try to think of a response, of somethingâanythingâto say but your mind has gone blank. Your fingers curl against the countertop. The tap continues to run.
Lucyâs smile falters, just a little, when you say nothing. She sighs and stands at the basin beside yours, looking at your reflection in the mirror and smiling once again.
âI know you, um, probably donât want to talk to me after everything I said about you back in high school,â she begins, choosing her words carefully. âBut IâI just wanted you to know thatâthat I think about it a lot and IâmâIâm really sorry.â
You hadnât been expecting that. Your eyes widen and you look back at her, shock apparently evident on your face as she laughs nervously.
âI know, I know sorry isnât enough and it wonât ever be enough for those things I said. ButâI was a teenager, you know and I was stupid and angry and I projected all my anger onto you instead of Paul and I shouldnât have done that.â
âOh,â you say finally because you didnât know what else to say. You certainly werenât going to forgive her because quite frankly, you didnât want to but you appreciated her apologising all the same. It was better than the ones who pretended like it had never happened. âWell um, thank you. Iââ
ââI mean, I should not have taken it out on you. I should have taken it out on Paul instead because he was the one who cheatedââ
ââhe didnât cheat though,â you interject before you could stop yourself. âWe never did anything. Someone made it up. I didnâtââ
Lucy laughs and the sound makes your gut churn uncomfortably.
ââoh câmon,â she says, smiling as though this was some kind of joke. âI know you slept around a little in high school, itâs cool! Itâs water under the bridge nowââ
ââbut I didnât,â you say, your hands beginning to shake as you turn to look at her properly. âI was a virgin until, like senior promââ
The way she laughs even harder at that makes your face burn with shame.
âI find that very hard to believe,â Lucy simpers.
You open your mouth to respondâor snap at her, or burst into tears, you werenât sure yetâwhen the bathroom door slams open.
And when you turn, you see Steve Harrington standing in the doorway.
âThis is the ladies,â Lucy tells him. âYou canât be in hereââ
âDonât care,â Steve interjects, his eyes focused solely on you as he closes the door behind him.
You blink a few times to try and stop the tears that were threatening to fall before Steve notices. But it was too lateâbecause of course Steve noticed.
Heâs at your side in seconds, palms resting on your shoulders and squeezing gently.
âYou okay?â He asks. âYou were gone for a while and Robin saidââ
He stops himself and glances over at Lucy before looking back at you and you understand immediately what Robin had told him. You understand why it had been Steve who had come to check on you and not Robin.
âWe were just catching up!â Lucy explains brightly. âWe um, we knew each other in high school, didnât we?â
Your eyes flicker down to the bathroom floor and you simply hum in acknowledgement.
Both Steveâs hands squeeze your shoulder once, twiceâand itâs enough to make you look at him. You find that heâs looking at you with those honeyed brown eyes that make your body feel warm. Make your shoulders relax and your breathing even.
âOh,â Lucy says in sudden understanding, stepping away from you and Steve as she steps towards the door. âI didnât realise you two wereâum, but that makes sense, I guess.â
You watch her leave, wishing that you didnât understand what she meant by that. But you did. You understood that she wasnât surprised that former âKing Steveâ had ended up with Hawkins Highâs resident slut.
âYou okay?â Steve asks the moment you two were alone, his hands moving down your armsâcausing a trail of goosebumps along your skin in their wayâbefore he takes your hands and squeezes them gently. âRobin told me she was the girl whoââ
ââshe didnât believe me,â you tell him quietly. âI tried to tell her that nothing ever happened between me and her boyfriend and shâshe didnât believe me.â
âBaby, Iâmââ
ââbut you believe me, right?â You ask before you could stop yourself. You couldnât help it. You hate yourself a little for second guessing him but the doubt was creeping in. And that word that still lived beneath your skin was starting to itch.
But the way Steve looks at youâalmost offended that you would even ask such a questionâtells you everything before he even opens his mouth.
âWithout a doubt,â Steve vehemently states, his jaw tense but his touch remaining soft. âOf course I believe you, baby. Iâm sorry that you even had to ask that question.â
You nod, letting out a breath that you hadnât realised that you had been holding before your hands tentatively reach towards the front of his shirt. Just to hold him.
Steveâs eyes soften as he looks at you. He lifts one of his hands to cup your face gently, his touch so gentle and so Steve that you couldnât help but look at him.
âHey,â he says in a voice so soft and gentle that it smoothes over you like a calming balm. âIâm sorry she didnât believe you, baby. I really am. Itâs fucking bullshit nobody believed you back then and itâs bullshit they donât believe you know. But you know, what? You know the truth. Robin knows the truth. I know the truth. The people who love you, who care for you, know the truth. Everyone else? Fuck âem.â
You let out a small, watery laugh, looking at Steve as you try fighting back a smile.
âThere she is,â Steve murmurs, both hands now cupping your face gently as he wipes away some of the tears that had escaped without your permission. âKeep smilinâ like that, baby. And donât let anyone try and take that beautiful smile away from you again, you hear me?âÂ
You sniffle before you nod, managing a weak smile. âI hear you,â you whisper back. âThank you, Steve.â
âThatâs Stevie to you,â Steve says, smiling back at you before he leans in to place a fierce kiss to your forehead. âOnly you.â
You pull away enough to look at him with a skeptical look on your face. âBut Robin calls you that too.â
âYeah butâas a joke,â Steve explains, thumb still brushing over your cheek gently. âShe doesnât have my expressed permission to call me that, only you do.â
âThat makes me feel special,â you say, unable to stop yourself from smiling now.
âYeah,â Steve murmurs, his eyes dropping down to your lips. âYouâre pretty fucking special.â
It was you who leaned in first, your fingers curling into his shirt as you pressed your lips against his. Steve almost instantly smiles against your lips before he melts into the kiss. His arms encircling your waist as your lips move against each other in a dance that was beginning to feel familiar. You barely even remember you were in a bathroom in a diner as Steve tugs you even closer by your belt loops.
You could have stayed there for much, much longer, if the bathroom door hadn't banged open again.
âUgh! Seriously you two?â
You pull apart from Steve at the sound of Robinâs voice. Your face feels hot and Steveâs ears are redâthough, his swollen lips twitch as if heâs trying not to smile.
âCanât help it,â Steve grins, his arms still around you and a dopey sort of smile spreading across his face. âYour match making skills are just too good, Buckley.â
And as you lean your head against Steveâs shoulderâyou couldnât help but agree.
mooney rambles: canât believe the 2k special week is actually over! i was so worried i wasnât going to stick to it but somehow i did! once againâthank you for 2k followers, iâm already on 2.8k (nearly 2.9k wtf) and iâm like đ„čđ„č thank you for the support, it means the world because i fucking love writing and i hope i never stop loving it
đïž A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Mishaâs Masterlist Library.
đ Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here
đ Book One: all chapters here
BOOK ONE: Chapter 39 ->(continued)
đïž Hawkins -> The Capitol -> Hawkins
đč Read PART I <- here
-> PART III here [coming soon]
Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader
hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. đč
đč SUMMARY: Sunup has never pulsed harder than it does now. Not just inside he arena... but even back in Hawkins, where the rain and dreary guy cannot even cast gloom on the blazing buzz that's circulating every cracked road of this cursed small town, along with the entire nation.
The young man on fire escaped.
The arena angel just outsmarted all the Careers.
A canon fired, sealing Glimmer Belcourt's fate before sunrise.
Effie Trinket is keeping her tributes alive and well in the press... who cannot shut up for one second about them, grilling her with question after question.
And back home, everyone is unwell about it. Jonathan can hardly see straight as he forgets his planned route for the morning. Parker can hardly look away from your lithe, retreating, limping figure on the broadcast. Anjelica feels her control slipping away, even in your absence. Burdock is worried sick for his beautiful granddaughter. Will is hardly able to stop babbling with concern and homesickness for you. Joyce is barely keeping her own stress contained for the sake of her family.
But the kids?
They aren't about to sit still. Because a new hero has entered the picture and has them backing his every move... and that's none other than Ro Barnett from District 11.
đč AUTHORâS NOTE: Get ready for some crazy vantage points, following the trackerjacker attack! Also, I might have lore-dropped (2) more universe crossover characters... ;) You'll just have to read on and see.
This is unquestionably a long chapter. It will partially continue in the next post, which I'll be releasing sometime tomorrow. Because Day 3 is absolutely one for the history books.
Effie and Jonathan steal my heart in this one!
{lowkey, so does Parker...}
p.s. yes, that is {indeed} Angelica Houston from "EVER AFTER" as my face card for Anjelica. sue me.
Xx,
Misha
đč OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst, plus grim themes and gore in the vein of The Purge.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
(continuedâŠ)
DAY 3 | The First Annual Hunger Games
INDIANA (48th State)
He almost misses the damn turn.
Thatâs the first thing.
Not because the road is unfamiliar. Not because the rain is too hard to see through, though itâs coming down in sheets ugly enough to blur the world into smeared gray watercolor. Not because the old carâs wipers are struggling either â though they are squeaking back and forth across the windshield like theyâre being personally victimized by the weather.
No.
Jonathan Byers almost misses the turn because his brain is still back there in the market square â standing among wooden crates of bruised apples and tired potatoes and damp people in work boots and patched coats, all of them staring at a battered television balanced in the window of the hardware stall while the whole damn town forgot how to breathe.
He jerks the wheel at the last second.
The tires hiss through standing rainwater, the whole car fishtailing enough to make his pulse slam up into his throat.
âJesus Christââ
He corrects, barely.
The car steadies.
Jonathan grips the wheel harder than he means to, knuckles pale, jaw set, breath going short and hot through his nose while rain needles the roof hard enough to sound like static.
He drives another ten seconds in silence.
Then, because there is apparently no graceful way to be shell-shocked at seven in the goddamn morning, he suddenly barks out loud to nobody:
âWhat the fuck.â
It comes out a lot harsher than he means it to. Not panicked exactly. More⊠staggered. Like his nervous system is still three blocks behind him, trying to catch up.
Because holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
You got hit.
Steve got stung.
Ro saved him while you led Tommy off-course, wearing Marvelâs jacket like a decoy target in human form.
Tracker jackers swarmed the whole goddamn pack.
Glimmer died.
Steve lost his mind.
Ro found him.
âŠand Jonathan stood there in the middle of the square with a sack of onions in one hand and stale coffee on his breath while every person in a ten-foot radius collectively lost their absolute fucking shit.
He can still hear it.
The gasps. The shouting. Somebody dropping a glass bottle that broke all over the pavement and nobody even looking down. The old woman near the flower buckets whoâd clapped both hands over her mouth so hard Jonathan thought she was going to bruise herself. The butcher yelling, âNO, NO, NO, KID, GET UPâGET UP!â at the screen like Steve could hear him. Some old man by the newspaper stand muttering, âThat girl is smarter than all of âem,â in a tone so awed it sounded almost religious.
Jonathan exhales hard.
The road bends.
Rain keeps coming.
And as suddenly as the thought appears, it hits him like a brick.
The bakery.
âOh, shit.â
His hands tighten on the wheel.
âOh fuck meââ
Because he was supposed to stop there first.
That had been the plan.
Market, then bakery, then home, then get Will, then take Will to Steveâs, then circle back and make sure Burdock had what he needed before Joyce left for work.
That was the plan.
Instead he got hijacked by a live broadcast of absolute arena psychosis and now heâs halfway home with a trunk full of damp groceries and his brain full of tracker jacker venom by proxy.
âOh, for fuckâs sakeââ He slaps the heel of one hand lightly against the wheel, furious at himself, and the old car gives one unhappy little shudder as he takes the next turn too fast.
Water sprays up in white sheets on either side. The tires screech. The whole car hydroplanes⊠just enough to make his stomach drop through the floorboard.
Jonathan swears and jerks it straight again, heart pounding.
âOkay,â he mutters to himself, breathing hard. âOkay, great. Great. Fantastic. Love that. Real smooth, Byers.â
He should just go home first.
That would be the practical thing.
Get Will. Get the groceries inside. Make sure Burdockâs all right. Then go back.
Except now he cannot stop thinking about the bakery. About the fact that if there was ever a moment to push, itâs now. While everybodyâs rattled. While what happened is still fresh enough to burn in peopleâs heads. While your face is still on every television in the country, half-feral and wounded and still fighting.
Jonathan swallows hard.
Because he needs to see what Parkerâs doing.
Thatâs the truth of it.
Not Anjelica. Fuck Anjelica.
He already knows what that witch is doing.
Sheâll be behind the counter with her spine straight and her hands cool and her face composed and her voice low and reasonable and all the while sheâll be using every excuse in the world to do exactly what she always does: protect the business in theory while protecting herself in practice.
But ParkerâŠ
Jonathanâs jaw tightens.
Parker is harder.
Parker is⊠annoying, frankly. Because he would actually be easier to hate if he were emptier. If he were actually cold all the way through. If he were truly apathetic. If he didnât have that buried, godawful heart buried under all that bitterness and all that old grief and all that calloused bullshit Anjelica has spent years packing down around him like wet cement.
Because apathy has never looked right on Parker Everdeen.
Not really.
Thatâs the thing Jonathan has always held against him⊠and for him⊠at the same time.
The fact that Parker cares is precisely why heâs been such a bastard to you.
A person who feels nothing doesnât spend that much energy resenting one human being.
A person who feels nothing doesnât keep circling the same old wound until it becomes his whole religion.
A person who feels nothing doesnât bring bread to Steve Harringtonâs house at night and then act like it means nothing.
He grips the wheel and stares through the rain-blurred windshield while the road unwinds back toward town.
Because there had been a stretch there, once.
When Parker had softened.
Jonathan remembers it. You remember it too, even if you donât talk about it much. Back when you were little enough to still think every version of love could be coaxed back if you just kept trying hard enough.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
There had been a window of time when Parker actually tried.
Heâd sat beside you on the bakery floor while your father kneaded dough at dawn. Heâd carried flour sacks bigger than his own torso like they were all badges of honor. Heâd let you trail after him. Had even smiled about it sometimes. Had taken your hand crossing the street. Had tucked a blanket around your shoulders once when you fell asleep in a booth after closing and your father had looked so tired Jonathan thought he might cry.
There had been heart in him then.
There had been.
âŠand then Peeta Everdeen died on the floor.
Jonathanâs throat tightens. He doesnât let himself linger there long⊠but the memory comes anyway because it always does when Parkerâs involved.
Your father on the ground.
You, sobbing.
Anjelica, stunned.
Parker, white-faced and frozen.
Jonathan there because of course he was there, because where else would he have been? You were his best friend in the world and heâd lived half his life in and out of that bakery like it was a second house.
And PeetaâGod, Peeta had barely gotten the words out through the pain in his chest before the pain took the rest.
I love you.
To you.
Then look after her.
To Parker.
âŠand that was it.
That was all.
Not because he did not love Parker, too. Jonathan knows that. He knows it in his bones. Knows it the way he knows his motherâs face and Willâs laugh and the exact sound rain makes on the Byersâ roof in springtime. Peeta Everdeen adored both his children. Loved and adored them.
But grief is not logical, and narcissists love a vacuum.
Anjelica took those last words and turned them into a blade.
He told her he loved her.
Not you.
Not me.
Her.
Jonathanâs seen it happen in real time over the years since. The way one poisoned idea, repeated long enough and gently enough, under the guise of injury instead of cruelty⊠becomes foundation. The way that Parker stopped leaning toward you and started leaning away. The way he rebuilt every wall he had briefly set down after your father spent years trying to show him you were not the grave his mother died in.
The rain gets harder.
Jonathan barely notices.
Because that part of it all â Anjelica and Parker and the whole dead rotten architecture of the Everdeen grief⊠is one of the reasons he can never quite bring himself to hate Parker cleanly.
Lonnie Byers had been loud with it.
Lonnie had used fists made of words and doors and liquor and voice.
Anjelica, from what Jonathanâs watched over all these years⊠doesnât need volume. She knows how to make someone feel guilty without ever sounding cruel. She knows how to make silence itself do the punishing, knows how to stand in a room and let everyone else feel like the unreasonable one.
And Parker�
Parker had been ten years old when your mother died.
Then barely eighteen when your father dropped dead in front of him.
He never had a fucking chance.
Jonathan still wants to punch him sometimes.
But he knows what it is to grow up under somebodyâs distortion.
That knowledge is the only thing that has ever kept him from wringing Parker Everdeenâs neck with his bare hands.
Everlark Bakery appears through the rainfall a minute later, all warm window light and fogged glass and that familiar painted sign that somehow still looks gentle even on mornings like this.
Jonathan pulls in too fast.
Brakes hard.
The car jolts.
He kills the engine and then sits there for one second, both hands still on the wheel, chest moving fast. Then he grabs the hood of his jacket, throws it up over his hair, and gets out.
Rain immediately slaps cold against his jeans. He hunches into it, crossing the lot at a half-run, boots splashing through shallow puddles â then yanks open the bakery door hard enough to make the bell over it jangle too brightly.
Warmth hits him first.
Then freshly baked bread.
Then television noise.
And there he is.
Parker.
Standing near the front of the bakery with both arms crossed so tightly over his chest it almost looks painful, staring up at the mounted television in the corner like heâs trying to burn a hole through it with his eyes.
When the bell rings, Parkerâs head snaps toward the door.
Those bright blue eyes hit Jonathanâs face immediately.
For a second neither of them says anything.
Jonathan pulls his hood down.
Parker just staresâŠ
And behind the counter, Anjelica is exactly where Jonathan knew she would be â setting out fresh trays with those calm, precise movements of hers, her long near-black hair pulled back now, not a single gesture wasted. She also glances up, but only for a second. Just enough to acknowledge his existence before going back to arranging pastries with the effortlessly cool detachment of someone pretending this morning is ordinary.
Itâs not ordinary.
The television flickers.
The screen cuts through brief arena shots â Thresh moving like a shadow through the grasslands, Foxface crouched at the stream, Steve barely visible beneath leaves and brush while little Ro presses chewed herbs against one of the stings on his arm.
Parkerâs eyes drag back to the screen like they are attached by wire.
Jonathan takes that in.
And something in his chest goes tight and hot all at once.
Because there it is.
The thing Anjelica does not have.
Parker is worried.
Not politely concerned.
Not grim in the abstract.
Not just watching because the television is on.
Worried.
Itâs written all over him in the way that his jaw is too tight. In the way his eyes keep going glassy without his permission. In the fact that he has not moved from that spot even though thereâs dough that needs turning and ovens that need checking and a morning rush that should already be starting.
Jonathan clocks all of it in a blink.
He also clocks Anjelicaâs stillness.
Sheâs not uncaring in a cartoon-villain way. That would almost be easier. No, hers is worse than that. Hers is the kind of restraint that suggests she sees no use in panic. As if love is inefficient once events are already in motion. As if feeling too much about a thing after the fact is simply bad management.
Jonathan hates her instantly all over again.
He cuts right to it. âYou both saw?â
Parker still doesnât answer. His eyes remain fixed on the TV, waiting for your image to reappear â even while his whole body seems to pull more tightly inward around the question.
Anjelica answers instead.
âHard to miss,â she says mildly.
Jonathan just looks at her for a moment. The television light flickers across her sharp, sunken cheekbones, cool and silver-blue. Somewhere behind him rain pelts the tall windows. The whole bakery smells like sugar and yeast and a brewing storm.
He doesnât bother pretending heâs here for anything except exactly what he came for. âWe need to send more.â
Anjelica doesnât look surprised.
That almost makes it worse.
Her hands keep moving over the tray in front of her as if heâd merely asked about flour inventory instead of your life.
âWeâve already sent enough this week to remind the Capitol who she is,â she says coolly. âAnd who this business is.â
Jonathan actually lets out a short incredulous laugh.
Enough.
That word almost takes him out at the knees.
âEnough?â he repeats icily.
Now Parker looks over.
Not at Anjelica.
At Jonathan.
Anjelica folds a towel with maddening care. âThe point of these gestures is not volume. Itâs visibility.â
Jonathan stares at her.
Then at Parker.
Then back at her.
âVisibility,â he repeats flatly. âRight. Cool. Cool, thatâs great. Meanwhile your stepdaughter is limping through the woods with a cut in her leg and Steve Harringtonâs been half out of his fucking mind since sunrise.â
âSheâs alive.â
âSo far.â
A beat.
Then another.
Anjelica finally sets the towel down and looks at him fully. She never raises her voice. Never needs toâŠ
âThat panic in your tone,â she says, âisnât helping anyone.â
Jonathan canât even help the smile that comes then, even though thereâs no humor in it.
âNo?â
âNo.â
His eyes flash. âBecause from where Iâm standing, sitting here acting like this is a bookkeeping problem isnât doing much either.â
The silence that follows that is precise.
It slices clean.
Parkerâs shoulders tense.
Anjelicaâs eyes narrow just slightly â not enough for anyone who doesnât know how to look for it. But Jonathan knows how to look for it.
âYouâre upset,â she says softly, tone wry. âI understand that.â
God.
Goddamn, she is good at this.
Not good like admirable. Good like a knife is well-made.
Jonathan can actually feel the shape of the trap in her tone. The attempt to turn his urgency into immaturity. To make his emotion the unstable thing in the room instead of her own unnerving detachment.
He takes one breath.
Then another.
And makes himself answer evenly.
âNo,â he starts slowly. âIâm clearheaded, actually. Which is why Iâm telling you both that whatever you think this is costing you now? Itâll cost more later if you sit on your hands and call it strategy.â
Anjelica tips her head. âAnd you know the books now?â
Jonathan almost laughs again.
âNo. I know her.â
That lands.
It lands on Parker more than his stepmother. Because Parkerâs mouth now tightens at that and his eyes go back to the television where your image has just flickered onto the screen for half a second â just you moving carefully beside the stream, one leg off in the slightest wrong way, Marvelâs jacket still over your own, hood up, your face pale and set with pain and focus both.
Parker doesnât breathe.
Jonathan sees it.
Sees the way your brotherâs whole face changes and barely tries to hide the change too late.
Behind him, Anjelica says, âThis bakery was left to all three of us, Jonathan. Iâm not sure if youâve forgotten that.â
He goes still.
Because yup.
There it is.
That sentence.
Not about money.
Not really.
Not about logistics.
Not really...
A reminder.
A warning.
A poisoned relic dragged up from the floorboards.
All three of us.
Her father loved all three of us.
Jonathan doesnât look at Parker right away because he doesnât need to. He can feel the silence hit him. Can feel it hit the whole room. And sure enough, when he does look⊠Parker is no longer watching the TV. Heâs staring down at the counter with that awful neutral expression he gets when heâs trying so hard not to feel anything that his whole face becomes made of stone.
Jonathanâs stomach turns.
He knows exactly what Anjelica meant.
She knows he knows.
Parker knows they both know.
And for one heated second, Jonathan just wants to put his fist through the cake stand and tell her to stop using a dying manâs last fucking breath like a goddamn rent payment.
Instead he inhales through his nose.
Exhales just as slowly.
Then says, with care sharpened to a point, âYeah. I remember.â
The TV changes again.
Jack peeks out of the cave while Hannah sits inside on the sleeping bag with blackberries in her hand, small and quiet and alive while telling him, âSheâll make it back. She has to.â And at those words, Jack nods â still warily peeking through the foliage keeping them hidden.
Jonathan catches that image in his peripheral vision⊠and so does Parker.
Except Parker doesnât just catch it.
He locks on.
And all the words in the room stop mattering to him.
Jonathan sees it happen in real time: the way that Parkerâs attention leaves them both and goes all the way to the screen. The way everything Anjelica is saying becomes distant noise. The way his eyes soften again against his own will while he watches the little cave and the little girl and the blackberries and all the impossible evidence of what youâve been doing out there.
Jonathan follows his gaze.
The television cuts again.
Back to you.
Youâre still by the stream. Still moving carefully. Still upright. Still trying. One step, then another⊠jaw set tight. The camera catches the slightest hitch in your gait and holds it there. Not enough to humiliate. Enough to make clear that you are hurting.
Parker doesnât blink.
Jonathan and Anjelica are still speaking. Maybe even arguing. Their voices go on, clipped and low and passive-aggressive enough to raise the hair on the back of Jonathanâs neck.
He doesnât even fully hear what theyâre saying anymore because Parkerâs silence has suddenly gotten louder than both of them. All that he catches is the tail end of a phrase from Anjelicaâ
ââand feed the town with what, exactly?â
There.
There it is.
The practical line.
The saintly line.
The martyr line.
The one that makes it sound like any charity toward you would somehow be charity stolen from everybody else.
Jonathanâs head turns toward her again to clip back â just as Parker does something completely unexpected.
He speaks.
Not loudly.
Almost too softly, actually.
But with decision.
âDo it.â
Both Jonathan and Anjelica look at him.
But Parker is already moving. Heâs gone behind the counter before either of them can respond, pulling open the lower drawers, reaching for ingredients, yanking a clean apron from the peg with one hand.
For one brief stunned second Jonathan just watches him.
Anjelica goes so still itâs almost frightening.
âParkerâŠâ
He does not stop.
Does not look at her.
Does not acknowledge sheâs spoken to him.
Parker just reaches for flour, then sugar, then the big mixing bowl like a man obeying a command that came from somewhere older than thought.
Anjelica recovers quickly because itâs a skill. âYou canât be serious.â
Parker says nothing.
âParker.â
Still nothing.
Jonathan stands there in the middle of the bakery floor with rainwater still dripping from his jacket and he genuinely has no fucking clue what to do with his face.
Because this is it.
This is the crack.
This is the thing he always knew lived under Parkerâs ribs and never had the nerve to stay out in the open.
Anjelica circles behind the counter now, posture immaculate, voice still soft.
ââŠif we do this now,â she tries, shifting gears, âwe are shorting production for people here. For families who rely on us. Here. For people your sister would want us to keep feeding.â
Oh this bitch is good, Jonathan thinks to himself.
But Parker just keeps moving.
Measuring.
Setting things out.
Not fast, exactly. Just relentless.
Anjelica follows him, eyes forced-solemn.
âShe would hate that.â
Jonathan sees Parkerâs shoulders jump at the words but he still moves. And something about it actually makes Jonathan close his eyes for one second⊠because there it is again. The guilt with no teeth marks. The manipulation so quietly voiced it almost passes for concern.
He opens his eyes again but doesnât even dare speak.
Not yet.
He can tell that Parkerâs balancing on the edge of something.Â
One wrong word might shove him backward.
Anjelica tries again, gentler.Â
âWe all want her safe...â She pauses briefly, then adds, âyou know that...âÂ
That almost gets a laugh out of Jonathan. A dark one. A murderous one.
But Parkerâs the one who finally stops.
Only for a second.
He plants both hands on the counter and bows his head. Rain rattles against the windows. The TV crackles on with some arena commentary about Ro layering leaves over Steveâs unconscious body â the image of the little kid bent over that impossible task making Jonathanâs chest burn.
âAnd starving this town right alongside her?â Anjelica keeps going. âIsnât what sheâd want.â
Then Parker stands up straight and finally looks at his stepmother.
Not confident.
Not polished.
Not even especially brave-looking.
Just⊠done.
And when he speaks, his voice is low and frayed around the edges.
âSheâs bleeding.â
Anjelica blinks.
He keeps going before she can answer. âSheâs out there bleeding, andâyou want to talk to me about pastries and inventory.â
âIt is not that simpleââ
âNo,â Parker cuts in, sharper now, and Jonathan actually almost startles because Parker Everdeen never cuts in. âItâs not.â
The room goes silent.
Parker swallows once, hard.
Jonathan can tell he hates this. Hates the speaking, hates the disobedience, hates the feeling of standing opposite Anjelica even now.
But he does it anyway.
âShe built half this place with her bare hands,â he goes on, and his eyes flick onceâonly onceâto the TV, then back down. âIf thereâs anything in here worth using for her, we use it. Alright?â
Anjelicaâs face does not change.
That is somehow the most unnerving part.
She just studies him with that terrible composure of hers, like sheâs already deciding what emotional invoice to send him for this later.
Jonathan stands there quiet as a ghost.
Partly because he does not trust himself to say anything useful.
Partly because his heart is now doing something weird and ugly and hopeful in his chest.
And partly because the television has now cut to Steve under the brush while Ro chews medicinal leaves and presses them to the stings, and Parker sees that too⊠with those blue eyes that were never born cold.
Jonathan sees Anjelica see it with her prejudiced eyesâŠ
The âlittle black boyâ tending to âthe rich dead familyâs white son,â like some tiny battlefield medic from a fairytale that forgot how to be sweet.
Your plan is everywhere.
Your fingerprints are nowhere.
Anjelicaâs mouth pulls just slightly.
Not a sneer.
Worse.
The beginning of one that gets strangled off almost before it forms.
Then she yanks open a drawer so sharply that Jonathan jumps.
Parker doesnât even flinch. He just keeps moving, working with what he has. Bowls. Flour. Butter. Honey. Fruit preserves. More flour. Cinnamon. Sugar... His hands know where everything is and what to do with it. He starts building the thing almost before the argument is over, as if action is the only way to keep from losing his nerve.
Anjelica goes silent.
Not defeated.
Just silent.
The silent treatment is used as strategy.
The guilt has now moved into atmosphere instead of language.
Jonathan knows that trick. Knows it so well it makes his stomach ache. Heâs been on the receiving end of it many times before, back when he was seven, when Lonnie tried it on him before Joyce kicked him to the damn curb, never letting him back into their home or their lives. He knows the way it feels, how it causes one to panic and scramble and apologize for nothing they ever did wrong to begin withâŠ
But Parker doesnât apologize.
He still doesnât even look at her.
âŠand after another half minute of standing there like someone hit the pause button on him, Jonathan finally clears his throat.
âWell, uhh,â he says, because what the fuck else is there to say.
Parker looks up then, only briefly, newly irritated by the existence of another person still in the room during this awful moment and not helping out.
âWell, uhh,â he repeats curtly, gesturing a hand. âGrab an apron, letâs go.â
Jonathan lifts both hands a little. âI gotta go get Will. Take him to Steveâs.â
Parker stares at him.
Jonathan, unable to stop himself, adds, âThen I need to get back to Burdock, because somebody does.â
Yikes. That one lands meanly.
Parkerâs jaw flexes.
Anjelica looks almost pleased that Jonathan took the shot instead of Parker having to deal with the guilt laid raw.
Jonathan hates that he just gave her that.
Parker wipes flour off one hand onto his apron and clips, without inflection, âFine.â
Jonathan waits.
But Parker doesnât dare look at him again. Just says, âThen come back when Ms. Joyce isnât working.â
âShe works âtil close.â
âThen compare schedules and help when you can.â
Jonathan blinks. Because that isnât exactly permission, not exactly gratitude or apology either.
But it is an ask.
And for Parker Everdeen, asks are rarer than snow in the summertime.
Jonathan shifts his weight. âBurdockâs still with her till Mom clocks in, then Iâll be with him.â
No answer.
So he pushes once more, softer now.
âTomorrow. I can come help.â
Parker tosses a wooden spoon aside, kneading dough. âWhat goodâs that do if weâre here doing this now.â
âIt does your grandfatherâs lungs good,â Jonathan replies with steely calm so that he doesnât let his impassioned rage about their negligence towards their own kin put a stop to what theyâre doing. âI think your sister would want that, right?â
Anjelica arches a wicked brow at that audacious wraparound⊠but sheâs still too committed to her silence to rebuttal, and too eager for him to blow it.
Parker huffs out something between annoyance and reluctant acceptance.
âWhatever. Justâgo get Will before the goddamn skies falls and more gates tear open.â
Jonathan looks at him for a long second.
Really looks.
At the hard line of his shoulders.
At the tired circles under his eyes.
At the furious, mechanical way heâs throwing himself into helping because if he stops moving heâll have to name why.
Then Jonathan turns toward the door.
The bell chimes when he opens it, more gently this time. The rainfall sounds louder instantly, cold and relentless and real, already getting worse.
He gets halfway outâŠ
Stops.
Something in him turns him back around.
Parkerâs still working.
Anjelicaâs still silent.
The TVâs still going.
And Jonathan â standing there with one hand on the door with humidity and rain at his back⊠says the thing before he can talk himself out of it.
He keeps his eyes only on Parker as he does.
âWhatever youâve told yourself all these years,â he says, voice low and rough enough to cut, âshe never believed it.â
Parker goes eerily still, eyes still on the dough.
Jonathan doesnât blink. âShe never blamed you. Not once.â
Anjelica turns slowly at that, disbelief and warning both crawling across her face now.
But Jonathan ignores her completely and keeps looking right at Parker.Â
âSheâs spent half her life loving people who made that harder than it ever needed to be. You included.â He swallows. âSo if youâre finally gonna do right by her, then do it all the way. Donât make her drag it out of you from a fucking arena.â
The bakery is dead silent.
Parker doesnât look up.
But the hand holding the measuring cup has stopped moving.
Jonathan lets that sit.
Then he pulls his hood up over his hair, steps back into the rain⊠and leaves the bakery with the bell jangling behind him and Anjelicaâs silence following him all the way to the car.
Effie Trinket has never looked more at home in a pressure cooker.
Not because she enjoys the frenzy, though in a different life she very well might have, or because she is untouched by what is happening either â because that would be a lie, and a vulgar one at that. No, the reason that she looks so heartbreakingly, magnificently at home in this fever-pitched little Capitol conference room is because pressure has always had a strange way of revealing what someone is actually made of.
And Effie Trinket, for all her authentic silk and glitter and pearlized polish and lacquered smiles and absurdly elegant posture, is made of steel.
âMRS. TRINKETâOVER HERE, PLEASE!â
The conference room itself is a madhouse dressed as sophistication.
Tall silver screens run along the walls in seamless panels, every single one flashing between live arena feeds and Capitol graphics and press footage from Hawkins, Indiana â where apparently half the town has collectively decided that rules are for weaker constitutions. The ceiling lights are too white. The long tables are too reflective. The air smells faintly of hairspray, espresso, warm camera equipment and the expensive kind of cologne that lingers like a threat.
And every seat is full.
Not just with reporters. But with personalities. With hungry little monsters in couture, with anchors and journalists and culture writers and teen magazine columnists and sleek political correspondents and gossip creatures and social editors and feature writers and society women pretending they are not gossip creatures. They are all here. Capitol Vogue. Panem Tonight. District Digest. Sunup with Caesar. Ember Youth. The Victorâs View. Capitol Pulse. The Capitol Ledger. Elle. Goldline. The Ticker. Brightstar. Panem Vanity. Spill.
Even two ridiculous little teenybopper outlets â Arena17 and TributeBeat â with heart-shaped logos and over-highlighted interns who look like they have personally never known a hard day in their lives and are now acting like you invented romance and combat simultaneously.
And right in the center of all of it, poised behind a pearl-toned podium with one gloved hand resting lightly at its edge, stands Effie Trinket.
She is dazzling.
Not in the empty way. Not in the shallow way these people usually mean when they use that word. She is dazzling because she has chosen to be incandescent while worried sick. She has chosen shape and grace and clear diction and perfect lipstick while both her tributes bleed on live television. Her dress today is a structured thing in pale lavender with subtle gold threading through the seams, severe at the shoulder and soft through the skirt, like somebody made a battle standard and decided to call it couture. Her blonde curls are sculpted within an inch of their life. Her earrings flash every time she turns her head. Her eyes, behind the sparkle and powder and practiced delight, are bright enough to betray her completely to anyone looking close enough.
She means every word.
That is why nobody in the room can stop listening to her.
âAnd the truth of the matter,â Effie is saying now, chin high and voice clear as a bell, âis that courage need not always look loud. Sometimes it is quite soft. Sometimes it is lovely⊠and sometimes it is a girl in borrowed black, limping through the trees with blood in her shoe and love in her chest.â
A full-body shiver goes through the room.
Pens move.
Microphones inch closer.
Somewhere to the left, one of the Panem Tonight correspondents actually presses a manicured hand to her sternum like sheâs been personally struck by the sentence.
Effie clocks it. Of course she does. She clocks everything.
The questions come in waves.
âMiss Trinketâdo you truly believe that Miss Everdeen intended from the beginning to misdirect the Career alliance?â
âWas the diversion spontaneous or planned?â
âDid she knowingly sacrifice her own safety for Steve Harrington?â
âHow early did you realize she was playing the long game?â
âAre we looking at strategy, or devotion?â
âIs it both?â
Effie does not rush her answers. Thatâs one of the great secrets of her art, and it is art. Sheâs never understood why anyone would pretend otherwise. Publicity is theater with blood pressure. Itâs curation under attack. Itâs survival with powder on.
She lets the room ask, letâs the frenzy peak just enoughâŠ
Then answers as though she is laying pearls one by one onto velvet.
âOh, it is devotion,â she says, and her eyes go just the slightest bit glassy in a way that feels wholly genuine and therefore lands all the harder. âLet us not strip the poetry from it simply because it is also strategic. That young lady is in love with that young man. Has been since they were scarcely taller than their school satchels. I am not surprised in the least. She was always, always going to fight for him.â
The room nearly combusts.
There are actual gasps. Half-delighted, half-horrified, and wholly feral little sounds.
A reporter from Capitol Vogue leans forward so abruptly she almost knocks over her own recorder. âBut does he love her back?!â
Someone from Pulse blurts, âHow can he not know by now?â
Another voice cuts across from the second row. âWill they be reunited?â
A young brunette thing from Brightstar, all lip gloss and shaking hands around her recorder, asks, âHow will justice be served?â
Effie meets every single pair of eyes in turn.
âThe truth,â she says with absolute certainty, âalways comes out. It cannot be rushed, nor can it be summoned by force. Nor can it be said exactly when or how it will bloom. But love⊠has no timeline.â Her gaze sharpens. âNeither does justice.â
There is a charged silence.
Effie leans ever so slightly forward. âBut there will be justice,â she says, and now her voice has iron beneath the silk, âfor our dove. For the burden she bears and bleeds for the one who holds her heart.â
That one hits like a struck match in dry summer grass.
Questions burst again.
âDo you mean justice in the arena?â
âIn sponsorship?â
âIn public sentiment?â
âWhat do you make of the Hawkins street response?â
âHow significant is public pressure?â
âCan public pressure influence the odds?â
âDo you believe the nation is rallying around both tributes or favoring one?â
At the edge of the room, Effie catches a flicker of movement and sees the other publicists clustered in their own strange little orbit. Some are trying not to stare and failing miserably. Some are annoyed in that polished, pinched Capitol way⊠the way ambitious professionals get when someone else has accidentally become the center of the universe while theyâre still trying to secure a columnist from Goldline. A few look openly impressed. One man from District 2âs team has the expression of somebody chewing glass, while District 1âs publicist (all lacquered indifference and razor-clipped bangs) is pretending to look at her notes while listening to every syllable.
And there, nearer the back, is Pepper Potts of District 7.
Soft-spoken, warm-eyed, immaculately put together without ever looking fussy. Her honeyed hair is pinned low and sleek at the nape of her neck, her cream suit crisp, her expression composed but far more human than most people in this room know how to be. She is standing beside the wall with her hands loosely clasped, and the moment Hannahâs name gets mentioned again in a question from Capitol Ledger â âlittle Hannah from Seven, still hidden, still aliveâ â Pepperâs entire face changes in that subtle, devastating way only somebody paying attention would notice.
Her heart swells right there in her throat.
Effie notices that too.
How could she not?
Because of course Hannah is part of this story now. You made her part of it. You made Jack a part of it. Ro. too⊠Steve most of all. You have somehow, inside less than three days, turned yourself into the axis around which four other endangered lives are now rotating. And the room cannot get enough of it.
A reporter from Ember Youth, no older than twenty-two and practically vibrating with the thrill of being alive at the same time as a narrative this juicy, asks, âDo you believe thatâs why the public has attached so strongly to her? Because sheâs protective? Because sheâs⊠merciful?â
Effieâs smile softens.
âI believe,â she answers carefully, âthat people know grace when they see it, even in a place built to erase it. They know mercy when it appears where mercy has no business surviving.â Her voice grows almost wistful. âAnd what is she if not precisely that? The arena angel. The dove in the midst of cruelty and warfare. The bakerâs daughter carrying kindness into a place that does not deserve her.â
One of the teen outlets actually sniffs.
Good, Effie thinks. Cry.
On the silver screen behind her, the feed changes again.
You, briefly.
Just for a few seconds. Leaning against a tree, face gone pale beneath the hood, one hand braced above the cut in your shin while you breathe through the nausea of looking at it.
Effieâs pulse jumps.
But she does not dare let the room see it.
She does, however⊠see Pepper glance at the screen too. Sees the awful little flash of sympathy there. Sees, farther off, one of District 5âs interns on the social media team squeeze her own wrist hard enough to redden it at the sight of Jack safe in that cave while her older tribute spirals out near the Cornucopia. Effie sees all the quiet things... The human things⊠The things that survive even here.
The questions keep coming.
âMiss Trinket, is Steve Harrington aware of the extent of her sacrifice?â
âHow can he be, if heâs unconscious?â
âWhat happens if he wakes before she reaches him?â
âDo you think she was right not to kill the Careers in their sleep when she had the chance?â
âŠthat last one stops the room.
It doesnât silence everyone completely.
Thatâs part of what makes it so ugly.
It simply lands and goes still there. A few people murmur. A few others shift in their chairs. Somebody gives a low, subtly scandalized hum. Effie blinks once. Twice. Not because sheâs rattled beyond recovery â but because the out-of-touchness of that question is so staggering that it requires a momentâs mental accommodation.
The journalist who asked it is sitting three seats from the front â female, acid-bright green satin, bleached blonde hair waved too stiffly. A jeweled pen is clutched in one clawed hand, her smile like a paper cut.
Ah.
There you are.
Effieâs own smile returns, every bit as dazzling as before. âWhatâs your name, dear?â she asks sweetly.
The woman sits up taller, delighted to have the floor.
âRita Skeeter.â
Of course it is.
Effie knows this womanâs ways all too well.
Thereâs a tiny stirring in the conference room. Several people recognize the name immediately⊠and look either entertained or exhausted, depending on how often Rita has tried to turn their private lives into a column.
Effie nods once, as though sheâs been handed something mildly interesting at tea.
âMiss Skeeter,â she says warmly, âwhat a very lively question.â
Ritaâs smile sharpens. âIt is a practical one.â
âIs it?â
The room goes a little quieter.
Effie folds her hands at the podium and tilts her head in that way of hers that somehow manages to be both cherubic and vaguely lethal.
âBecause from where I stand,â she says, âit sounds rather like asking why a wounded young woman, surrounded by four better-armed tributes she had only just outmaneuvered⊠did not simply rise in the dark and become an executioner.â She lets that sit. âAnd I daresay the answer is terribly simple.â
Rita opens her mouth.
Effie keeps going. âShe is not stupid.â
A few startled laughs slip out before people can stop them.
Effie smiles brighter.
âShe is strategic, yes. She is brave beyond reason, certainly. But she is not foolish enough to confuse opportunity with invincibility. Nor is she soâŠâ She takes a beat, doing everything not to look at the Careersâ publicists and team members leaning in. ââŠblood-drunk that she would mistake slaughter for intelligence.â Effieâs kind voice hardens, just slightly. âMiss Everdeen is alive because she knows precisely when not to strike.â A beat lands, before she cannot help but add, âjust like she told Mr. Hagan, when ordered to climb up the tree.â
That gives a collective murmur through the room.
The teen outlets snicker amongst themselves, already excited to feature that exact quote inside their juicy column.
But Rita, unwilling to surrender so easily, presses on. âBut surely if the point is survival, sentiment becomes expensive.â
That gets a couple of murmurs too. Less approving now, more wary.
Effieâs sparkly eyes flash.Â
âSentiment?â she repeats lightly. âMy dear, you are mistaking conscience for weakness.â
There it is.
A little intake of breath all around the room.
Rita actually stills.
Effie, relentless now in that gracious, devastating way of hers, goes on.Â
âThe very reason the nation is riveted by Ren Everdeen is because she has managed to remain herself in a system designed to strip that from her. She has not survived by accident. She has survived because she understands people.â Effie lifts one shoulder in the smallest of shrugs. âAnd because she is not foolish enough to murder in the dark when daylight may yet offer better odds.â
Then she turns, elegantly, opening the answer back out to the room instead of letting Rita own another second of it.
âWhat she has done,â Effie declares, her voice now for everyone, âis protect innocence where she found it. Four times over, if we are counting properly⊠And I do think we ought to count properly.â
That lands thunderously.
Because now it is not just about you protecting Steve. Now itâs about Hannah and Jack, and little Ro too. Four full names in the air. Four lives your actions have touched. Four small rebellions.
Even Rita Skeeter has the decency to shut up for the moment.
The room shifts. The energy changes with it. The frenzy doesnât vanish, but it deepens. Becomes more solemn. More reverent. More dangerous in its own way.
Questions start again, but they sound different now.
Less bloodthirsty.
More invested.
âWhat do you think sheâll need next?â
âCan public pressure help secure aid?â
âIs Steve still central to her strategy?â
âDo the little ones know how much sheâs risked?â
âDo you believe the new bond between Harrington and Barnett changes the endgame?â
âWhat does mercy look like now?â
Effie answers as many as she means to and not one more.
That is another one of her talents. Knowing the line before anyone else sees it. Knowing exactly how much to give the room before they would gladly pull out your bones if she let them.
When she finally feels the moment beginning to tilt from useful into greedy, she primly straightens.
âI have said rather too much already,â she says, airy but final.
There is immediate protest.
âJust one moreââ
âMiss Trinketââ
âWhat about the reunited angleââ
âCan you confirm whetherââ
But Effie raises one gloved hand and somehow, miraculously, silence comes back.
âI do adore your enthusiasm,â she tells them, and means enough of it for the lie not to matter. âBut I think it is time you all troubled someone else for a while. There are eleven tributes left, after all, and though I remain entirely convinced ours are the most compellingââ
That earns the exact laugh she wanted.
ââeven I,â she continues, âmust occasionally permit the rest of the nation its due.â
A few more scattered laughs color the room â along with some groans and several desperate final scribbles.
Effie steps back from the podium.
And as she does, the silver screens shift yet againâŠ
You.
Still moving.
Still alive.
Still carrying both your wound and the weight of every pair of eyes inside this room.
Something fierce and maternal and glittering with rage surges through Effie so hard that she nearly sways with it.
It is only the beginning of day three.
Only day three.
And already she knows with chilling certainty that this week is going to try to kill her in ways entirely separate from the arena.
Fine.
Let it try.
She is, after all, Effie Trinket. She knows how to smile with blood on her lips and still keep her poised spine straight while doing it.
So when she turns from the podium and begins to hurry offstage through the side aisle, still hearing the room swell back into chatter behind her, she does not allow herself even one second of visible collapse.
Not one.
Only when she reaches the corridor beyond, half-shadowed and temporarily blessedly free of microphones, does she finally stop and press one hand to her own chest. Not dramatically. Just enough to feel the beating there.
âYou are not dying in there,â she fiercely whispers to no one and both of you. âDo you hear me? No tombstones. Not for either of you. I forbid it.â
Then she lifts her chin, smooths one hand over the front of her dress⊠and strides back into the war.
Because keeping you and Steve alive in the press is not a side task now.
It is the task.
And by God, Effie Trinket has never once in her life shown up underdressed for a fight.
Will is on the floor in front of the couch with his overnight bag unzipped and half-emptied around him like he got in a fistfight with his own belongings and lost on principle. Socks. A flannel. A stack of sketch paper. Two pencils. Red flashlight. One random action figure that has absolutely no business being in there. His toothbrush wrapped in a washcloth.Â
âIâm just sayingââ heâs rambling, shoving everything back inside his duffel in no discernible order, talking so fast that heâs now halfway to smoke, âI donât understand why they havenât cut back to her again, because obviously sheâs fineâI mean, not fine-fine, but alive fine, and thereâs a difference, and if they donât show her soon, Iâm literally gonna lose my mindââ
âYou and the rest of the country,â Jonathan mutters sourly from beside the television, where heâs now leaning over to turn the volume down one notch because Claudiusâs voice is currently making him want to commit a felony.
The Byersâ quaint living room glows blue from the dreary morning light, along with the TV â where Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are now still going feral about the entire ordeal took place on live television earlier this morning. Every single media outlet, every local news station in Hawkins and every nationwide news channel have all decided that the world can only talk about one thing now.
You.
Steve.
The tracker jackers.
The dead pageant queen.
The angry Career boy, still out for blood.
And the little boy who dragged the handsome golden boy into safety.
But right now? The Byersâ are collectively losing their shit over the first one.
âIt was a sword,â Will blurts, like nobody knows that. âThat wasnât a scratch. That wasnât some little nick. That was a sword. He had a swordâ!â
âBelieve me,â Joyce sighs, passing behind him with a mug in one hand and Burdockâs medicine cup in the other, ânobody in this house has somehow forgotten the giant shiny murder sword, honey.â
Will twists around on his knees, hair falling in his eyes. âIâm being serious.â
âSo are we,â Jonathan says earnestly, tone gentle.
And thatâs the thing.
Everybody is.
Thatâs what makes the whole house feel so bizarre right now, so unhinged in a way thatâs almost funny â if it werenât so deeply, skin-crawlingly awful. Because Will is frantic in the innocent way twelve-year-olds are frantic, full of heart and panic and too much imagination. Joyce is frantic in the seasoned way mothers are frantic, which means that she looks almost completely calm while death stares down her whole family. Jonathan is frantic in the âeldest Byers way,â meaning he looks one wrong sentence away from putting his fist through the nearest wall. And Burdockâ
Well, Burdock is sitting in his chair with a blanket over his lap and his inhaler on the side table⊠and the television glow making every line in his face look older than it did yesterday.
Heâs not a frail man by spirit. Never has been. Even now, with his lungs the way they are â even now with his body increasingly betraying him like some slow mutiny⊠there is still too much iron in him to ever come across delicate.
But this morning?
This morning he looks wrung the fuck out.
Not because heâs weak.
Because heâs petrified.
Word-sick petrified. Bone-deep petrified. The kind of petrified that sits behind his breastbone and makes every breath a little sharper than it ought to be. The kind that keeps dragging his eyes back to the TV screen every time that it flickers. Every time the feed cuts to a different corner of the arena. Every time Caesarâs bold voice lifts theatrically and Claudius murmurs something all polished and expensive over footage of children trying not to die before breakfast.
Any time it cuts back to you, Burdockâs whole face changes.
Not dramatically. He is not a man built for dramatic displays. But Jonathan sees it. Joyce does too. Will absolutely sees it. That little tightening around the mouth. The fury in his wise old eyes. The way his weathered hand settles instinctively against his chest as though he could physically pin his own heart down and tell it not to make this worse.
And fuck, does Jonathan hate the television for making him watch it.
He knows exactly what Burdockâs seeing every single time your face comes up there on screen. Not the âarena angel.â Not âthe bakerâs daughter,â or the little media myth those Capitol creeps keep dressing you up as. He just sees you.
His girl.
His little Ren.
The little thing who used to climb up into his lap with a stack of books almost bigger than her own head. The girl who still sat by his chair now and read aloud to him when his lungs got bad enough that talking wore him out. The one who makes his tea the way he likes it without ever asking twice. The one who always slips extra blankets over his knees and pretends not to when he catches her at it.
âŠand now sheâs somewhere in a fake forest, bleeding through a wound in her slender shin, walking on a leg that probably ought to be resting, following a stream back to a cave where two little kids are waiting for her like she hung the moon.
The television image cuts from your retreating frame, wincing and weaving through the trees, following the stream â to the collapsed bodies of Tommy, Carol and Marvel⊠all knocked out from their track jacker stings, in a heap of barely-alive-limbs.
Carolâs got two lumpy stings on her jaw, one on her neck and three more on her bicep.
Marvelâs got two stings on the same cheekbone, looking like the worst case of acne any boy his age has ever seen (and thatâs not counting all the stings across his bare biceps, thanks to surrendering his jacket to you).
And then thereâs Tommy.
Tommyâs still got that nasty sting under one eye, all swollen and puffed out. His other eyeâs got the horrifically fresh, precise scar-like cut from where that robin bird came out of nowhere⊠just in the nick of time, before he ran away from the swarm of killer demobats â all while you crawled off to safety in the opposite direction.
All three of them are now knocked out unconscious, somewhere by the lake, under a treeâs shadow.
Burdockâs jaw works once.
Then he says, very dryly, to no one and everyone, âIâd like five uninterrupted minutes alone with that freckle-faced son of a bitch and his sword.â
Will goes very still, muscles stiffening.
Jonathanâs mouth twitches despite himself.
Joyce, saint that she is, doesnât even miss a beat as she slyly hands over the medicine cup. âYou and me both.â
âIâm serious,â Burdock says gravely.
âI know,â Joyce says, just as serious.
He takes the pills, swallows⊠then grimaces at the lingering chalky taste. âNo, Joyce, I mean I would genuinely like to beat him to death with one of my good hardbacks.â
Will gives a little startled laugh.
There it is.
That little stupid involuntary sound that slips out at exactly the wrong time⊠and somehow saves everybody in the room from drowning for one blessed little second.
Burdock hears it and glances at him, his eyes gentling even while the rest of his face stays gruff⊠though teasing now. âWhat.â
Will wipes at his nose quickly. âNothing.â
âThatâs a lie, Williamâ
âItâs justâŠâ Will gives a helpless little shrug, still kneeling in the middle of his half-packed life. âYou said hardbacks.â
âWell, Iâm not wasting the paperbacks,â Burdock grumbles.
Jonathan snorts out loud.
Joyce closes her eyes briefly and exhales through her nose, smiling despite the sheen of fear still sitting behind it.
But the relief lasts for all of five seconds, because the television cuts back to you again.
This time you are limping by the stream. Hood up. Both windbreakers still on. Face pale. Mouth set.
The room goes painfully quiet⊠Willâs bag falls forgotten into his little lap as he sits cross-legged on the warm carpet. Jonathanâs arms fold tighter across his chest. Joyce completely goes still from where she stands just behind the couch. Burdockâs fingers curl over the armrest hard enough that the tendons in the back of his hand stand out.
Caesarâs voice keeps going. Claudiusâs too. Some local Hawkins anchor on another channel the television had been bouncing between only moments ago had been saying something breathless about âthe developing oddsâ and âthe brilliance of the alliance fracture,â but none of that matters now.
All any of them can see is the way you keep stopping for breath⊠and then forcing yourself forward anyway.
Burdock watches you for three long seconds.
Then four.
Then says quietly, melancholy, almost to himself â âThat girl of ours would drag herself through hell before sheâd leave that boy behind.â
Nobody answers him.
Because nobody can.
Jonathan doesnât look at Joyce, but he can feel her thinking the exact same thing he is.
Yeah, she would.
And Burdock knows it better than any of them.
Because he has known since you were tiny what Steve Harrington did to the architecture of your little heart. That first ridiculous crush. That impossible devotion that never actually shrank, just grew up with you⊠changed shape, got quieter and deeper and far more dangerous. He has watched you love Steve from a distance for so long that at this point, itâs practically one of the house ghosts.
Burdock never once mistook it for a phase.
Why would he? He was a man who had once loved that way too.
Heâd loved Astrid with his whole chest. Then he watched their son love your mother, Lenore, like the world itself had invented devotion just for him. Men like that recognize it when it blooms in somebody else.
Which is exactly why Burdock sits there this morning looking like heâs trying not to come apart at the seams.
Because he knows you.
He knows damn well⊠you are not walking out of that arena without Steve Harrington if there is any possible way to make otherwise happen.
He also knows the rules say there can only be one winner.
And that knowledge is sitting in the room with all of them like another person.
Joyce is the one who finally cuts through it, because of course she is.
She turns from the screen, claps her hands together once, and says in that brisk, no-arguments voice she gets when the world is on fire and she has no intention of letting the flames set the schedule, âAlright. Enough. We are not going to sit here and let the television morons tell us how to have a nervous breakdown.â
Will blinks up at her.
Jonathan glances over.
Burdock huffs. âPity. I was just beginning to enjoy mine.â
Joyce points at him with the medicine bottle. âYouâre not allowed.â
âSays who.â
âSays me.â
He grumbles something beneath his breath that sounds suspiciously like oh so this is tyranny, but he takes another sip of tea anyway.
Joyce sets the bottle down and keeps going. âThe rainâs only getting worse. You boys are headed clear across townâyou need to go before it turns into lightning and thunder and the roads really go to hell.â
At that, the practical side of the room wakes back up.
Jonathan pushes away from the wall. âYeah.â
Will scrambles fully to life again, grabbing up the rest of his clothes, jamming them into the overnight bag with even less coordination than before. âRight, right, okay, okayââ
âNot okay,â Jonathan says.
Will looks up.
Jonathan nods toward the mess in his lap. âYou packed one shoe.â
Will looks down. ââŠoh.â
Burdock makes a dry sound in the back of his throat. âHis mindâs elsewhere.â
âSame,â Jonathan mutters sadly, stooping to grab the missing sneaker from beneath the coffee table.
âItâs in the arena,â Will says, like itâs the most self-evident thing in the world.
Jonathan pauses for one beat with the shoe in his hand.
Then hands it over. âYeah. Mine too.â
âŠand maybe thatâs why Burdock softens then, just a little bit. Because the second that Willâs worry gets too big and too visible, it gives him somewhere to put his own tenderness besides fear.
He opens one arm. âCâmere, squirt.â
Will doesnât even hesitate.
He just launches himself at the old man â so hard the blanket bunches and Burdock lets out a startled grunt before wrapping him up one-armed anyway, tucking Will close with that gruff old affection of his that always feels more solid because it isnât dressed up.
âThere we are,â Burdock murmurs, rubbing one hand over the back of Willâs head. âNearly broke my ribs, boy.â
âSorry.â
âNo youâre not.â
Will squeezes harder.
Burdockâs voice shifts⊠low, steady and made to hold. âAnd yes, Iâm keeping in touch on the walkie, alright? You keep yours on, Iâll keep mine on, and if I hear you getting too dramatic over there? Iâll come down that line and haunt you myself.â
Will laughs wetly into his shoulder. âYouâre not dead.â
âNot with that attitude.â
Jonathan has to look away for a second.
Joyce doesnât. She just watches the whole thing with her mouth pressed tight because if she lets it tremble, sheâs done for.
Will finally pulls back enough to look at him. âYou promise?â
âOf course I promise,â Burdock winks. âNow you go on and have some fun.â
Will makes a face. âAt Steveâs?â
âYes, at Steveâs.â
âThereâs nothing to do except watch the Games.â
âThen donât watch them every goddamn second,â Burdock says, giving his little shoulder a gentle shove. âGo outside. Touch some grass. Pick weeds. Make nuisance of yourselves. Play something. Be children.â
Willâs face folds into that sweet, wounded little Byers expression of his before a soft sigh escapes him. âWeâre trying.â
Burdockâs eyes warm. âI know.â
Then Jonathan is there, crouching beside them, and Burdockâs hand leaves Willâs shoulder to grip the back of Jonathanâs neck instead for their own quick goodbye. Not theatrical or prolonged. Just one of those rough little embraces men give when too much is being said without language.
âDonât drive like a maniac,â Burdock mutters.
Jonathan snorts. âI almost hydroplaned into a telephone pole about forty-five minutes ago, so Iâll do my best.â
Joyce whips around. âYou what?â
âIt was fine,â Jonathan says immediately.
âJonathanââ
âIt was fine,â he repeats, standing too fast and going for lightness because if he doesnât, sheâll make him sit back down and explain every second of it. âThe car and I had a brief disagreement with the weather. We resolved it.â
Burdock mutters, âJesus.â
Joyce is already pushing them both toward the door. âGo. Both of you, go. Before I decide nobodyâs going anywhere ever again.â
Will grabs his overnight bag. Jonathan grabs his jacket. Joyce catches both their faces on the way out â cupping one cheek, then the other, pressing kisses to forehead and temple and cheekbone in quick succession like she can armor them with contact alone.
Jonathan murmurs, âMom.â
She ignores that.
Then she points two fingers at him. âIt is not even nine in the morning. My shift is not until noon. You do not need to rush back so recklessly that you kill yourselves doing it.â
âI know.â
âYou hear me?â
âYes.â
âI mean it.â
âMomââ
âAnd walkie me as soon as you make it.â
âWe will,â Will promises.
She smooches his forehead once more then shoves them both out the door. âBe off.â
The door slams behind them half a second later.
Rain hits instantly.
Cold, soaking, immediate.
Jonathan throws one arm over Willâs shoulders and the two of them make a mad dash for the car hunched together like fugitives. Will is laughing and sputtering by the time that Jonathan gets the passenger door open for him, shoving the overnight bag in after him and then darting around to the trunk long enough to wedge his bicycle in place. By the time he slides behind the wheel, his hair is wet through and rain is running off the end of his nose.
He wipes at it with the back of his hand and jams the key in the ignition.
The engine coughs awake.
And before Jonathan can even shift into drive, Will has already snatched up the walkie.
âHello? Hello? Hello? Guys?â
Static.
Then Dustinâs voice explodes through so loudly Jonathan flinches. âBYERS! OH MY GOD, FINALLY!â
Will lights up so fast itâs like somebody plugged him in. âWeâre coming!â
âWell, hurry up!â
âYeah!â Lucas chimes in. âWeâre already out!â
Jonathan blinks, one hand on the clutch. âWaitâwhat do you mean already outâ? I thought you guys were at Steveâs.â
Will covers the walkie with his palm and looks over, eyes huge. âTheyâre not at Steveâs.â
âNo kidding.â
Then Lucas cuts in over the static, repeating: âWeâre already out!â
âOut where?â Jonathan stresses.
Mike answers this time, sounding just as keyed up as the rest of them are. âWeâre about to rally in the streets!â
Jonathan stares straight ahead through the rain. âYouâre about to what.â
Dustin clicks in. âCan Will please, please, please come?â
âHe has to!â Mike begs. âThe partyâs not full without him!â
Will lowers the walkie and turns to him with the expression of a child about to ask for something he already knows he should not be asking for. âJonathan.â
âNo.â
âPlease.â
âNo.â
âPlease.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âPlease, please, please, please, pleaseââ
Jonathan tips his head back against the seat for one full second, eyes shut, rain drumming the roof like impatient fingers. Then he looks sideways at his brother, who is all earnestness and panic and giant eyes and still somehow twelve in a world that does not deserve twelve-year-olds.
Will clasps his hands together. âLittle Ro just saved Steveâs life.â
âI know he did.â
âAnd everybodyâs already out there.â
âThat part is not helping your case.â
âPlease?â
Jonathan stares at him.
Will stares back.
The older brother squints. âWhoâs supervising.â
âEddie.â
âJust Eddie?â
âI think so.â
They have a little staredown â one all puppy eyes, the other hesitant.
Then Jonathan exhales through his nose and rolls his eyes so hard it ought to count as a spiritual experience. âFine.â
Will gasps. âReally?â
âNo, Iâm lying for fun.â
Will practically bounces in his seat as he lifts the walkie again. âGuys! Guys, he said yes!â
Through the speaker comes an immediate collision of voices.
Dustin: âI KNEW IT.â
Mike: âTold you.â
Lucas: âDonât go too far, dumbasses, theyâre coming.â
Jonathan pulls the car out carefully into the road, shaking his wet hair once like a dog. âWhere are we meeting?â
This time Dustin answers like heâs reporting battlefield coordinates. âMayor Klineâs house!â
Jonathan snorts. âOf course you are.â
Will relays, âWeâll be like thirty-five minutes!â
âMaybe less if Jonathan drives like a psycho,â Mike offers.
Jonathan leans toward the walkie. âNot happening.â
Static hisses.
Then Lucas, sounding unbearably pleased with himself, says, âCoward.â
Jonathan barks out a laugh before he can help it. And thatâs really the tone of the next stretch of drive: rain, windshield wipers, the old engine⊠Will in the passenger seat talking ninety to nothing into the walkie while Jonathan drives through gray morning roads with the smallest unwilling smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
The boys keep talking over each other in overlapping bursts.
Dustin is convinced the whole town should celebrate what Ro did.
Mike thinks they need signs.
Lucas thinks that sounds stupid unless the signs are for a campaign.
Will keeps trying to ask where they could even get poster board this early.
Erica suddenly crackles through the line just to add, ââfrom the old school supply closetâobviously,â like everybody else in Hawkins is an idiot except her.
Jonathan glances at his brother, brows raised. âYouâre all robbing a school before breakfast?â
Will, without shame, giggles into the walkie, âguys, are we robbing a school before breakfast?â
âItâs not robbery,â Dustin argues. âItâs repurposing.â
âRepurposing,â Jonathan repeats flatly.
âBig brotherâs not happy,â Will chuckles into the walkie.
âTell your brother to mind his damn business,â Erica snarks.
Jonathan almost drives off the road laughing.
The walkie devolves into chaos again. At one point Mike and Dustin start to bicker about whether âShadow Boyâ sounds cooler than âRo the Brave.â
Lucas vetoes both and says they sound like rejected comic books.
Will immediately defends the latter.
Then Jonathan hears a horn through the static.
A beat later, Eddie Munsonâs voice cuts in, lazy and unmistakable. âAlrightâ which one of you little criminals stole my walkie channel.â
Will beams. âEddie!â
âYeah, hi, sweetheart, itâs me, your favorite parole violation.â
Jonathan glances in the rearview mirror automatically even though he canât see anything yet except rain blur and distant headlights.
Eddie goes on, âJust so everybody knows, I am tailing these tiny fugitives in the van because apparently I enjoy stress now.â
Over the walkie comes a chorus of protesting voices.
âWe are not fugitives!â
âDonât act like this wasnât your idea!â
âEddie, youâre such a codfish.â
Eddie guffaws over the speaker. âA what?!ââ
Jonathan snorts, reaching for the walkie. âGimme.â
Will hands it over happily, and Jonathan clicks in with a smirk as he stops at a battered stop sign. âMorning, Munson.â
They can hear the wild grin still in Eddieâs voice whenever he stops leaning into all the kidsâ madness, answering him directly. âGâmorning, Byers. Howâs the old man doin'?â
And just like that, something softens in the tense space between Jonathanâs shoulders. Not because Eddie has said anything overtly noble. He hasnât. Of course he doesnât, because Eddie Munson would rather die than just sound happily earnest for too long in one breath.
But he asked.
He asked because he knows. Because everybody knows, because this is a small town (and much smaller now, thanks to apocalypse the purge) and the people left who care know where every ounce of care gets done â even if nobody stands up and applauds it.
Jonathan shifts one hand higher on the wheel. âHeâs alright. Worried sick. Same as the rest of us.â
âYeah,â Eddie says quietly. Then, lighter again: âWell, if he starts stage-diving through windows trying to get to the Capitol, tell him to wait till I can set up a proper ramp.â
Will laughs.
Jonathan does too.
And for a little while thatâs enough.
They keep driving.
Rain crawls heavier down the windshield. Still no thunder. No lightning. Just the steady low-lying dread of a storm that has not decided whether it wants to get worse yet.
Eddie keeps half an eye on the kids in the back of his van in his rearview and half an eye, apparently, on the damn road â grinning, walkie in hand. At one point his voice cuts abruptly sideways with, âMike Wheeler, if youâre standing in the back of that van without holding on? I will personally fling you into next Thursday.â
Thereâs a clatter.
Dustin cackles.
Lucas shouts, âI told himâ!â
Will bends over laughing in the passenger seat.
Jonathan, still driving, snorts fondly into the walkie. âWhen will you kids ever learn, manâŠâ
Then thereâs a brief lull.
Itâs enough for the rain to sound louder again. Enough for Jonathan to feel all the old nerves start trying to creep back in around the edges now that all the chatterâs dippedâŠ
And thatâs when he shifts in his seat.
Once.
Twice.
Will notices out of the corner of his eye but, because heâs Will, says nothing.
Jonathan stares out at the road. Mouths one false start. Stops. Tries again⊠then finally, into the walkie, with all the awkwardness of a man trying not to sound like himself, asks, âIs, uh⊠is Nancy there?â
Silence.
It only lasts maybe two seconds.
But in those two seconds Will goes so still beside him he might actually be trying not to smile with his whole body.
Then static crackles and Eddie answers, maddeningly normal, âYeah, man. Sheâs here.â A beat. Then, with just enough casual cruelty to make the point without making it a point, adds: âRiding passenger princess.â
Jonathanâs ears go hot. âCool,â he says, far too fast. Then slower, trying and failing to recover. âRight. Cool.â
Will looks down at his lap immediately, like it is suddenly the most fascinating object in all of Indiana.
Jonathan narrows his side-eye. âDonât.â
Will does not look up. âI didnât say anything.â
âYou were about to.â
âI really wasnât.â
âYou were smiling.â
âThat could mean anything.â
Jonathan huffs and looks back at the road. But his mouth betrays him. There is absolutely a smile there now â embarrassing and involuntary and kind of helpless.
Because yes, of course Nancyâs there.
Nancy Wheeler has been orbiting Steve Harrington since middle school in one form or another. Whatever version of together they are, whatever shape that has taken over the years, Jonathan knows better than to pretend it isnât real.
And still.
Still some stupid soft stubborn part of him keeps loving her anyway.
âSo weâll see you soon, yeah?â Eddie clicks in again, light and easy.
Jonathan, clicking in. âShould be twenty minutes out now.â
Heâs still smiling like a fool.
Will, sweetly, says nothing.
Thatâs the grace of him. He knows. Heâs always known. But he would sooner die than make his brother feel ridiculous over it.
Over the walkie, Eddie has moved right back on to the kids without touching the Nancy thing one inch further. Another grace. Different font.
âRaincoats,â he says now.
A collective groan answers him.
âIâm serious.â
âBoooo,â Dustin drones.
âI donât care if you boo me, Henderson, put the damn raincoat on.â
âWe look stupid.â
âYou are stupid.â
âThatâs not the same thing.â
âToday it is,â Eddie quips, then clicks the walkie again. âHope youâre wearing a strong raincoat, baby Byers. This rain is asssss.â
Jonathan glances at Will. âHeâs right. This weatherâs gross.â
Will grins, grabbing the extra little yellow rain slicker bunched near his feet. âYou sound just like him.â
âThatâs because Iâm also right.â
âDebatable.â
âChild.â
âOld man.â
Jonathan laughs under his breath and reaches over to knock lightly against Willâs shoulder. Then, because heâs still Jonathan⊠and because even in the middle of all this there are some lines he was apparently born to say⊠he adds, âIf any of you idiots catch a cold from running around in the rain, youâre grounded,â into the walkie.
Will blinks at him.
Then actually laughs. âGrounded from what?â
âExactly,â Jonathan deadpans.
Over the walkie, Eddie barks out a laugh so sudden it fuzzes the speaker. âThat is the shittiest threat Iâve ever heard, and I fully support it.â
âIt still counts,â Jonathan drawls.
Mikeâs voice comes in, indignant. âNo it doesnât.â
Lucas, traitor that he is, clicks in and adds, âKinda does.â
Mike cuts through everybody with his usual snark: âIâm not getting grounded by anybody who doesnât even own my house.â
âThank you,â Dustin contributes. âThatâs what Iâm saying.â
âBoth of you shut up and zip your coats,â Eddie groans.
The rain gets harder then. Not violent yet. Just thicker. Meaner. A little louder against the hood and roof. The streets ahead turn slicker â reflecting the washed-out morning sky like strips of torn metal, making the post-apocalyptic version of Hawkins just look more grim than it already was.
Jonathan keeps both hands on the wheel.
Will keeps talking with his friends.
The walkie keeps crackling.
And somewhere beneath all of it, beneath the weird hysterical relief and the worry and the rowdy affection and the fact that none of them know what the next hour will bring, there is one quiet steady truth humming through Eddieâs beat up van and Jonathanâs old car:
This little corner of Hawkins is not splitting its loyalties.
Not now. Not ever.
There is no Team Steve and Team Ren in competition.
There is only a townful of people who have decided that if the world is cruel enough to make them choose, then the world can go fuck itself.
Jonathan drives on through the rain with his little brother in the passenger seat and the bike rattling softly in the trunk and Eddieâs van somewhere out there, carrying Nancy and the other boys and all their noise. And as the road unwinds beneath the tires and the storm gathers itself one shade darker overhead, he thinks â not for the first time, and not for the last â that some people belong to each other so plainly it ought to be enough to change the rules.
It ought to.
So maybe thatâs what all of Hawkins is doing now.
Not watching.
Not waiting.
Just refusing.
Refusing the terms. Refusing the odds. Refusing the corrupt idea that one heart should have to beat at the expense of the other.
Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside the car, Will is still arguing with Dustin about poster board logistics over the walkie while Jonathan drives safe and steady and grins at the road in spite of himself. And somewhere far from Hawkins, deep inside a cursed arena built to make children bury one another, a wounded girl keeps moving and a broken boy keeps breathing.
For this little pocket of the world, that is enough reason to keep going too.
Say you'll remember me
Standin' in a nice dress
Starin' at the sunset, babe
A summer road trip with Steve Harrington that could only be from your wildest dreams.
pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader
words: 6.2k
contains: fluff, friends to lovers, eventual mutual pining, dustin being dustin, a lot of use of the word beignets at one point, no use of y/n, reader sometimes called henderson, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: day 2 of the 2k followers special and oh boy have i been excited for this one! you know i can't say no to a taylor inspired steve harrington fic. maybe one day i will have a fic for every song of hers. this idea for a henderson!reader fic inspired by wildest dreams by taylor swift came from @czirously a couple months back. sorry it took so long!
also please allow for some creative liberties with this one, i am not american and i really did my best with research for the road trip. if you notice anything insanely wrong just pretend you didn't!
p.s. let me know if you spot any taylor swift easter eggs because i left a few in this fic!!
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Signing yourself up for a month-long summer road trip with your younger brother and Steve Harrington had seemed like a good idea two months ago. Because two months ago, Steve Harrington was just a friend. Just a friend who laughed at your jokes like he thought you were actually funny. Just a friend who remembered the little things you told him. Just a friend whose mere presence made you feel safe and understood in a way you hadnât ever felt before.
Just a friend.
Just a friend whose name now seemed to live beneath your skin. Just a friend whose smile made your dark days brighter. Just a friend whose laugh you could recognise anywhere.
Just a friend.Â
You didnât know exactly when falling for Steve had happened. All you knew is one day, you started looking for him in every room you walked in. Your heart did traitorous things in your chest when he would say your name. You started feeling sick to your stomach when he would tell you about his date from the night before. You started caring way too much about your outfit and hair if you knew that there was even the slightest chance that you were going to see him that day.
And so, a month-long road trip with Steve? It was going to be a problem.
âDustinâyou donât need ten hats!â You scold your younger brother lightly as you pull out five of the ten hats he had decided to pack in his suitcase. âWeâre meant to be packing light for the trip, Steve said toââ
ââSteveâs being dramatic,â Dustin replies flatly, snatching the hats back from you. âIf you can bring half your wardrobe with you, then I can bring my favourite hats with me.â
You manage to refrain from rolling your eyes but your face still warms. Admittedly, you had packed a little too much but in your defence, you were going on a long road trip with the guy you were secretly in love with so of course you wanted to look nice. But you couldnât tell Dustin that.
âFine,â you concede, picking up the bag of toiletries you had packed for your brother (because you didnât trust that he would remember to pack sunscreen by himself) and shoving it in his case. âTake the hats with you! See if I care.â
âYou seem to care an awful lot,â came a voice that made your stomach feel light, as though you had missed a step going downstairs. Your face feels warm as you turn and see Steve Harrington standing in Dustinâs doorway.Â
Fuck, he looked good. Ridiculously so. Steve looked good in a way that it should be illegal to look like that. He was wearing some jean shorts that showed just a hint of his delicious thighs, a light green shirt that was unbuttoned at the top to expose a smattering of his chest hair and his hair looked windswept and effortlessly cool in a way that told you he had spent way too long styling it.
âShe does! Sheâs trying to dictate the amount of hats I can bring like she hasnât brought six different pairs of shoes. Who even needs that many shoes?â
You turn to glare at your brother. âIâm being practical, okay?â
âWhatâs practical about six different pairs of shoes?â
âSays Mr. I-Need-Ten-Hats-Or-Iâll-Explodeââ
ââhey, hey!â Steve interjects, stepping closer and placing a hand on both yours and Dustinâs shoulders. The touch was strictly platonic but it still lit a fire in your gut. âNo bickering between the Henderson siblings until weâre at least in South Dakota.â
Dustin frowns, pulling out the itinerary you had made from his bag and scrutinising the map for the trip carefully.
âBut thatâs likeâŠday six of the trip! We canât go that long withoutââ
ââwell, just try for me, yeah?â Steve smiles, dropping his hand from Dustinâs shoulders but letting his touch on you linger for a beat. He squeezes once before letting go. It makes you hot all over and you find yourself once again wondering how you were going to cope for the next thirty days.
Your hand brushes over the spot that Steve had just touched, unable to help yourself. Neither Steve or Dustin seemed to notice, both too engrossed in an argument over who would be in charge of the music for the drive to Chicago.
âIâm justâgoing to finish packing,â you say, more to yourself than to the two guys who were still bickering.
You slip out of Dustinâs room seemingly undetected, heading across the hall and into your room. Your suitcase was packed and you just had to put the last little bits into your backpack. Your sunglasses, a first aid kit (just in case), a copy of the itinerary you had made, a polaroid camera and a list of the books you needed to read before your first semester at University of Illinois Chicago, just in case you found any second-hand ones at a book store.
âStill canât believe youâre leaving me to deal with your little brother by myself,â says Steve from somewhere behind you.
âJesus, Harrington!â You exclaim, startled, causing you to drop the book list. You quickly turn to face the guy you were desperately trying to hide your feelings for. He was smiling, leaning against your bedroom door like he belonged there. âDonât sneak up on me like thatââ
ââsorry, sorry,â Steve says, holding his hands up in surrender and smiling at you before stepping forward and bending down to grab the book list you had dropped. âIs this your book list for your first semester?â
âYep,â you say with a small nod.
âAre you excited?â
You give a small shrug. âMore nervous than anything,â you tell him after a moment. âBeing away from my mom, Dustin and yoâTews.â
Your face warms, trying not to dwell on what you had almost said but Steve doesnât seem to have noticed. Heâs too busy looking at the boxes you had already started packing ready for your move to Chicago at the end of August.
âYou shouldnât be nervous,â Steve tells you gently. âYouâyouâre going to be great. Youâre smart. Youâll figure things out. Youâll make friends, maybe even meet a guy who's smart too. Not as smart as you but you knowâsmart.â
You laugh because you didnât know what else to do. You wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous because guys that werenât Steve Harrington didnât interest you.
âIâm going for my education, Steve,â you say, busying yourself with packing the rest of your backpack so he couldnât register the slightly flustered look on your face.Â
âOhâof course, yeah. Totally,â Steve says as he hands you back your book list. His fingers brush against yours momentarily and the touch does funny things to your gut. You wonder once again how on earth you were going to cope with the close proximity with Steve over the next month. âHawkins is just going to suck without you, Henderson.â
Your eyes flicker up to meet his hazel ones and find yourself struggling to fight back a smile. You knew he was just being friendly. He was probably just going to miss having you around so he didnât have to be the only one able to give Dustin a ride to the arcade. But the sentiment was nice all the same.
You zip your bag close and swig it round onto your back. You go to grab your suitcase but one of Steveâs hands shoots out before you could take it.
âI got it, Henderson,â he tells you, giving you a lazy smile as he rolls your suitcase out of your bedroom. âYour chariot awaits, Lady Henderson!â
The first few days of the trip had beenâeventful. The journey to Chicago had taken almost four hours and Steve and Dustin had spent most of the car journey bickering about the best Star Wars movie. You were glad to get out of the car once you had arrived at the motel. You had spent the first two days exploring the city, Dustin wanted to see your University campus and Steve seemed set on finding the best deep dish pizza. You then set off for Milwaukee and spent the most of the day at the Art Museum where Steve had dozed off in the middle of one the galleries. Dustin had suggested leaving him there but you had vetoed the idea.Â
You were now driving towards Minneapolis. It was almost a six hour drive and so you and Steve had agreed to split the driving between you.
You happily sipped on a cherry slushie as you flick through another page of your book. You had stopped in a book store whilst in Milwaukee and picked up a copy of The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood which had come out only a month or two ago. And so, you had spent most of the car journey speeding through the novel. Steve kept trying to ask you about it but Dustin kept asking questions about where you were going to be staying.
âWeâre camping this time, Dustin,â you cut in before Steve began to lose the will to live at Dustinâs incessant questions. You bookmark your page before turning in Steveâs passenger seat to look at Dustin. âAt, um, Eden Campsite, I think. We can drop off our things and then head to Minnehaha Falls.â
âOh, right,â Dustin says with a small nod. âAnd whose tent am I staying in?â
You blink, looking at Dustin before glancing at Steve who looks equally confused.
âYouâno oneâs. You were meant to bring your own tent, Dustin.â
Dustin looks incredibly sheepish and you know then that you shouldnât have trusted your brother to pack for himself.
âDustin!â Steve groans, rubbing his temple as though he was holding back from losing his shit at your younger brother. âWhy didnât you pack a tentââ
ââMom said I could share with my sisterââ
ââMom also forgot to mention that itâs only a one person tent,â you retort. âMy tent doesnât have enough room for the both of us.â
Dustin huffs before looking over at Steve whoâyou knew for a fact had a much bigger tent.Â
âIâm not sharing with you,â Steve says matter of factly with a small shake of his head.
âWhat am I meant to do? Sleep outside?â
âI mean, if itâs an optionââ
ââwhat would be so bad about sharing a tent with me, Steve?â
âMaybe the fact you snore so loud that it could wake the deadââ
ââso? Thatâs not enough toââ
ââand the fact you had a spicy breakfast burrito and I do not want to be sharing a tent with you when that decision comes back to haunt you.â
Dustin looks visibly annoyed now, his arms crossed over his chest as he tries to think of a solution that doesnât leave him in a sleeping bag outside.
âFine. Why donât you two share and I take the smaller tent? Problem solved.â
You nearly choke on the slushie at Dustinâs suggestion.
Steve splutters out a response that you barely hear, too busy trying not to think about sharing a tent with Steveâ
ââyour sister doesnât want to share with me,â Steve insists, ears red and glancing at you as you cough to mask the warmth of your cheeks.
âWhy not?â Dustin asks plainly. âYouâre both adults. Itâs not like youâll be sharing a sleeping bag.â
The comment does nothing to help the situation, in fact, all you can now think about was squeezing into a sleeping bag beside Steve. Imagining him pressed up against you, his large arms wrapping aroundâ
âSoâwhat dâyou think, Henderson?â Steve asks you and itâs the sudden silence that snaps you back into reality.
âHuh?â
Steve shoots you a look, an easy smile on his face as he pulls onto the highway. âYouâme and my dadâs expensive tent?â
You swallow. You donât dare look anywhere else. You just nod because there wasnât much else you could do.
âSounds great,â you say, returning Steveâs smiles before glancing back down at your book.
When you pulled into the campsite five hours later, the sun felt unforgiving. You had to borrow one of Dustinâs hats as you helped Steve set up the tents.
âYouâre really sure youâre okay with sharing a tent?â Steve asks you quietly as you hand him a tent pole. âI meanâI donât mind sharing with Dustin if you donât want to.â
You look at Steve and you can see the hesitancy there. The need to make sure you were comfortable and you feel everything in you soften. The truth was that you wanted nothing more than to share a tent with him, you wanted any excuse to be close to Steve. You just knew it was a bad idea considering you had fallen for this guy and didnât know how to get back up.
There were a lot of reasons you couldnât be honest about your feelings for Steve. For starters, you were sure that he didnât feel the same. He didnât look at you the way he looked at other girls, he spoke quite openly to you about the girls he had dated and of course, there was the fact he had told you on multiple occasions how much of a âgood friendâ you were. The words had felt like poison in your gut but you ignored it. You decided being his friend was enough. And besidesâeven if theoretically Steve did like you, you would be moving to Chicago for University in the next two months and you didnât think it would be fair on Steve. And so, âjust friendsâ was okay. âJust friendsâ was safe.
âI donât mind sharing,â you tell Steve sincerely. âJust donât snore too loud, okay?â
Once the tents were set up, the rest of the afternoon was spent hiking along the creek before you reached the bottom of Minnehaha Falls. The sight of the cascading waterfall was nothing short of breathtaking and you found yourself just staring at it while Dustin ran off to sneakily join the back of a nearby guided tour. Steve had stayed with you, offering you a sip from his water bottle before suggesting taking some pictures with your polaroid camera. You had smiled a little nervously but quickly pulled out your camera. You took photos of the waterfall mostly before Steve managed to sneak his way into shot. He smiled looking so effortlessly handsome it took your breath away before you reminded yourself of what you were doing.
âThis oneâs the best,â you say, handing him the polaroid that captured him standing directly in front of the waterfall. âYou lookâum, itâs just a nice photo.â
Steve takes it, once again your fingers brush against his and you canât help but dwell on how his touch sends shockwaves through your body.
âThanks, Henderson,â Steve says, pocketing the photograph before he holds out his hand. âCâmon, your turn.â
You blink, momentarily confused before you realise what he meant. âOh, ohâno, no. Itâs okay! I donât wantââ
ââI insist,â Steve says, gently praying your camera from your hands and stepping back from you as he holds up the camera.
You feel awkward, you were wearing your little brotherâs hat, an old Hawkins book club t-shirt and some gym shorts and suddenly you deeply regretted letting Steve take your camera.
âSteveâcan we just forget it? Please?â
But Steve shakes his head, smiling at you encouragingly. âCâmon! Just one smile, please Henderson?â He pouts a little and that was your undoing. You give Steve a small, slightly forced smile and hear him snap a photo.
âBeautiful,â he says, missing the way your eyes widen at the word as he glances down at the photo as it develops.
You think about that word for the entire hike back to the campsite. You think of it as you help Steve with the barbeque. You think of it as you head to the showers. You think of it as you sit in front of the campfire warming marshmallows. And when both you and Steve retreat into the same tent and you lay in a sleeping bag beside him, you think of that word again and again until you fall asleep.
Beautiful. He had said you were beautiful.
The next stop after Minnehaha Falls was Badlands National Park, then a quick stop to visit Mount Rushmore before a long drive to Denver. After two days exploring the city, you then set off for Moab, Utah. The journey had taken almost ten hours due to stand-still traffic. You had missed your reservation at a campsite as a result and had to stop off at a motel instead. Steve had gone out of his way to find some Little Debbie snacks for you since you had been pretty down about it.
And today was the start of your journey to Las Vegas. You were agitated, especially after the events of yesterday. You had decided to take the first half of driving just to get it over with and you were relying on Steve to be in control of the map since Dustin had decided to fall asleep barely ten minutes into the journey.
âOkayâso youâre gonna wanna go rightâno, no. Go left actually, sorry. These roads are so damn smallââ
You breathe through your nose. It had been twenty minutes of this. Of Steve trying his very best to give you directions but you were tired, incredibly so and Dustin was snoring behind you andâ
âOhâshit,â Steve mutters, glancing down at the map and up at the road signs whizzing by. âFuck. I think we missed our turn.â
Your jaw clenches. In all honesty, you wanted to explode. You felt wound up, a mix of the heat beating down onto Steveâs beamer, the infuriating sounds coming from your brother and the fact the stress from yesterday was still catching up with you.
âYouâre not serious,â you mumble, glancing over at Steve before looking back at the road. âSteve, I canât turn around now, weâre on a highwayââ
âOkayâokay,â Steve says gently, sensing your impending freak out. âIâm sorryâjust come off at the next exit, yeah?â
You nod, jaw tight but you do as he says.
Twenty minutes later, you were back on track but you still felt irritable and you werenât sure why. You decide to pull into a gas station to grab a drink. Steve barely has time to pull out his wallet for you before youâre scrambling out of his car.Â
Once in the gas station, you head straight for the chilled drinks section and rest your head against the glass, sighing softly in relief.
âYou good, Henderson?â
You mumble out something incoherent, eyes closed and head still resting against the refrigerator. Steve chuckles, placing a hand on your back and rubbing it soothingly. Steveâs gentle touch was somehow even more of a relief than the cool glass and you find your shoulders sagging with the release of tension.
âMâsorry,â you murmur out quietly. âYouâre just really bad with directions. It pissed me off.â
Steve laughs at your brutal honesty, hand still remaining on your back as he carefully watches the side of your face. âI figured.â
You swallow, pulling away from the refrigerator to look at him to find him already watching you. His hazel eyes flickering over your face as though chronicling every microexpression.
âYou knowâI know you like to plan but thereâs some things you canât plan for. Traffic is one of them,â Steve tells you.
You hate that he could read you so well. It annoyed you but it also made you fall for him that much harder. Because he seemed to understand you without even really trying.
âI know I justâwe had a reservation and we missed it and we lost money andââ
ââand we got an alternative. Itâs okay. Things go wrong sometimes.â
You nod because you understood thatâyou really did. Your dad left when you were eleven, you knew things went wrong sometimes.
âI know I justâI keep thinking what if that happens when Iâm at college,â you say quietly, your voice barely heard over the hum of the refrigerator behind you. âLike what if Iâve spent so long planning for college and it goes wrong andââ
ââhey, hey,â Steveâs voice is gentle and his hand leaves your back so he could take both your hands in his. âNone of that. Okay? What did I tell you, Henderson? Youâre a smart girl. Trust yourself. If things go wrong, if you have a shitty professor or you realise you want to major in art history instead then youâll figure it out. And if things go really wrong? You call me.â
He squeezes your hands and you feel as though your heart had exploded in your chest in the middle of a gas station store.
âReally?â You ask him, your eyes flickering between his hazel ones. âEven if itâs the middle of the nightââ
ââespecially then,â Steve says with a faint smile. âCâmon, letâs go get you a slushie.â
Las Vegas had been probably one of the highlights of the trip so far. You hadnât been able to enjoy much of the nightlifeâdue to the fact you had a fourteen year old accompanying youâbut it was the first night of the trip that you had stayed in an actual hotel and you had soaked up every bit of it. You had ordered room service and spent the evening watching movies until you all fell asleep. You had woken up the next morning with your head resting on Steveâs shoulder. After Las Vegas, you had taken a long drive to the Grand Canyon where you had stayed at a lodge overnight. Steve had bought you the ugliest t-shirt from the gift shop he could find in what was fast becoming a tradition for the two of you every stopâto find the most garish souvenir in the store that the other had to wear for the rest of the day.
Then there was a brief stop off in Sante Fe before a two day car journey to Austin. By this point in the trip, you were all exhausted. Happy, but exhausted. And so, the next day when you arrived in New Orleans, it was no wonder Dustin told you he was going to stay back at the hotel while you and Steve went out to explore the city.
âAre you sure?â You ask Dustin as you pause by the motel door. âI mean we could always stay inââ
ââand miss out on beignets?â Steve asks you, incredulous. âHave you lost your mind, Henderson?â
You stifle a laugh before looking back at your brother who looked perfectly content with his mountain of snacks and a handful of horror movies Steve had rented for him from a nearby video store.
âIâll be fine,â Dustin tells you, already popping open a bag of cheese puffs and taking a large handful to stuff into his mouth. âJusâ âave fun!â
You nod, face slightly furrowed in disgust at the way he was eating before you shut the door behind you.
âReady to go?â Steve asks, smiling at you and holding out his hand for you to take.
You glance down at his hand because god, did Steve Harrington have good hands. Large, veiny and long fingers that you just wanted toâ
âYeah,â you say, face hot as your thoughts spiralled. You took his hand before you could think anymore of it but of course, it didnât help. Not one bit.Â
New Oreleans was beautiful but at night, it was even more so. You spent half the time walking down the street beside Steve with your mouth hanging open. It was a vibrant city and there seemed to be a constant swell of musicâsome of it a soulful jazz before it blended into a lively, energetic number.
You found beignets very quickly and you decided to walk along the river beside the French Quarter while you ate them.
âYou lookâyou look really nice by the way,â Steve tells you as he takes the bag from you.Â
Your face warms, you were wearing a dress for the first time this trip since you were properly out in a city at night. Plus, you had secretly hoped Steve might like it.
âI meanânot that you donât look good in a dress. You look great in anything. But the dress is justâitâsâyeah. Nice.â
âNice?â You repeat, biting back a laugh as you wipe some powdered sugar from your lips.
Steveâs face turns a little red and he glances out towards the water for a brief moment. âI meanâyou look beautiful. You always do. I was justââ
There it was. That word again. Beautiful. Steve thought you were beautiful. That you were always beautiful.
ââI got it,â you say, nudging his arm as you try to control the way your heart felt as though it was trying to beat out of your chest. âThank you, Steve. You look nice too.â
Steve laughs, scratching the back of his neck and causing his shirt to rise up a little. It takes everything in you not to look down at his happy trail that was now exposed.
You continue to walk along the river, sharing the beignets between you as the sun starts to set. As you turn to watch the sunset, you hear a faint clicking sound and you turn to look at Steve andâ
âDid you take my camera?â You ask, face warm but smiling as you notice your polaroid camera in his hand that he had clearly packed into his backpack without you noticing.
âMaybe,â he murmurs, looking down at the polaroid developing in his hand. You step forward to look at it too and when you see that he had taken a picture of youâof you in one of your favourite dresses staring out at the sunsetâyou feel something funny in your stomach. As though you had missed a step going downstairs.
You swallow, looking at the photograph before you look back at Steve to find him already looking at you. The sound of gulls and the water lapping against the rocks was all you could hear outside the beating of your heart. The look between you lasted perhaps five seconds or maybe even five minutes, you werenât sure. All you knew is Steveâs eyes eventually moved down to your lips and everything began to feel a little fuzzy.
You donât speak. Neither does Steve. You just stare at each other, heâs still holding your camera and the polaroid he had taken of you and youâre still holding the almost empty bag of beignets.
âYou got a little,â Steve murmurs, pointing a finger to the corner of his mouth and you blink for a moment before you realiseâhe wasnât looking at your lips because he had wanted to kiss you. You still had some powdered sugar on your lips.
âOh,â you exclaim, your body burning hot in embarrassment as you lift a hand to wipe the corner of your mouth. âTâthank you. Is it goneââ
Steve swallows, shaking his head and as you glance down, feeling a wash of humiliation, you donât notice how Steve steps closer. How he slides both the polaroid of you and your camera back into his bag. âNo. Itâs the other side.â
âOh,â you say again, your face now burning in shame as you lift a hand to wipe the right side of your mouth.
But Steveâs fingers wrapping around your wrist stops you.
âI got it,â he murmurs, stepping into your space as he lifts his now free hand to cup your jaw. Youâre breathless. Your brain canât compute what was happening. All you knew is Steve Harringtonâs thumb was gently wiping away powdered sugar from your lips and staring at you like it meant something.
âSteve, Iââ
But whatever you were about to say never left your lips. Because Steve was leaning in and he was kissing you before you could finish your sentence.Â
His lips were soft and his kiss was maddening. You could barely believe what was happening and it took you a full five seconds and him almost pulling away from you for you to respond. Which you do, eagerly.
The bag containing the beignet for Dustin falls onto the ground by your feet as your arms wrap around his neck, your lips moving against his in a way that had Steve groaning a little against your mouth. His hands move to your waist as he kisses you slow, deep, pouring every ounce of feeling he could into the kiss.
You could have stayed there for hours, especially when you felt him tug you closer. Especially when he used his tongue to gently coax your mouth open. Especially when he encouraged you to slide your hands through his hair. But the sound of a cyclist angrily ringing their bell at the two of you making out in the middle of the walkaway pulls you apart.
Steve smiles at the cyclist sheepishly as he places a hand on your lower back to guide you out of the way. Meanwhile, youâre breathless and touching your lips that felt wet and swollen from the kiss.
âYou taste like beignets,â he tells you, lifting a hand to brush a strand of hair that had fallen out of place behind your ear.
âSo do you,â you say.
You both just look at each other and smile. You smile so hard it nearly hurts.
âWhy did youââ
ââkiss you?â Steve asks with a smile that stretches across his handsome face. âBecauseâbecause I wanted to and because I was going to go insane if I had to spend one more day on this trip without telling you.â
âTelling me what?â You ask, trying to sound casual despite feeling anything but.
Steve looks at you for a moment, his eyes darting over your face as though he was trying to memorise every inch of it.
âThat I like you,â he says finally. âThat I really, really like you. I might even love you. Fuck, I definitely love you. I mean, why else I am on a road trip across America with Dustin Henderson? Itâs because Iâm crazy about his sister!â
It was near impossible to fight the smile off your face. You wondered if you were dreaming but thenâeven your wildest dreams werenât as good as this. Werenât as good as Steve Harrington kissing you, of him tasting like beignets and holding you like you were something special.
âAnd I know, I know youâre going to college and shit, this is probably a terrible idea. I mean, youâre you and youâre probably going to go to Chicago and do great and forget all about me andââ
Youâre the one to interrupt him this time, with a kiss to his lips that leaves Steve weak at the knees. This kiss is just a little more desperate, your hands weaving through his hair and his cupping your jaw so he could tilt your head back and deepen the kiss.
You pull away before you could indulge yourself anymore, smiling as he tries to chase your lips.
âSteve, Iâm never going to forget you, you know that right?â You ask him. âTwo hundred milesââ
ââtwo hundred and thirty miles, actually,â Steve mutters. âI checked.â
Your heart thumps at the implication. He checked. Like he had thought about it. Like he had looked at the distance between Hawkins and Chicago and it had mattered to him enough to remember.Â
âTwo hundred and thirty miles isnât enough to make me forget you,â you say, meaning every word. Your hands in his hand trailing down to rest on his chest, where you felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. âAnd itâs certainly not enough to make me stop loving you.â
Steve blinks, slowly digesting your words. Big hazel eyes sweeping over your face as though trying to find a hint of dishonesty. But when he finds none, he just smiles back at you before he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, eyes closing for a moment as though he could barely believe it.
âSo, weâre really doing this then?â Steve murmurs against your skin. âYou in Chicago and me in Hawkins?â
âI mean, only if you want to, I understand ifââ
ââI want to.â
And you know he means it. Because when it came to you, two hundred and thirty miles was nothing if he got to be with you.Â
The remainder of the trip passed by quickly. After New Orleans, you had travelled to Nashville where both Steve and Dustin had attempted line dining. Dustin had made some excuse and given up after ten minutes but Steve was determined to get it right so he could dance with you. You had spent a few days there before driving to Cincinnati before finally making the drive back to Hawkins.
And Hawkins was exactly how you had left it. It was just you and Steve Harrington that had changed.
Your mom had a million questions when you returned from the trip, as did Robin. Dustin seemed glad to finally have some distance from you and Steve and your âcanoodlingâ as he called it. But even he couldnât deny that you made each other happy.
You had a month together before you left for Chicago and that month was full of movie dates, dinner dates and the occasional mini golf date. It was full of Steve Harrington being unable to resist you and you being equally unable to resist him.
And when it came time to say goodbye at the end of August, Steve looked as though he wasnât ready to say goodbye.
âYouâll call as soon as youâre there?â He asks you, mimicking your motherâs request as you put away the very last box in the boot of your car. âAnd youâll call me about next weekend too, right? Andââ
ââSteve, youâre doing it already.â
âSorry, baby.â
âUgh, gross,â Dustin groans as he passes by, pushing his bike up the driveway. âCould you at least wait until Iâm gone?â
âIâll miss you too Dusty Bun!â You call out to your brother as he reaches the top of your driveway. You hadnât told Steve that earlier this morning, Dustin walked into your packed up bedroom and burst into tears.
Dustin glances back at you and flips you off before he rides off down the street.
âLittle punk,â Steve mutters before looking back at you. Thereâs a look on his face that you canât quite decipher and then you realise that he was trying not to cry.
âOh, Stevie,â you murmur gently, your own eyes betraying you as you wrap your arms around your boyfriend. âItâs okay. Itâs only Chicago. Iâm not going to the Moon.â
âI know, I know,â Steve sniffles, pressing his face into your shoulder and hugging you back tightly. âIâm being ridiculous. Sorry.â
âDonât apologise,â you tell him, your fingers gently running up and down his back in the way that you learnt Steve loved. It made him squirm for a moment before relaxing in your arms.
âMâjust really gonna miss you,â he murmurs against the skin of your shoulder before pressing a gentle kiss there. âA lot.â
âAnd Iâm going to miss you too,â you tell him before forcing yourself to pull away from the embrace to look at him. âBut weâll be okay, yeah?â
Steve nods, sniffling and quickly wiping his eyes. âYeah. Weâll be okay.â
He takes a deep breath before he leans in and kisses you. It was like that kiss you had shared in New Orleansâslow, deep, everything you needed and moreâonly this time he didnât taste like beignets and now he knew the shape of your lips like the back of his hand. Knew just the right amount of pressure to make you feel lightheaded. Knew how you liked it when he ran his hand through the hair at the nape of your neck. And you knew how he liked it when your fingers brushed down his chest. You wished you had more time, wished you could take him inside and to your bedroom so you could lose yourself in him.
But you had to pull away. You had to get in your car and start the journey to Chicago.
And you do just thatâyou pull away from your boyfriend with a final kiss to his lips before moving around to the driver's side of your car. Steve rushes to open the door for you, unnecessary but it makes you smile anyway.
âSee you soon,â you say as you roll down the window and smile at him.
âReal soon, baby,â he tells you with a determined nod. âI love you.â
âI love you too.â
And thenâhe watches as you drive away.
It hurtsâit really fucking hurts knowing that you wouldnât be twenty minutes away from him anymore. Hawkins wouldnât be the same. He wouldnât be the same.
But as Steve tucks his hands into his jean pockets and begins the short walk home, his fingers brush against two polaroids. He takes a moment to stop walking and pull out the photographs.
One was you in New Orleans, standing in front of the sunset in a beautiful dress and the other was of you in front of Minnehaha FallsâDustinâs stupid âThinking Capâ hat on your head, an old Hawkins book club t-shirt and some gym shortsâand Steve smiled before tucking the memories back into his pocket because no matter what adventure you were on, Steve Harrington would always love you.
While staying at the Harringtonâs for the weekend, the lines âfriendshipâ start to blur
A/n: friends to lovers, childhood friends
Warnings: kissing
Word count: 3.1k
Spring,Â
There was something so toothacheingly bittersweet about being in love with your childhood friend. Especially when it crept up on you the way it did with her and Steve. One day he was just Steve Harrington who lived down the street, the boy who was in all of her photo albums, and then the next, he was suddenly the love of her life.Â
It irritated her, how quickly he could get under her skin, how he could just say her name and her ribs physically contorted. She tried to avoid prompting him to say it to her at all, and lucky the conversation rarely warranted for it, but it was still something she was cautious about. He just made it sound so special, even if it wasnât to him, he had the ability to make it feel that way.Â
She was partly avoiding him when he kicked the soccer ball across the grass, nearly hitting her in the process. She flinched as it bounced off of the legs of the chair that she was currently sitting on. Whether it was on purpose or not was to be determined but concerning the fact that Steve was good at most things, especially anything that required physical activity, it was most likely intentional. Â
âSorry.â Â
He called over to her, smiling so wide that even if he had broken someoneâs nose, they probably wouldâve forgiven him. As a matter of fact, he had already gone ahead and charmed his way into playing soccer in Mrs Harringtonâs garden just an hour ago after she strictly forbade it since her new tulips had been planted this past weekend. But somehow here he was, just barely missing his Motherâs flowers with every kick.Â
She turned her attention back to her book but she was only met with breeze flipped pages and a dawning realisation that she had lost her place. A bookmark wouldâve really come in hand right now but she had borrowed the book from the Harringtonâs collection and she had completely forgotten to ask for a marker (preferably something leather) to keep her page.Â
âHe made me lose my page.â She muttered to herself, trying to find where she was again. She was determined to finish it this weekend before she went home. Otherwise the entire drive back to her house on Sunday evening was going to be spent wondering how the characters' storylines ended up.Â
âWhat was that?â He was suddenly standing beside her, blocking the sun with his muddy black and white soccer ball under his arm and a smirk playing on his lips. âI thought I heard you muttering something over here.âÂ
She gave up on trying to find her page again and turned her attention back to him. Why did it have to be him? Him and his stupid brown hair and lovely green, borderline chestnut, eyes. He smiled down at her, like he already knew full well what she had said under her breath just moments ago. She decided to play along.
âNothing. I just lost my page in my book.â
âOur book.â He corrected.Â
âYour book.â
The corner of his mouth tilted upright before he brushed the back of his hand playfully against her cheek. It was a sleight of hand touch. Close up. Intimate. Almost trick like in its fleetingness. It could all come down to nothing to his parents cooking in the kitchen or even to Steve himself, but it was not and never would be ânothingâ to her. Even if she really wanted it to be.Â
âSteven, leave the girl alone!â
They both turned their heads towards Mrs Harrington calling out to them through the kitchen window. In Steve's defence, he wasn't really bothering her, other than kicking the soccer ball at her, she had been the one to start the conversation with her slightly unnecessary muttering.Â
âI wasn't even-â The brunette gave up fighting his corner just as quickly as he started. There was no point. So, instead of arguing with his mother, who had now disappeared from the window again, he turned his attention back to her. âIt wouldn't matter if you had stolen my ball and thrown it into the neighbours garden, I still would be the one accused of bothering you, wouldn't I?â She bit back her smile, knowing full well that he was right.Â
âYes, you would. But I would never do that anyway.âÂ
âI know.â Steve spun around in defeat with his ball still tucked under his arm. Leaving her with two options. The first being to scan every few paragraphs of their book until something sounded familiar, and the second was to just give up entirely and come to terms with the idea that she wouldn't be able to finish the book this weekend, not with Steve around at least.Â
She watched him quietly as he kicked the ball around the garden again, barely missing some bright orange tulips as he carelessly ran around. If anyone in this world should've been given a sibling, it should've been Steve. His shorts were cut off just above his knees, proudly showing off the stitches he had gotten three weeks ago during a street basketball game. She could admit to paying too much attention to it, but it was only out of the fear that he was going to fall and cut his skin open again.
âDo you want to play, or do you just want to keep watching? Because, I'm okay with either.â He smiled brightly at her as the sun started showing itself on his cheekbones. This was a perfectly irritating example as to why it was him. Spring had only officially started a few weeks ago and he was already skin scarred and sun kissed.Â
She closed the book. It was probably a good idea to run around and enjoy the sun before Summer came to Hawkins and took over, making it too unbearably hot to do anything anyway. Steve smiled knowingly and boyishly at her all at once as she crossed the garden to him. It was the kind of smile that was equivalent to an entire conversation between two people who had known each other for too long. It was classically handsome. And it was perfectly Steve.Â
âPass me the ball.â
He tossed it over to her. And for a while, they just played soccer in the Harrington's garden like they were seven years old again and she forgot that she had been trying to get through the weekend with as much distance between them as possible. She didnât overthink the way his hands encircled her waist as he tried to get the ball back from her, or the way he laughed with his entire body. He got mud on his t-shirt, and she got grass stains on her trainers. And most importantly, all of Mrs Harringtonâs flowers made it out safely untarnished by their games.Â
Steve rushed through the hallway with sweat dampening his hair and a new sunburn settling in across the bridge of his nose. He should have been a mess. But life wasnât always fair. âDo you want to take a shower?â Apparently it was just extremely unfair to herâŠÂ
She knew he didn't mean it in that kind of way, he was just innocently asking to be considerate. He was not asking her to take a shower âwith himâ, it just sounded like he was. It mustâve hit his ears the same way it hit hers, because suddenly, Steve Harrington was smirking down at the hardwood floor like a mischievous flirting teenager. Didn't he realise that, âAre you going to have a shower?â would've sounded so much better then âDo you want to take a shower?â.Â
He placed his hands on his hips and pulled himself together, his smirk still annoying ever present. âI didn't mean it like that.â Â
âI didn't say that you-â
âNo. You didn't. But you were thinking it.âÂ
She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying something in retort. She wasnât actually sure what she was going to say but she knew it wouldâve been a mess of words that would have been badly stumbled over because of the way he was looking at her right now. She was thinking it, and somehow he had been able to see straight through her and read her mind well enough to know it. She silently prayed to herself that he couldnât read every thought that raced through her head as she brushed past him and made a quick getaway for the stairs.Â
âWerenât you?â
She stopped on the Harringtonâs staircase and turned around. Steve actually looked more innocent then she was expecting to find him. He was still standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hands were no longer on his hips though and he was not smirking anymore. It had now faded away into something else, something that to her looked an awful lot like curiosity. The blood started to rush to her head, it was different than usual, he was different then usual. And she suddenly wondered if the staircase was the best place to be standing right now.Â
âMaybe.â She said, barely offering up an admittance, but still managing to keep the conversation going. It didnât matter that she had fallen in love with him, she had always liked talking to him even before. She liked their back and forths. The soft, more delicate conversations that they had and the foolish, almost childish ones too. Like the one they had earlier over the true owner of her now long forgotten book.Â
He took two steps up the staircase. âThatâs not a real answer.â He was silently daring her to meet him. All she had to do was take three steps downwards and she would be standing right in front of him and forced to stare directly at the constellation like freckles that dragged across his jaw. Did he want her to? Did he really want her to stare?Â
âI have to take a shower Steve.â She wasnât sure why she was whispering, but she was. His name felt more fragile than usual. The situation was more fragile than usual too, but it wouldnât be long until they sat down for dinner and she didnât feel like eating in the same sweaty clothes she had been running around in. âLike, now.âÂ
Steve started walking back down the stairs, backwards, she mentally crossed her fingers that he didnât trip.âThereâs clean towels in the cupboard next to the guest bathroom. And the soap in the shower is lavender scented so youâll like it.â Would she? And why was he so sure of it?Â
She never reached for lavender perfume or decidedly picked it out as her favourite over all of the other flowers, and yet Steve sounded so sure that she would like it. It wasnât his usual smugness taking over, it was genuine confidence that led to her internally cursing herself as she leathered the lilac soap over her skin. She did like it. Almost too much.Â
It reminded her of lavender bags hung up in the back of the car or tucked away in a draw. It smelt like the Harringtonâs garden in the middle of May. And it felt like being in love in the Spring.Â
She could still smell it on herself long after her shower. All through dinner she kept getting these faint reminders of lavender and chamomile every time she moved. It also didnât help that Steve sat beside her in the dining room, therefore forcing her to look at him every time Mrs Harrington spoke to her since he was on her left and his Mother was on his.Â
But she had gotten through it, she had survived his elbow accidentally nudging into her own, the quickly broken eye contact, and the newfound information that if she was to kiss him tonight, he wouldâve tasted like cherry coke and blackberry macarons.Â
She traced her lips in the mirror in what would be âherâ bedroom for the weekend. When she first started falling for him, one of the warning signs was the way she found herself studying his mouth.Â
She had memorised just how to know what he was feeling from one glance. He tilted up the right side of his lips first if he was being sarcastic or pessimistically smiling, but the left corner always went first if it was a true genuine smile. He licked his lips before he said someone's name (well, at least when he said hers he did). And, he clearly had a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he was thinking because it was often broken and sometimes bleeding.Â
She couldnât help but imagine kissing him as she dragged her fingertip along her bottom like to try and recreate the feelings. It was and would never be the same of course, but in her more romantic and foolish moments, it seemed to make the urge to find him and ask him to kiss her less persistent.
But this time, a soft knock on the door drew her out of her daydreaming instead of momentary fulfilment. âCome in.â The door opened to show Steve standing there, in his pyjamas, with messy hair and a book in his hands. The book. The one that she had forgettably left outside and never gone back for.Â
âI thought you might want this.â He stepped into the room, letting the light from the hallway sneak inside. The sun had set so softly that she had forgotten to turn on the lamp that was sitting on the bedside table. She wasnât even sure what the time was.Â
âThank you, Steve.â She crossed the room and took the book from him before setting it down on top of the wooden dresser draws that Mrs Harrington had picked out a few years ago. If she really concentrated tonight, she could find her place again and read a little more of the story. And at the very least, there was always tomorrow, so long as Steve played soccer elsewhere. âYou know,â She hesitated to tell him what she was thinking at this exact moment but decided anyway. âYou can be very thoughtful. Sweet even.â
She dragged her foot back and forth across the carpet, making lines that lightened it, and when she looked up, she wasnât even sure how her words had reached him because her eyes werenât on his, they were on the new tiny mark on his skin.
She reached up to brush away the spec of fluff lingering under his eye that was coincidently the same deep blue colour as his t-shirt. She thought nothing of it, she knew how much she hated the feeling of something on her face that she couldnât find and she couldn't imagine that anyone else felt any different.Â
âDo you have to do that?â His voice dropped into a quiet whisper, like they were up past curfew telling secrets. His gaze softened and his eyebrows knitted together, and as she fixed her eyes on his, she decided that no one had ever looked so much like a stray dog begging for a home before. But she was still lost, wondering what exactly âthatâ was.
âDo what?â
He looked down at the space between them, at his hands that were just mere inches from hers. âTalk like that. Look at me like that. Touch me like that.â Her stomach twisted. This was starting to feel an awful lot like the confessions she had had with herself in the middle of the night, except, in her dreams, it was always her saying this, not Steve. âI know youâre not trying to be mean, thatâs not who you are, but it still feels a little targeted.â
âI-â The tone in his voice was breaking her heart. She felt stupid for being so absentminded and even more so for not knowing what she had been absentminded about. What had she done to hurt him? âWhy are you so upset?â
He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. Everything suddenly felt very important. âBecause I donât want to be your fucking friend.â She felt like she flinched backwards at his words but her feet were still very firmly planted in the same spot on the pink carpet. He quickly shook his head. âI mean, of course Iâm your friend but- Itâs killing me. Youâre killing me.â No, no, no⊠âYou donât know what itâs like being around someone all the time knowing that you cannot kiss them, ever. You being here this weekend, playing soccer with me and sitting next to me at dinner was like the final knife.â She wanted to pinch herself but if she moved her arm all she would smell was that damn lavender soap again. âI canât pretend that Iâm not in love with you anymore when all I can do is think about you.â
She breathed in sharply as he stepped forward and pressed his lips to his. It was like he needed to kiss her. Like he just had to. And as far as worthwhile confessions went, this was her new found favourite. Even though Steve's hands were shaking when he talked and he had the most harrowing look of self pity in his eyes as he told her that she was âkillingâ him. He loved her. He was in love with her.
His hands cupped either side of her face as he drank her in. The taste of his toothpaste touched her tongue and she knew he had permanently ruined spearmint for her. There was no way she would ever be able to toss a wrapped mint into her mouth and not think of this moment. Of the carpet beneath her feet, of the Spring warmth in the room and of lavender soap & muddy soccer balls.Â
â...â He said her name as he broke the kiss and her ribs twinged in response. How decidedly irritating. He kept one hand on her cheek as he just kind of looked at her. Like they had just met for the first time and he was memorising every mark and every feature. Her eyes found the familiar hint of green in his eyes and stitched themselves to it. âI really needed to do that.âÂ
âI really needed you to do that.â She couldnât help but whisper back to him, forgetting all the preemptive caution she had taken into this damned weekend. And she only solidified her death with what she muttered to him next. âI love you, Steve Harrington.â
âWhat was that? I thought I heard you muttering something.âÂ
âDonât you-â
He kissed her again, just as she opened her mouth to say something back, and just so that she wouldn't be able to. If they were going to have another back and forth, they could have it later. After.
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đïž A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Mishaâs Masterlist Library.
đ Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here
đ Book One: all chapters here
BOOK ONE: Chapter 33 -> continued (2 of 2)
-> Directly follows the 1st half here.
-> Please, I beg of you⊠read the above first!
Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader
hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. đč
đč SUMMARY: Down below, everyone inside the gated walls of the Capitol roars and celebrates with unabashed delight as the hours countdown to the Games. But above it all, tucked away on the rooftop of the Tribute Tower in your own little corner⊠you sit in solemn silence, unafraid of our own thoughts and solitude.
But when Steve Harrington makes his way out to sit across from you, your solitude feels its bruised heart and soul dare to dream again. or at the very least, to feel a spark of hope flicker inside your chest as you stare into those big brown cynical eyes that belong to the boy youâve loved since he sang the Star-Spangled Banner in your fourth grade classroom.
And by the time the clock ticks below nine hours, Steve realizes something horrifically startling thatâs happened to him over the last seven days here, leading up to one of your untimely demiseâŠ
đč AUTHORâS NOTE: You made it. The second half of Chapter 33 is here, my sweet doves. Rooftop scene⊠delivered. I definitely took my time with it, because 1) I refused to rush it, and 2) it foreshadows a lot more of whatâs to come...
One more chapter to go, then weâre heading straight into the Hunger Games. Kiss three fingers and raise them up to the sky, my loves. Our an on fire and his angel arena enter the ring soon and fight to the death, apart⊠and then together.
Xx,
misha
đč OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst, plus grim themes and gore in the vein of The Purge.
Chapter Thirty-Three
(continuedâŠ)
Youâre already on the roof by the time he gets there.
Curled in on yourself at the edge of it, knees pulled tight to your chest, arms looped around them like youâre holding yourself together the only way you know how. Youâre wearing one of those pajama sets that The Capitol gave you to sleep in â something pale and weightless that drapes over your skin like it doesnât belong to gravity â but it looks like it belongs on you anyway. It always does. Anything simple does. Itâs almost unfair, the way that you make something so effortless look like something other people would spend their entire lifetime trying to recreate.
You donât know that.
Of course you donât.
You never do.
Only people who observe you notice that, including the broken boy, staring at you from the shadows without you noticing him yet.
The wind up here is quieter than it should be. The city below is not. It pulses â loud and alive and grotesque in its celebration. Music thumps somewhere in the distance. Laughter carries in waves. Lights move in spirals of color like the whole place is drunk on its own reflection.
Thereâs a massive countdown projected across the skyline.
Hours.
Minutes.
Seconds.
Ticking down to morning.
Ticking down to blood.
You stare at it like it might blink first.
It doesnât.
Your heart feels bruised in a way that doesnât show anywhere on your body. It just sits there, sore and heavy and confused, replaying everything over and over again whether you want it to or not.
Your voice on that stage.
His face in the hallway.
The way it all cracked open at once.
You swallow and press your chin down against your knees, tighter... Maybe you shouldnât have said it like that. Or maybe you should have. You really donât know anymore. You only know that itâs out now, and thereâs no taking it back.
Footsteps sound behind you.
Faint, waryâŠ
You donât turn right away to confirm whether or not itâs him. But something in your chest seizes anyway. Because you know. You know who it is before he even says anything.
Thereâs a pause.
And then?
ââŠhey.â
Itâs quiet. Almost too quiet. Like the word itself didnât want to be spoken too loudly in case it scared you off.
You turn.
Your eyes go a little wide without meaning to.
Because there he is.
Standing a few feet back, half in shadow, half caught in the spill of rooftop light. Different now than he was earlier. Stripped down to something simpler. That white t-shirt. Lounge pants. Bare feet like he didnât bother with anything unnecessary before coming up here.
Steve looks⊠younger.
And more tired.
But still the boy youâve loved nearly all your life.
Your mouth opens just slightly before you find your voice.
âHey.â
It comes out softer than you expected.
But itâs enough.
Something in Steveâs expression shifts â just barely â like the word hit him somewhere he wasnât braced for.
He nods once.
Stiff.
Wary.
Careful.
Then he moves.
Slowly.
Like approaching a wild animal he doesnât want to startle.
He comes over and settles across from you along the ledge, leaving a few stretches of space between you that feels much bigger than it actually is. He leans back against the wall, one knee drawn up, forearm resting over it, gaze turning outward toward the city like yours had been.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
And while the silence isnât empty, itâs⊠loaded. Heavy in a way that presses against your ribs and makes your breathing feel louder than it is.
Youâre aware of him.
Every second of it.
The way he shifts slightly beside you.
The way his puppy brown eyes flick once toward you⊠then away again, like he caught himself.
The way he exhales through his nose â slow, controlled, like heâs trying not to feel something too loudly.
You donât know what to say.
Youâre almost afraid to speak at all.
Because the last time you spoke freely, you changed everything.
And the last time he spoke, heâ
You swallow.
Donât go there, you tell yourself. Not yet.
Steve finally clears his throat. Itâs quiet, but it breaks the tension just enough. âYou should be asleep,â he says, snot looking at you.
Itâs not sharp.
Itâs not accusing.
Itâs just⊠there.
You glance at him, then back out at the city.
âSo should you.â
âYeah,â he mutters.
Another beat.
The music below swells. Someone screams in delight. Fireworks â of all the fucking things â flare briefly in the distance, bright colors blooming against the dark like itâs a holiday instead of a countdown to slaughter.
You hate it.
You hug your knees tighter.
âDo you think any of them are?â he asks suddenly.
You blink. âAny of who?â
âThe tributes,â he clarifies simply, eyes on the skyscrapers. âSleeping.â
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head slightly. âNo.â
âYeah,â he says, like he already knew. His jaw tightens a little as he stares down at the city. âKids definitely arenât.â
You nod silently, heart bruising all over again as the names run through your head like lost boys and lost girls on the nightâŠ
Hannah.
Jack.
Ro.
Too small. Too young. Too terrified.
You can see their faces if you let yourself think about it too hard.
So you donât.
âCareers probably arenât either,â he adds after a moment, voice going a little flatter. âDoesnât matter how cocky they are. No one sleeps the night before they might die.â
You hum faintly in agreement.
Thereâs nothing else to say to that.
The truth of it just sits there.
Between you.
Below you.
Everywhere.
Steve glances at you again.
You donât notice.
Youâre still looking out at all the chaos below, eyes distant, expression softer now⊠but more closed off than it used to be.
Thereâs a difference.
He sees it.
Feels it.
It makes something in his chest pull tight.
Distance.
Thereâs distance now.
Not just the few feet between you on the ledge.
Something else.
Something he put there.
Distance heâs instilled, even though you acted in it first thing morning.
Now heâs solidified it.
And he hates it.
Doesnât know how to fix it.
Doesnât know if heâs allowed to.
Doesnât know why he wants toâŠ
âAre they⊠in costume or something?â he asks, now nodding faintly toward the crowds below, eyes narrowed at the scene.
You follow his gaze.
Tilt your head slightly.
A sad little almost-smile touches your mouth.
âWho knows,â you say softly. âHow can you tell?â
He huffs under his breath.
âFair.â
You watch a group of Capitol citizens spinning in circles below, painted and jeweled and glowing under artificial light like theyâre all part of some twisted parade.
âEverything here looks like a costume,â you add.
He nods slowly.
Yeah.
It does.
Everything except you, Steve thinks to himself absently.
He squints at it a second longer. Then looks away because he canât stomach it anymore. Canât stand the sight of glorified manslaughter below, like itâs The Purge Act all over again⊠just with rules still in place for those âfortunateâ to stick around and live by them, here inside the elite walls of Panem.
Steveâs head tips back against the wall. Eyes closing briefly. Breathing in⊠breathing out⊠breathing in⊠outâŠ
He knows what he has to do.
He knows it.
He justâŠ
Doesnât want to say it wrong.
Doesnât want to make it worse.
Doesnât want to look at you and see fear again.
He exhales slowly, then lifts his head and looks at you.Â
âRen?â
You turn again, your eyes still a little wide. A little cautious.
It guts him.
âIâŠâ He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. âAbout earlierââ He stops, starts again. âThatâwhat I said. The way I said it.â
Your gaze softens.
You donât dare interrupt.
You just listen.
Patient.
God, youâre so fucking patient.
âI shouldnât have⊠snapped like that,â he says, voice tighter now. âI shouldnât have yelled at you. Thatâsââ He shakes his head. âThatâs not⊠me. Or least, itâs notââ His jaw flexes. âWho I used to be.â
Thereâs so much unspoken shame behind that sentence, it kills you softly.
You almost smile at him through the ache you feel in your soul.
âItâs alrightââ
âNo.â He cuts in immediately.
Not harsh.
Just⊠firm.
Your mouth closes.
Steve shakes his head again, more frustrated now â but this time, itâs not at you. Itâs at himself.
âItâs not,â he repeats. âDonâtâdonât do that.â
You blink. âDo what?â
âMake it okay when itâs not.â
Your brows draw together just slightly. âI justââ
âI was an asshole,â he says flatly.
You inhale softly. âThat doesnât make itââ
âIt does.â
A beat lands before Steve looks at you. Really looks, like heâs staring straight into your soul. Trying to read your mind, to make sure youâre hearing him.
âI donât get to talk to you like that and then have you tell me itâs fine.â
Your lips part, hesitating before speaking again.
âI mean⊠you were blindsided.â
âI donât care.â
âItâs stillââ
âI donât care,â he repeats, quieter now, but no less intense. âI donât get a free pass for that. And no one should. Ever.â
Your chest tightens.
You study him for a long second.
Then you nod, subtle⊠almost small.
âOkay.â
That quiet response seems to throw him off more than if youâd argued.
Steve blinks. âOkay?â
âYouâre right,â you say simply.
That⊠lands.
Different than he expected.
He looks at you like heâs trying to recalibrate something.
ââŠokay,â Steve finally echoes.
Thereâs a flicker of something like relief.
And something else.
Something softer.
Vulnerable.
You give him the faintest smile. It doesnât reach your eyes completely, but itâs there. Gentle as ever. Warm, even though it's melancholy. Across from you, Steve notices that too. And it makes him feel like shit.
Silence settles between the two of you again.
Itâs not as tense as before.
But still heavy.
Still loaded.
When Steve glances at you again, he finds that youâre watching him now⊠not looking away.
Thatâs new.
Or maybe itâs just unsettling.
Either way, it makes something in his chest twist.
He holds your gaze for a second longer than he means to. Then, words slip out before he can overthink them or shut himself up while heâs ahead.
âYour stepmom and your brother didnât come to tell you goodbye.â
You go still, just a little, as he lets the statement hang before askingâŠ
ââŠreal or not real?â
Your angel eyes soften instantly. Something warm flickers there â surprise, maybe, or perhaps itâs just recognition. Because you rememberâŠÂ
The kitchen.
The desserts.
The stupid game.
The hours spent together.
You nod. âReal.â
Steve watches you intensely, his cynical eyes searchingâŠÂ
Searching for anything.
A crack.
A tell.
A lie.
He doesnât find one.
His jaw tightens.
ââŠyou told Caesar your brother isnât heartless,â Steve says after a long beat. âThat you forgive him.â
Your throat moves when you swallow.
He still asks. âReal or not real?â
Your kind eyes go a little glassy, but you donât look away while answering.
âReal.â
Steveâs cynical gaze sharpens. âAnd your stepmother?â
That questionâŠ
You inhale slowly. Exhale just as slowly. You look down, then back out at the city. At the crowd, the noise, the bloodlust and exuberant joy of elitesâŠ
âSome days it feels real,â you confess quietly. âSome days it doesnât.â A loud burst of fireworks pop off while you take a beat, eyes on the sky now. âSome days, I think that I truly forgive her.â The crowd roars. âOther days, Iâm not⊠sure if she wants me to.â
That answer?
It hits him hard.
Because itâs not perfect. Itâs not clean. Itâs not what he expected. Itâs honest. Itâs brutally honest without overstating.
And for some reason that pisses him off a little.
Not at you.
At the fact that it keeps being real.
He stares at you for another long moment before speaking more carefully â the game still going, the search still on...
âYouâve been in love with me since grade school.â
A beat.
ââŠreal or not real?â
You donât hesitate. âReal.â
And you donât even look at him when you say it. You just⊠know.
Steve watches you like heâs trying to break the word apart. As though maybe he can dismantle it if he stares hard enough.
He canât.
âWhy.â
The question comes out sharper than he means it to.
But not cruelly.
Just demanding.
Seeking.
Needing.
You blink at the city, then finally look at him. And for a second, you truly donât know what to say. Because where do you even start? There are too many reasons. There always have been. Itâs never just been one thing. Itâs been a thousand small, quiet things that never stopped adding up.
Moments.
Looks.
Actions.
Ways he existed when he didnât think anyone was paying attention.
Youâve never had to say them out loud before.
Youâve just always known, since the day he raised his hand in the classroom whenever the teacher asked everyone who knew the Star-Spangled Banner, and none other than Steve Harrington had proudly declared that they did â and then heâd stood up, hand over his heart as he sang it sweetly. In front of the entire classroom, while you watched with starry eyes that shone brighter than fireworks on Fourth of July. All for him.
Your gaze drops to your knees as the memory consumes youâŠÂ
You exhale softly. âI donât even know where Iâd start.â
âStart anywhere,â he says immediately.
Your brows pinch.
That didnât help.
âName one thing,â he adds.
Itâs quick.
Too quick.
It puts you on the spot in a way that makes your chest tighten. But you donât look away. You think. You search. You dive into every single crevice of your mind that drowns in every single core memory of him youâve locked away â replaying them on a loop, scribbling them into the margins of your notebook while in class, daydreaming about while twirling in your roomâŠ
âŠand then you find something.
Small.
Specific.
But real.
You glance up at him through your lashes, your voice quiet.
âYou always stayed.â
He blinks.
ââŠwhat?â
You shrug a little, almost imperceptibly. âWith them,â you say. âWith the kids. Even when things got bad. Or when everyone else was panicking or running or⊠too busy falling apart. Even when you did...â Your fingers tighten slightly around your knees. âYou stayed.â
Thatâs it.
Thatâs the thing.
Not flashy.
Not grand.
Just⊠that.
That.
And it hits him. Not the way you expect, but it does all the same.
Steveâs expression shifts, something flickers behind his eyes. He looks away, shakes his head once. âYou canât love me.â
Your brows knit. âWhat?â
âIâm notââ He exhales sharply. âIâm not what you think I am.â
âI never saidââ
âYou didnât have to.â
You stare at him, brows furrowing with gentle puzzlement.
âYou donât know me,â he goes on. âNot really. You knowâpieces. Versions. Whatever the hell I was before all this.â
âThatâs not trueââ
âIt is.â
âItâs not.â
He looks at you again, something more heated in his eyes now. âYou donât know what I am now. You love someone you think you know. Someone thatâs capable of living up to your expectations.â
You stare, shaking your head. âThatâs not real.â
âYour idea of me isnât real.â
âI donât love ideas of you.â
âŠthat stops him.
Just for a second.
He blinks, actually caught off guard. Not only by your words, but your tone â which has sharpened, despite not raising your voice. And you hold his gaze, steady as ever, not cowering.
âIâm not in love with a fantasy,â you say quietly. âIâm in love with you.â
The real you.
You donât have to say it.
Itâs there anyway.
Youâre in love with the real him.
He stares at you like he doesnât know what to do with that, his jaw tightening. âYou canât be.â
You stare back. âWell I am.â
âYou donâtââ
âI do.â
Steveâs frustration spikes now. Not loud, but sharp.
âYou donât know what youâre saying.â
âYes, I do.â
âNo, you donât,â he fires back, a little harsher now. âYou donât know what the hell youâre talking about.â
Your expression doesnât harden.
That almost makes it worse.
âYou help people,â he says, gesturing vaguely. âYouâyou see the version of me that matches that. The version of me thatâhunts, feeds people, keeps them alive. You see me with all those kids and think that makes meâwhat? Good?â
You donât answer.
He laughs once, humorless. âThat doesnât make me a good person.â
You open your mouth.
But he cuts you off. âIt doesnât make me worth it.â
You close it again.
He keeps going.
Because now he canât stop.
âJust because I let Dustin and his mom and Eddie all live at my place doesnât make me a fucking saint. Just because I make sure my people donât starve doesnât mean Iâmââ He shakes his head. âIt doesnât mean anything.â
âIt meansââ
âIt doesnât,â he repeats, sharper.
And then, he goes too far.
âIâm not someone who was made to be loved by one woman.â
The words land heavy.
Final.
You freeze.
He keeps going anyway. Because once itâs out, he canât pull it back.
âI know I said that to the press, and they spun it likeââ Steve mutters, halting the sentence to cut to the chase. âBut not like that. Notââ Then he exhales harshly. âIâm not meant to be⊠that. For anyone.â
Your eyes are glossy now.
Wide.
Watching him.
âIâm notâsomeone you come home to,â he says. âIâm not someone you build something with. Iâm notââ He gestures vaguely. âDinner on the table. Good day, bad day, all that bullshit.â
His voice roughens.
âI canât even get out of bed some days.â
That hits you square in the chest.
Hard, anguished, devastatingâŠ
You donât move.
Donât speak.
He keeps going.
Because now itâs spilling.
âI have Eddie dragging me out half the time,â he says. âOr I just⊠donât talk. For days. Iâm pissed off all the time, Iâm grieving all the time, Iâmââ He stops, jaw clenching. âThereâs nothing light in my head anymore.â
Your chest aches.
God, it aches.
âIâm not letting anyone into that,â he finishes, quieter now. âIâm not doing that to anyone.â He holds your gaze with his own quiet agony. âNever will.â
Silence.
Youâre still staring at him.
And your heart?
Itâs breaking.
But itâs not breaking for you.
Itâs breaking for him.
Because you can see it. All of it. You see the pain, the trauma, the unspoken horrors that plague his mind day into night, night into day. Itâs all in his eyes. In the way he holds himself like heâs already bracing for impact, like heâs still backed into a corner with no other way to survive it then to lash out or cower in fear and beg for mercy.
You swallow carefully, keeping yourself together as best you can. Then softly tell him, or try to rather, âyou donât have toââ
âI do,â he interjects immediately.
Your lips press together.
You inhale slowly.
Exhale slowly.
And then something shifts as you look at him again, more carefully this time.
âThereâs⊠Nancy,â you say.
Itâs hesitant.
A little unsure.
His expression flickers, newly thrown. âWhat?â
You fumble slightly. âI meanâI know she helps you. At your house. And that sheâshe matters to you, and I justââ You shake your head. âI didnât mean toâoverstep. If thereâs something there, Iââ
âThereâs nothing there.â
Steve cuts you off.
Instant.
Absolute.
You blink. âOh.â
âSheâsââ He exhales stiffly. âSheâs my best friend.â
You nod slowly, still a little uncertain. âI just didnât want toââ
âYou didnât.â
âIââ
âShe loves me,â he admits bluntly. âBecause she has to.â
You go painfully still.
Thatâs⊠not what you expected.
âSheâs known me forever,â he goes on to say, just as blunt. âYeah, we dated. Yeah, weâwhatever. But thatâs notââ He shakes his head hard. âThatâs not something I can be anymore.â
You watch him quietly, still listeningâŠ
âWhatever part of me couldâve been that guy,â he mutters, âheâs gone.â
Your chest tightens.
âShe knows that,â he adds. âShe deals with it.â He stares at his hands now, at the callousness that never seems to go away. âI donât ask her to stay, but she does. And I let her in the only way I know how.â
A beat falls.
Because he stops, realizing something dreadfulâŠ
Heâs talking too much.
Saying too much.
Oversharing.
He exhales sharply. âWhy the fuck am I telling you this?â
You donât answer.
You just look at him⊠soft, open.Â
Open.
And yet somewhere between maintaining this new distance between the two of you, while looking at him as though youâve nothing to hide from him.
It makes him more frustrated.
âIt doesnât matter,â he mumbles, shaking his head. âNone of this matters.â He looks at you, brown eyes burning. âYou canât love me.â
And then, as if things werenât awful enoughâŠ
You smile.
Not brightly.
Not happily.
Something quieter.
Something that aches.
Something that yearns.
You hold his gaze. And then you tell him, soft enough it almost disappears into the wind, âYou donât get to decide that for me.â
Silence.
Heavy.
Absolute.
And all the while, Steve just⊠stares. Like your words knocked the air out of him. But all you do is turn your gaze back out to the city.
The countdown continues.
The music swells.
And somewhere between the noise and the quiet, everything changes again as the city below keeps celebrating like it isnât counting down to a massacre. From up here, the Capitol looks almost⊠strangely beautiful, if you let your eyes blur long enough. Lights in long jeweled strings. Towers plated in gold and glass and untouchable monochrome. Streets pulsing with color. Massive projected numbers ticking down across the skyline in bright white digits, each second disappearing with a cruel kind of elegance:
09:13:42
09:13:41
09:13:40
It would almost be easy to pretend itâs a New Yearâs Eve countdown. Some giant, drunken festival. A country making a large spectacle of itself the way that countries always do whenever theyâve convinced themselves that blood is tradition and cruelty is structure and children are acceptable collateral so long as the cameras stay polished.
Steve glares down at it all from beneath his lowered lashes and feels his stomach coil.
Music rises up in warped bursts from somewhere down in the streets. Horns. Drums. Laughter. The shriek of women dressed in sequins and feathers and body paint, hanging off balconies with drinks in their hands like tomorrowâs blood wonât be their entertainment. Men in expensive suits leaning against lit railings, gesturing up at the giant screens as though debating the odds at a horse track. Somewhere down there, inside the sealed and glittering walls of Panem, children are fast asleep in warm beds with full stomachs and parents who believe the world is still mostly safe.
And the sickest part?
Steveâs relieved for them.
Not for any of the adults. Fuck them. But the kids? Yeah. Those kids deserve soft sheets and locked doors and ignorance. They deserve to not know what demodogs look like when they tear through a town at dusk. They deserve to never hear the sound a demobat makes right before it dives. They deserve to never see what happens when people get cornered long enough that the monsters stop being supernatural and start being human.
Steve knows better than anyone⊠that walls donât mean a goddamn thing in the end.
He was born behind them.
Born into gates and codes and private security and cameras set at every angle. Born into money that built fences so high, they looked like promises. His parents had made fortunes helping engineer systems like those: high- end private security, gated community defense networks, panic installations, reinforced estate perimeters. The whole pitch had always been simple: keep danger out. Keep the right people safe. Keep order where other people only had hope.
They were good at it, too.
Good enough to get rich. Good enough to get envied. Good enough to make sure that when the Purge Act hit and everyone with a brain and a wallet scrambled for some semblance of protection, the Harrington house became a fortress and a refuge. Families Steve had grown up around got welcomed inside those walls because his parents still had and exercised enough real decency to understand that survival without community was just expensive loneliness with surveillance.
And still, in the end, none of it mattered.
Because the things that got in that night didnât come crawling through from another dimension with petals of teeth and claws and wet black skin.
They came in human form.
Human hands. Human mouths. Human rage.
Human resentment sharpened by class and humiliation and years of being told theyâd never have what families like the Harringtons had. Human beings who looked at Steveâs parents and saw not people but symbols. Saw money. Saw power. Saw all the reasons their own lives had turned out hard and ugly and starved and praise-less. And they butchered them for it.
Not quickly enough to be merciful. Not sloppily enough to be random. It was deliberately. Viciously. Like theyâd been imagining it for years.
And then they left Steve alive.
Which had always felt, in some ways, like the cruelest part.
Because if they had killed him, too? Maybe at least his story wouldâve ended there. Maybe he wouldâve gone with whatever dignity he still had left. Maybe he wouldnât have had to spend the last year and some change carrying around a body that feels less like his than ever.
Instead theyâd ruined him.
Ruined things no one could see at first glance. Things that lived under skin. Things that woke with him and slept with him and never, ever shut the fuck up. Theyâd taken his parentsâ life and his house and his certainty and his manhood and left him with a pulse and a smile people still sometimes found charming, as if charm had anything to do with survival.
The memory doesnât come at him all at once. It never does. Itâs fragments. Heat. A hand. His fatherâs blood. A voice too close to his ear. Laughter in the wrong room. The sensation of being pinned by more than weight. Of being looked at like a prize, an object and a punishment all at once. Of someone saying sell him like it was a joke. Like a game. Like he wasnât even there to hear it.
Sell.
That word still lives under his skin like rot.
Itâs why Hopperâs voice downstairs earlier hit him the way it did. Why the sponsor talk always makes him want to peel his own skin off. Why the Capitolâs hunger felt so familiar when they chanted for him to take it off.
Sell.
He can still hear it. Still feel the burn of it in his wrists and pelvis and gut, like his body still keeps score even when his mind would rather jump off a bridge than remember the math.
He blinks hard and drags a hand down his face, palm rough over the line of his jaw. The wind touches the damp corners of his eyes and he hates himself for it immediately.
Next to him, youâre quiet.
Not distant in the cold sense. Just soft. Still. Wrapped around yourself at the edge of the rooftop in that pale sleep set that looks like something out of a painting no one in this city deserves to own. Your hair moves in the breeze, copper catching the moonlight. Your cheek is pressed lightly to your knees. The skyline glows in your eyes when you stare out at it, bare skin glowing like milky porcelain.
He shouldnât be looking at you.
He looks anyway.
And because heâs a coward in all the ways that matter most, because itâs easier to talk while staring at the ugliness below than it is to look directly at the person breaking him open, the first thing out of his mouth comes half-flat and half-tight.
âThought you said your grandfather ruined you for all other men.â
The second the words leave him, the air changes.
You donât answer.
Steve frowns and glances down at you.
His stomach drops.
Your eyes are bright. Not full-on crying. Not openly. But shining in that awful way that means youâve been fighting it for a while and youâre starting to lose. You thumb just beneath one eye when a tear catches there, blinking it back before it can fully fall, and then you curl tighter around yourself and keep staring out at the city.
After a beat, you nod.
Just once.
Thatâs somehow worse than if youâd snapped at him.
Because suddenly the meaning behind what he said⊠blooms in full. Your grandfather is sick as hell. Probably in a recliner somewhere right now with a blanket over his knees and the television too loud because everyone back home is losing their goddamn minds over what happened tonight, and heâs watching his favorite girl get dressed up and marched towards a slaughter heâs too powerless to stop.
Steve feels it then like something physical. A sharp, ugly stab right through the center of his chest.
âShit,â he mutters, already shaking his head at himself. âNo, I didnât meanââ
But you cut him off before he can butcher the apology worse, lost in thought.
âI justâŠâ Your voice is soft. Not shaky enough to break, but close to it. âI just keep praying heâs alright.â
That shuts him up instantly.
For a second all he can do is look at you. Really look. At the way you keep your face turned toward the city because maybe itâs easier than letting him see too much. At the wet shine still trapped in your lashes. At the way your fingers dig into your own sleeve to steady yourself.
He shouldnât ask. He does anyway.
âHas he got someone with him?â
The question comes out stiffer than he means it to. A little too blunt. Like he doesnât know how to ask gently anymore, only directly, as if kindness always has to be smuggled in under rougher language so no one sees him trying.
Thankfully, you donât seem bothered by it.
You nod against your knees, a little sniffle escaping before you press a small, tired smile into the fabric. When you finally turn your face enough to look at him through your lashes, your eyes are still glossy.
âThe Byers.â
Steve stiffly nods.
Right, he thinks to himself.
Jonathan Byers.
Which, for some reason, opens a whole other mess in his head.
Because yeah, obviously â of course the Byers are with him. Joyce would sooner fistfight God than let an elderly man sit alone and sick while his granddaughter waits for the arena. Jonathanâs your best friend. Has been forever. Steve knows that. Or knew it, anyway. Itâs not new information, not really, but somehow it lands differently now.
He finds himself replaying middle school hallways. Elementary pickup lines. You and Jonathan perched on playground swings talking like the rest of the world didnât exist. You by his side, at the Fall Festival one year, both of you carrying paper cups of steaming cider and laughing at something private. Not a romantic memory. Not remotely. Just⊠old. Established. Rooted.
Why the hell had he stopped thinking about that?
Maybe because Jonathan Byers, in Steveâs head, has spent so many years existing in relation to Nancy Wheeler. Quietly in love with her in that unflashy, puppy-eyed way that Steve has always hated recognizing because it makes him feel like an accidental villain no matter what he does. Maybe because Steve had gotten so used to clocking Jonathanâs feelings for Nancy that the rest of Jonathan blurred out around the edges.
But still...
A question presses forward before Steve can stop it. He doesnât even know why he needs the answer. He just knows he does.
He clears his throat. âHe, uhâŠâ
You look over again.
Steve immediately regrets opening his mouth.
But heâs already in it, so he just keeps going, awkward and tight. âJonathan. Heâhowâs he⊠holding up?â
Itâs a stupid question. Too broad. Too personal⊠yet not personal enough. It makes him want to slam his own head against the wall because how in the fuck would you know? Youâre stuck here, just as unaware as he is.
But you donât laugh at him. Donât look confused. You just blink once, then consider it for a second like youâre finding the answer in real time.
âLike Jonathan,â you say at last.
Steve almost huffs. âThat clears everything up.â
That gets the faintest little smile out of you.
âHeâs quiet when heâs worried,â you explain. âQuieter than usual, I mean... Which is saying something.â You tilt your head a fraction, eyes drifting back to the city. âHeâll make sure my grandfatherâs got his medicine. Heâll keep the TV low if it gets to be too much. Heâll probably sit up all night, pretending he isnât.â
Steve listens harder than he means to.
You shrug one shoulder. âHeâs good in a crisis.â
âYeah,â Steve murmurs before he can stop himself. âHe is.â
Something about the answer settles weirdly in his chest. Not bad. Just⊠strange. Because it confirms exactly what heâd expect from Jonathan and somehow still makes him feel like heâs on the outside of a story everyone else already understood.
It also makes him wonder how in the hell Jonathan has never pursued you.
I thought suddenly searches through his mind, racking his brain, perplexing him even further. Because how in the hell is Jonathan Byers best friends with someone like you â someone angelic and ethereal and naturally beautiful in ways that puts the girl-next-door type to shame â and not head over heels in love with you?
âŠhas that ever been the case?
âŠhave the two of you ever talked about it?
âŠhave you and Jonathan ever been more than friends?
Steve suddenly feels all these new uninvited questions pressing in. However, he doesnât ask anything else. He forces himself not to.
Then you say, quietly, âWill worships you, yâknow.â
That one does catch him off guard.
His head snaps toward you. âWhat?â
Your mouth softens at one corner. âHe does.â
Steve ducks his gaze almost instantly, fondly embarrassed in a way that feels stupid and juvenile and painfully real all at once. His hand flexes where it rests over his knee. He can feel a little heat starting to work its way up his neck and hates that too.
âKidâs got bad taste,â he mutters.
You smile properly this time. Small, but real. âNo,â you murmur. âHe doesnât.â
Steve canât help it. Something at the corner of his mouth twitches.
âWillâs probably the most well-behaved rascal out of the bunch,â he says.
Your nose scrunches fondly and itâs such an absurdly gentle expression that it almost physically hurts to look at.
âYeah,â you whisper. âHe is.â
Then the smile fades from both of you, because the city below swells again â horns blaring, voices rising, some new eruption of delight from whatever fresh coverage the giant screens have just started playing. The countdown clocks roll over to another hour marker and the whole Capitol seems to scream in approval.
Nine hours.
Nine fucking hours until the games begin.
Steve stares at you while you look away, and suddenly the reality of tomorrow settles over him with fresh teeth.
Youâre going in there.
Into that arena.
With him.
With twenty-two other tributes and whatever horrors the Capitolâs engineered for spectacle and whatever human horrors get there first all on their own.
And he canât protect you.
He shouldnât want to.
But he does.
And the wanting of it â strong, instinctive, immediate â makes something vicious flare in him because Dustin is home. Dustin is his reason. Dustin is twelve and safe only because Steve stepped in. Steve gets one job: survive and get back to Hawkins. Back to the kids. Back to the house. Back to the world where grief is at least familiar.
âŠand yet all he can think right now is that youâre going in there too⊠and he doesnât know how to live with the math of that.
You speak again before he can.
This time, you sound farther away. Like youâre following your own thoughts as they happen.
âWhen I go in there tomorrowâŠâ You pause, eyes on the skyline. âI donât⊠want it to change me.â
Steve goes very still at your wordsâŠ
âŠbut then his eyes catch something.
You keep absently rubbing your right wrist with your other hand as you speak, thumb dragging up and down from wrist to forearm. He notices that before he notices the words. The faint discoloration there. Not a full bruise. Not yet. But a mark. A whisper of one. And for one sick second he canât tell if itâs from earlier. From his hand on your arm in that hallway. From the way rage had made him careless.
The guilt hits so hard he blurts before he can think.
âFuck, Iâm sorry.â
You blink, startled out of your own thoughts. âWhat?â
âYour arm,â he says, staring at the place youâre touching. âEarlier. I grabbed you.â His voice roughens. âI shouldnât have done that either.â
You follow his gaze down, as if only just now realizing what he means.
âItâs alright,â you say automatically.
Steveâs jaw tightens. âStop saying that.â
He nearly begs you this time.
For once, you almost look like you might argue. But the feeling disappears as quickly as it came, and instead you turn back outward again and continue more softly, âI just donât want to die unlike myself.â
That lands strangely enough that Steve actually has to blink.
âWhat do you mean?â
You take a slow breath. âI donât want to disgrace myself.â
He stares at you. âBy what. Not killing anyone?â
That makes your brow furrow pensively. âNo.â You shake your head. âI meanâIâm not stupid. If it came down to defending myself, or protecting one of those kidsâŠâ You swallow. âI know what that means.â
The honesty in that answer makes something in him flinch.
âBut I donât want to come out of this as something Iâm not,â you say. âOr die as something I never was.â Your hands tighten around your own wrist. âI donât want them turning me into a monster and calling it survival.â
And there it is.
The thing heâs been choking on for months in one form or another, spoken back to him in your voice.
He should meet it with truth.
Instead he does what he does best.
âIt doesnât matter,â he says flatly. âThatâs what we are to them. Pieces. All of us. Pieces in their games, paws they can maneuver whatever way they see fit.â
You turn and look at him fully now.
The challenge in your expression is quiet, but unmistakable.
âMaybe to them,â you say. âBut Iâm still me. And youâre still you.â
Steve gives a humorless little laugh. âSure.â
âYou are.â
âWhy does it matter?â
Your eyes donât leave his. âBecause I care.â
He looks away first.
âHate to break it to you,â he says flatly, voice grim. âYou donât get to care about that.â
And that, more than anything else tonight â seems to strike something raw in you.
You go so still he can almost hear it.
Then your voice comes out gentler than anger and sadder than pleading and somehow sharper than either.
âArenât I allowed to care about my own dignity?â
The word hits him like a body blow.
Dignity.
For a second the whole world narrows down to that one word and the sound of blood in his ears.
Dignity.
The thing stripped from him piece by piece under Purge Act laughter and masked faces and hands that treated his body like public property. Dignity torn loose with buttons and fabric and breath and every futile attempt heâd made to keep any part of himself untouched. Dignity left in tatters on a floor he still sees every time he closes his eyes too fast.
And here you are, saying it like it still belongs to you. Like it still could.
Steveâs stomach twists so violently he almost feels sick.
He wants to tell you yes. Wants to say yes, of course you are, yes, hold onto it with both hands, and yes, donât let these bastards touch one inch of what makes you you.
Instead he says the ugliest thing available.
âI care about going home.â
The words come out cold. Blunt, deliberately stripped of feeling.
You blink.
âI care about getting the fuck back to Hawkins and getting this over with,â Steve adds, his tone clipped.
You donât argue him further.
Hell, you donât even look offended.
That somehow makes it worse.
You just slowly pull back, leaning against the wall again, putting that distance between you one more time, and turn your face toward the city with a little nod that could mean anything.
Steve feels the flare in his chest immediately. That familiar helpless anger, sparked by the exact kind of quiet he never knows how to survive. So he goes on the attack again, but quieter this time. Meaner for how measured it sounds.
âLook,â he clips. âIf this is how you wanna spend your last peaceful hours before tomorrow, fine. Whoâm I to stop you. But Iâm gonna spend whateverâs left of mine getting whatever sleep I can manage, so that I can lift my head another day back in my godforsaken hometown.â
He expects you to flinch.
You donât.
You just⊠smile to yourself. Small, sad⊠real.
âIâm sure you will.â
It takes him half a second for that response to register. Then the meaning of it lands and something incandescent flashes under his skin.
He turns on you fully. âDonât.â
You look over, startled by the force in his tone. âDonât what?â
âTalk like that.â His voice drops lower, rougher. âLike youâre already dead.â
Your mouth parts, then closes again.
âI didnâtââ
âYou did.â
Heâs breathing harder now. He can hear it and hates that too.
âYou keep doing that,â he goes on. âYou keep talking like Iâm the one going home and youâreâwhat? Not even in the running?â
You give the smallest laugh, almost self-conscious. âSteveââ
âNo.â He leans forward off the wall, eyes hot. âNo, answer me. Why the hell do you do that?â
Thereâs real confusion in your face now. âDo what?â
âSay it like itâs a given.â He gestures angrily out at the city, then back at you. âLike Iâm supposed to justâaccept that there can only be one winner and it sure as hell wonât be you.â
That startles you.
Steve can see it. The shift. The way your whole expression opens for one exposed second before you school it again. And because heâs too far in it now to stop â because the truth has started leaking out under all the anger and he canât seem to seal it back up, he keeps going.
âI already know there can only be one fucking victor,â he states. âYou donât need to keep reminding me.â
Your eyes go wider.
Oh.
Thatâs what this is.
And the realization moves through you so quickly it almost feels like light.
Steve sees something change in your face and hates himself for wanting to know what it is. Heâs still talking, too worked up to notice the damage heâs done â or the confession buried in it.
âI donât wanna hear you talk like that,â he admits, quieter now, but no less fierce. âLike Iâm supposed to just be fine with making it back into Hawkins alone.â
The second itâs out, the air goes electric.
You just look at him.
And for one impossible, aching moment, Steve realizes what heâs said.
Not fully. Not in a polished, pretty way. But enough.
Enough that you heard it.
Enough that he heard it.
Enough that thereâs no taking it back.
The elitist city below keeps screaming and the countdown keeps ticking and somewhere music swells again, but up here everything goes still.
Your bruised heart feels so full it almost hurts.
Because there it is.
Not required love.Â
But want.
Need.
The terrified, angry truth that Steve Harrington does not want to survive this without you.
You donât smile right away. That would ruin it â break the fragile, blistered honesty of the moment. Instead you just keep looking at him, eyes bright and soft and astonished all at once, as if heâs placed something precious in your hands without understanding what heâs done.
Across from you, Steve looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.
Then, because the feeling inside you is too big to hold and too warm to hide, the smallest smile ghosts at your mouth.
You rise to your feet.
Slowly⊠carefullyâŠ
Steve stays seated and just watches you, blue-screening in real time. You in that pale silk sleep set with your robe hanging loose from your shoulders is the cause of it. You barefoot on the rooftop. You with the moonlight in your halo of hope and a look on your face he cannot decode for the life of him.
You look almost peaceful.
That makes no goddamn sense to him whatsoever.
âIâll see you in the morning,â you say.
Thatâs it.
Just that.
And yet it leaves him staring like a complete fucking idiot, because how do you keep doing this? How do you keep taking the ugliest, sharpest things he gives you and somehow turning them all into something steadier, gentler, survivable? How do you keep walking away from all of these conversations looking more certain â while heâs left feeling like his own insides have been rearranged with a crowbar?
He doesnât know.
What he does know â though he barely dares name it â is that you never make him feel small in it. Never stupid. Never condescended to. You leave him confused, yeah. Wrecked, absolutely. But not lesser. Itâs almost worse, in a way. Because it means whatever this is, it isnât power. It isnât manipulation. It isnât a game.
Itâs just you.
You hold out your hand to him.
Simple as anything.
Like youâre offering help, not asking for it.
Steve swallows thickly. Then he reaches up with his left hand before he can think himself out of it. His calloused palm fits into yours and the contact is immediate and alive and a little too much in the secrecy of the dark. And like always, your hand is softer than his â warmer than the night air. The robin tattoo seems to twitch beneath his skin like it has its own pulse, as though the ghost of his best friend is getting a kick outta this.Â
As if Robin Buckley herself is bugging him from the other side of the veil, the inside of his veins⊠calling him Dingus, telling him to say something.
Goddammit Iâm working on it, he shouts at her in his mind.
You brace and help him up.
He couldâve stood on his own. Easily. You both know that.
Neither of you says it.
He rises and ends up standing too close for his own good, looking down at you while you look up at him⊠and for one charged second neither of you moves. The wind lifts a strand of your hair. The city glows below. Somewhere in the far back of his mind, Robin Buckleyâs loud ghost is absolutely losing her goddamn mind.
Dingus, say something.
So he does.
ââŠsee you in the morning.â
It comes out lower than he means it to. Almost shy.
Your angel eyes soften.
Then you give his hand the gentlest squeeze.
âGoodnight, Steve.â
The words hit him square in the chest.
Because of this morning. Because of the kitchen. Because heâd hated how much it bothered him when you didnât say it the night before. Because it had become a thing between you before he even understood it had. A rhythm. A ritual. A stupid little thread of normalcy in a place designed to erase every trace of it.
And now youâre giving it back to him like you know.
Like you know exactly what it means.
He doesnât scoff. Doesnât deflect. Doesnât even have enough pride left in him to pretend it doesnât matter.
He just answers, quiet and sincere and wrecked by how much he means it.
âGoodnight, Ren.â
Your smile changes. Not bigger. Just deeper somehow. Then you let go of his hand and take a few steps backward, still looking at him, before turning toward the rooftop door.
Steve watches you go.
He watches the pale line of your silk robe disappear into the interior glow of the penthouse. He watches the door shut softly behind you.
And then heâs alone.
Again.
Only now it feels worse.
He stands there on the roof with his hand still half-curled from where it held yours and realizes with a sharp, sinking kind of horror that there is no chance in hell heâs sleeping tonight.
Because all at once he wants impossible things.
He wants another night in the kitchen with you stealing dessert off silver trays and talking about fake-sounding pastries until one of you laughs too loudly. He wants another old Disney movie with your shoulder near his on the couch⊠and the smell of something warm in the oven and no countdown clocks anywhere in sight. He wants to hear you say goodnight like it isnât the night before the Hunger Games.
He wants you.
Not in the crude way the Capitol wanted him. Not in the way people take and strip and sell. Not ownership. Not spectacle.
Just you there.
Alive.
And the knowledge of that â the raw, helpless, completely unworkable need of it â makes the air leave his lungs.
Because it is not going to happen.
Thatâs what the rules say.
Thatâs what the odds say.
Thatâs what every giant bright number in this monstrous city says every hour, every minute, every second it keeps ticking down.
And yet every instinct in him is beginning to revolt against the math.
He doesnât want to be the victor without you.
He doesnât even know why that truth feels so old inside him. Like itâs been waiting there much longer than a week, longer than the train ride, longer than the Capitol, longer than the reaping itself. Like maybe some part of him knew before he ever did.
Below, the countdown rolls mercilessly onward.
08:57:03
08:57:02
08:57:01
Steve stares at it until his vision blurs.
And somewhere between one second and the next, between the noise below and the silence you left behind, between grief and dread and want and fury, he realizes the most devastating thing of all:
He is not afraid of dying nearly as much as he is afraid of surviving without you.
summary: when jack catches you spiraling after a taxing double shift, his worry for you spikes when he discovers that robby has been less than sympathetic with you, and that the ptmc is your only emergency contact on file. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, dana evans
contents: friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, protective!jack, so much yearning, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, mentions of patient death, abuse and sexual assault, heavy talks of suicidal ideation, brief mentions of jack abbot's ptsd
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
The refrigerator door seals shut with a suctioned click under your trembling hand, far too quiet for all the horror it holds. The worst night of a personâs life, reduced to the evidence in the collection fridge â to labels and barcodes and detailed forms.
Two boxes lie inside when there should only be one: the kit you logged two weeks ago, which shouldâve been picked up the day after, is still there. Still waiting to be seen, still waiting for someone to notice it, but still ignored all the same.
It feels like a metaphor for your own life, and it starts to strangle you before you can help it.Â
Because youâd spent three hours in that room with Ilana â three hours of talking her through every step, every swab, every scan â three hours of telling her how much her being there mattered. And now her kit sits there, just as forgotten as the one before, just as forgotten as you.Â
Something cracks.
A sob sputters from your chest before you can choke it down. Your hand shoots up to your mouth in a feeble attempt to shove it back inside. And then the door opens.
âOh, shitââ a familiar voice calls from the doorway.Â
You flinch so hard your shoulder hits the fridge. You swipe your palms over your wet eyes and cheeks, rapidly scrubbing the evidence of your misery away, before turning in the direction of the masculine voice. You find Jack Abbot lingering in the threshold, eyes wide and attentive, with one weathered hand still wrapped around the silver handle.
Neither of you says a word for several long moments. It couldâve been three seconds or three years; you canât quite be sure.
âAre you⊠okay?â the older man presses.
âNo. Yeah. Iâmââ Your voice breaks, betraying you instantly. You shake your head despite yourself. âIâm fine.â
Jackâs head lowers. His light eyes squint. He doesnât try to argue; he just looks at you, really looks at you.
âI know I seem crazy,â you laugh through a quiet sniffle. âBut Iâm fine.â
He steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The chaos of the crowded ER goes muffled in an instant.
âDid something happen?â the attending asks lowly. Heâs visibly on edge from the Code Hula Hoop from earlier that day â silver head bowed to keep your gaze, strong arms crossed over the chest of his thin black tee.
âNo. Nothing like that,â you assure him quickly. âItâs just⊠It never gets easier, you know?â
Jackâs expression shifts when you turn away to lock up the small fridge behind you. His alarm ebbs into something more sympathetic. âYeah. I get itâŠâ he mumbles. âGo take a breather, if you need it.â
You shake your head, dismissing the thought immediately. âRobbyâs been on my ass all week about taking too much time with my patients as it is. If I donât pick up a few before I go, heâllââ
âIâll deal with him,â Jack cuts in, firm but not entirely unkind. âYou go take a break.â
You turn back around, looking half-shy as you cross your arms tight over the chest of your wrinkled scrubs. âI⊠I canâtâŠâ you mumble.
ââŠYou canât?â
âIâm like a sharkâ if I stop swimming, Iâll die.â
Jack wouldâve laughed at that if you werenât so solemn about it; if he hadnât remembered, in that moment, that youâve been working since seven the evening before. Almost twenty-four hours ago. âYou havenât slept today, have you?â
âI was going to,â you tell him, a little too quickly. âAnd then we got all those patients from the waterslide collapse, and then the systems went down, and then Ilana came in, andâŠâ
His brows knit together. âSo you havenât slept since you started your double?â
âNo,â you shrug. âIâm just⊠Iâm not tired.â
Jack studies you for a long moment â your wet eyes, your worry-bitten lips, your arms crossed like youâre trying to make yourself as small as possible. You wear the long day all over, along with the grief youâve been trying to hide all day. Jack knows the signs; heâs seen them in his patients, in his staff, in himself.
It usually starts with a double, and then a patient or two that spikes the adrenaline like a triple shot of espresso. Thatâs when the mania sets in, the belief you donât need sleep despite the obvious, which inevitably leads to a crash. And thatâs exactly where youâre heading.
âCan I ask you something?â Jack wonders lowly, taking a slow step forward and never once taking his eyes off of you. âSomething kinda⊠personal?â
You hesitate, brows lowered, then nod despite yourself. âYeah?â
âDo you⊠Do you see someone?â
You blink owlishly at him. âSee someone?â
âYeah. You know, like a⊠therapist,â he clarifies. âItâs good, you know, to have someone to talk to about⊠all this.â
He motions vaguely all around him, to the muffled chaos outside.
âNo,â you shake your head, almost amused by the thought. âIâm fine. I donât need a therapistââ
âEveryone needs a therapist,â Jack huffs a faint laugh. âEspecially the people who choose to work here. Weâre all lunatics.â
âWell, Iâm fine,â you shrug and look away. âItâs everything else thatâs so⊠fucked up.â
Jack exhales hard through his nose, nodding sympathetically. âYeah, I⊠I heard about Barry. And his mom. Iâm sorryâŠâ
Thatâs what does it. The reminder of the memory â only from earlier that morning, which you had not forgotten but had tried hard to bury anyway â does it. You feel the dam break, crumbling into nothingness under the weight of an unrelenting pressure.Â
âSee, thatâsâ thatâs what Iâm talking about,â you start with a wet, maniacal sort of laugh. âI spend two hours coding a pre-school teacher, then another two treating her four-year-old, all while trying to get him to talk about what happened. And then I have to act like none of it fazes me, or else Iâll get that whole spiel from Robbyâ again. And then I do a sexual assault kit that no one will pick up because nobody gives a shit!â
Your voice rings through the quiet room.
You donât seem to notice it, though, so Jack pretends he doesnât either. He knows you need this, knows youâve spent the past near twenty-four hours keeping all of this trapped inside.
âBarryâs dad wonât see the inside of a jail cell for what he did to them, and Ilanaâs abuser wonât either, because the police wonât do their jobâ because nobody fucking caresââ
Your breath comes out sharp, like the air is being punched out through a tight chest. Your words spill from your mouth faster than you can stop them.
âAnd Iâm supposed to help them, right? But how can I when nobody else gives a shit?â
âHeyâ HeyâŠâ Abbot coos, taking another step closer when he catches you starting to spiral. âTake a breath, kidâŠâ
His voice is grounding. Steady, almost. A firm sort of comfort youâve been searching for all day â a tenderness that feels like proof that youâre broken. Suddenly, you feel like youâve said too much.
âIâm sorry,â you huff with a shake of your bowed head. âI-I have to goâ Iâm sorry.â
You storm past him to the door, and donât stop when he calls your name.
Jack looms over the monitor of the now-functioning workstation.Â
While the rest of the PTMC scrambles to scan their paper documents into the system, Jack peruses your file. His narrowed eyes flit across the screen, searching for your emergency contact. He holds his phone in his free hand and prepares to dial the number â to tell whoever is on the other line that you need them.Â
Because someone did it for him once upon a time, and sometimes he thinks thatâs the only reason heâs standing here now.
Heâs got his thumb hovering over the green button to call when Robby catches his eye â the same way a dark black storm cloud swirling overhead would catch his eye. The older man tilts his head to glance at the overhead monitor and scratches at the grey patch in his beard.
âWhoâs supposed to be overseeing the kid in pedes?â
âIâll do it,â Jack tells him, half-distracted.
âI have a senior resident whoâs supposed to be doing it,â Robby scoffs.
âI told her to take a break.â
The older manâs head snaps in his direction in an instant. His brows lower as his lip twitches into a faint smirk, looking half-offended as he crosses his arms over his chest. âAnd why would you do that?â he squints.
âSheâs had a hard day,â Jack shrugs.
âWeâve all had a hard day,â Robby laughs. âAnd if we all took off because of one bad shift, none of us would be on this floor right now.â
âAnd if you had a little bit more basic human empathy, maybe your residents wouldnât be falling apart, brother.âÂ
He flashes the older man an unamused glance. Robby flinches slightly at his words, chin jerking like he feels them physically. Jack wouldâve apologized for being so harsh any other time â if he hadnât almost gotten shot today, and if he werenât already slightly angry at Robby for mistreating you.
âExcuse me. I gotta take this,â he mumbles and brings his phone up to his ear.
Robby scoffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head as he walks off in the opposite direction.
Jack watches him go with an unblinking stare as his phone starts to ring. Once, twice, and thenâÂ
A sharp, grating chirp fills the crowded ER, swelling over the droning chatter and distant beeping. Jackâs eyes snap to the red phone on the other side of the work station, while his own stays pressed to his scruffy jaw.Â
Dana peers at the man over the top of her glasses. Her eyes flit from his shocked face to the ringing telephone at her side. She picks it up with a lazy hand and holds it to her ear.
âPTMC charge nurse,â she greets without taking her eyes off Jack. âYou mean to call this number?â
âYeah, I was justââ Jack clears his throat and glances at the monitor below. âThis was the emergency contact on file.â
âWell, sorry to get your hopes upâŠâ
She flashes the man a sympathetic smile before hanging up the phone.Â
The dial tone beeps in his ear for several long moments. He tries to guess why you wouldâve made the E.D. your emergency contact â because you donât have anyone outside of work, maybe, or because all of your closest friends work here, or because youâd want the ER to know first if something ever happened to you.
It makes his chest hurt either way.
He exhales a slow, heavy breath and shoves his phone back into his scrub pocket. He turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the stairs, hiking up to the roof despite the distant ache it puts on his prosthetic. Because he knows thatâs where you are.
Because itâs where he wouldâve gone, too.
âYâknowâŠâ a familiar voice cuts through the quiet of the roof, lit only by distant streetlamps. âYouâre in my spot, kid.â
You donât turn to look at him. Youâre too tired to take your eyes off the pitch-black hills rolling in the far-off distance, further away from the PTMC than youâve been in months. Years. You get lost in your own head, and only vaguely register the sound of Jackâs nearing footsteps scuffing against the concrete rooftop.
âItâs getting pretty lateâŠâ the man continues, all casual, like youâre not standing on the very edge of the hospital roof. âIf youâre hungry, thereâs this DoorDash guy. Nameâs Marco. Heâll trek up here for an extra tenââ
âTwenty if you want beer,â you finish for him, voice weighed down by something heavy.
âAhâŠâ Jack hums, closer now. âYou come up here often then, huh?â
You exhale a heavy breath that he thinks is meant to be a laugh, though it comes without a usual smile. âI guess you could say thatâŠâ
He reaches the metal railing just a few feet from the ledge, where you stand on the other side, with only a thin glass pane keeping you from the roofâs edge. Even though you arenât looking at him, you can feel him just beside you. The silken summer breeze carries the scent of his cologne as he bends at the waist to rest his elbows along the barrier between you.
âYou wanna talk about it?â he wonders quietly, after a few beats of not-quite silence, filled by the sound of passing cars and chatter from the city below. âItâs good to talk about it.â
âThereâs nothing to talk about,â you shrug with a shake of your head. âI just⊠I thought I was doing some good, you know? By showing up here every dayâŠâ
âYou are,â Jack insists, firm and immediate. His stare hardens as it flits across your emotionless profile, silently begging for you to look back at him. You avoid his gaze at all costs. âThose people down thereâ They need you. They need all of us.â
âBut whatâs the point?â you scoff. âIf I canât help him, then whatâs the point?â
âYou do help them.â
You scoff a teary laugh.
Jack burns from the inside out.
âYou may not see it, kid, but I do,â he tells you. âThat little boy in thereâ Heâs still alive because of you.â
âBut his momâs not,â you argue in a detached tone of voice. The starry sky above you starts to blur as you blink back the warm tears gathering at your waterline. âAnd when Barry grows up, he wonât remember his momâ what she smelled like, what kinda music she liked to listen to in the carâ but heâll remember how the system failed her⊠Both of themâŠâ
You trail off. Jack stays silent, letting you say all the words that have been raging in your head all day â untrue or otherwise.
âAnd itâs the same with Ilana, too, you know? I spent three hours with her in that room, doing something I know was triggering for her, and⊠for what? For the kit to sit in that fridge for two weeks because no one else gives enough of a shit to actually pick it up?â
The dull amber streetlights turn your unshed tears to gold when you finally turn to look at him. Your features are largely emotionless, fixed into the sort of automatic deadpan you train yourself to do as a doctor. But your eyes are wide and glittering with emotion despite yourself when you turn to the man beside you.
âI tricked myself into thinking I was actually doing some good for these people, butâŠâ Your jaw clenches to stave off a sob as you shake your head at yourself. âTurns out, itâs all just⊠bullshit.â
The corner of Jackâs lip flickers upward into a sympathetic smile, because he knows exactly how you feel. âItâs not, kidâŠâ he murmurs lowly.
âIt is,â you insist, still stern despite the way your features crumble. âWhat I do in there doesnât matterâ None of this shit mattersââ
Jack can sense you spiraling, can sense you about to turn away from him before youâve even done it. He reaches out for you, catching your chin between his thumb and pointer finger to keep your eyes on his.
Your gaze flickers with surprise at first, stunned momentarily by the warmth of his touch, before it softens around the edges with something tender â as if youâd been craving this kindness all day. Your glitter irises follow Jack when he rises to full height, towering over you from the other side of the thin metal railing.
âHey,â Jack snaps, firm but still strikingly soft with you. âYou saved a life today, kid. That matters.âÂ
Your eyes sting.
âYou helped a girl through the hardest day of her life,â he continues, with a stare just as merciless as his words. âThat matters, too.â
You shake your head against his calloused hand, trying and failing to repel his words. You need them more than anything, and still, you can hardly stomach them.
âThe officers will pick up that kit, I promise you that. And the asshole who hurt her will pay for what he did, I promise you that, too.â
âBut you canât,â you whimper. âYou canât promise me that. You canât promise anyone that.â
âWell, I am,â Jack says. âBecause Iâm gonna make sure it happens. Because I believe itâ Because I believe in Barry and Ilana, just like I believe in you. And without you⊠If you werenât here for them today⊠Who knows what wouldâve happened?â
His gentle grip on your chin softens when he knows you arenât going to turn away from him again, but he still doesnât let you go.
âThatâs the point,â Jack tells you, so softly you could cry. âThatâs why it matters. Thatâs why we need you here, understand?â
You sniffle quietly and nod despite yourself, if only to free yourself from this suffocating moment â from Jackâs unrelenting tenderness, which you feel hardly deserving of now.
He clicks his lips against his teeth and smiles softly as he murmurs, âYeah, Iâm gonna need to hear you say itâŠâ
Your wet eyes are stern with unsaid protest, with lashes all clumped together from unshed tears. Your voice is small and more fragile than glass as you abide him anyway. âI understandâŠâ
âOh, câmonâŠâ Jack lilts drily. âYou canât bullshit a bullshitter, kidâ At least try to make it sound like you believe it.â
You roll your glassy eyes, more in embarrassment than annoyance.
Jack grins wider. âYeah, I donât know if you know this about me, but I can get real annoying if I need toâŠâ
A faint smile pulls at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.
ââŠI understand,â you repeat, slightly steadier this time.
âYeahâŠâ Jack praises with a slow nod. âThere we goâŠâ
Thereâs a lingering beat thereafter, where you think heâs about to let go of your chin. Only he doesnât.Â
And it isnât till then that you realize how intently heâs looking at you now, with eyes heavy and glittering beneath the dim starry night. Your heart lurches in your chest when you think he might kiss you â a fleeting, irrational thought that makes your breath shudder and your mouth fall gently agape.
A sudden boom cracks suddenly through the air.
You flinch hard as a blue-pink firework crackles in a navy black sky.
âShitâŠâ you huff, clutching at your racing heart. âThat scared meâŠâ
Jackâs chest aches with a similar fear. He reaches for you on instinct as his own hands start to tremble.Â
âHere. Câmon,â he mumbles to himself, calloused hands firm on the outsides of your elbows. âCome back on this side before you give me a damn heart attack, kidâŠâ
He assists you over the railing. You swing one leg over, and then the other, in a motion that feels practiced. Familiar. Until your left foot catches slightly on the edge, that is, and sends you stumbling into the older manâs chest.
âWhoaââ
âI got you,â Jack murmurs, steadying you with firm hands.
For a second, youâre closer than youâve ever been. You can feel his heart racing against your palms. He can feel your breath fanning across his scruffy cheek. You can see his heavy eyes flitting wildly between yours, and again, you think he might kiss you â you want so desperately for him to kiss you.
Then the heavy door to the roof swings open, and the two of you jerk rapidly apart.
Laughter and muddled conversation come spilling out as a handful of the day shift emerges, with Donnie and Princess leading the charge, carrying a square blue cooler between them. The former smiles when he finds the two of you standing there together.
âYou guys are early to the party, I see,â the man shouts over another set of booming fireworks.
âYou kinda have to be when youâre the life of one,â Jack shoots back. âItâs more polite that way.â
âHere,â Princess says, handing the man a chilled beer. âFigured you could use one after getting shot today.â
âShot at,â he corrects drily and takes the can from her grasp. âBut Iâm not drinkingâ Iâm still on the clock⊠But sheâs not.â
He turns to you, holding the beer out expectantly between you.
âI-I still have a few rounds to finish up,â you shake your head.
âIâll do âem,â Jack shrugs. âYou take a load off, alright? You deserve it.â
You hesitate for a moment, swallowing hard before reaching for the can with trembling hands. ââŠI deserve it,â you repeat under your breath, as though you were trying the words on for size.
âYeah, you do,â Jack squints.
The can cracks faintly when you open it. You bring it to your mouth and take a slow sip, watching as the fireworks continue raining down overhead.Â
The day shift gathers around you at the railing with their own beers, while sparkling rainbow hues decorate the dark rooftop. You lean against the cool metal, now on the other side of it, and a little bit better than you were before.
Jack lingers just next to you, and forgets to watch the show playing overhead.
He doesnât even realize heâs staring until you turn to look at him, eyes wide with worry.
âYouâre okay, right?â you mutter sheepishly, licking the sheen of alcohol from your mouth. âItâs not too loud out here, is it? âCause we can go back inside if you want.â
The corner of Jackâs mouth lifts in a smile at your concern, and at your use of âwe.â The warmth you put in his chest far outweighs the lingering panic settled there.Â
He shakes his head with a glassy-eyed gaze, âIâm right where I wanna be,â he assures in a honeyed voice.
You turn away, face flaring, and hide your smile behind your beer.
âYeahâŠâ he hears you mumble. âMe, tooâŠâ
warnings: kissing, like very little smut, mentions of alcohol, cowboy steve for a second, getting caught
summary: you and your brother move into a ranch your parents bought in a small town. steve harrington quickly becomes a close family friend, and your forced to keep your feelings a secret, until one night he fails at keeping his own feelings private.
an: i was bored last night and wrote this super quick, itâs not proofread so forgive me for any errors or if itâs rushed.
Around five years ago, you and your brother Oliver were forced to move hours away from your home. to a small little town in the middle of Indiana. Moving from such a big city like New York, to nothing but fields and horses was a huge challenge. Although your parents just wanted the best for you both, the struggle was real.
Oliver wasnât making the best decisions back in the city, he kept getting involved with the wrong crowd and constantly worrying your parents.
One particular night, he was out with friends, and very much so intoxicated. One thing led to another and he was detained for a stupid act of vandalism. Something about spray painting a school, you're not completely sure. your father agreed to not give very many details out to anyone who asked.
However, since that day, it was made clear that New York was not the best place for your brother to be raised in. leading to the ultimate decision of moving across states.
The first few months of living in Hawkins, Indiana were⊠interesting. Everyone seemed to know each other, the schools were small, and time went by extremely slow on the ranch.
speaking of said ranch. The land your parents bought was beautiful. It had horse stables, a pretty little pond filled with fishes, and the house that settled right in the middle was gorgeous. old definitely but still beautiful. It had a cottage like outside, and was covered in vines, that on some occasions grew the prettiest flowers. Your room was small but it had a very cozy vibe to it. honey brown hard word floors, and each window had these lace curtains with the most intricate details sewed into the fabric. Your bed was sat right in the middle of the room, and you were able to fit a tiny desk in one of the corners. The space was nothing like your room back home, but something about it made it feel more comfortable.
Oliver's room was next door. Pretty much the same layout just obviously decorated to be more âmanlyâas he would say. Blackout curtains covered his windows, and he didnât have any pretty flower pots on the sill. He frequently complained about the fact that each floorboard creaked extremely loud, making any future plans of sneaking out, impossible.
The kitchen was your favorite part of the whole house. The cabinets were a mix of sage and olive green, with a wood countertop, and a window covered each wall. right on top of the sink was the perfect view of the sunset. Each night when it was time for dinner, or your turn to wash the dishes, you would crank open the window to let the breeze glaze your skin, and see the sun slowly rest down on the horizon. You never pictured yourself enjoying small town life, but you definitely could get used to it.
As for Oliver, he was adjusting just as well. Friends came easily to him, eventually getting his shit together. Grades were brought up. Both of your parents were pleased with the outcome of their decision.
As the years went on, Oliver brought one particular friend around quite often. His name was Steve Harrington. He had the dreamiest hair, freckles scattered all over, and the cutest puppy dog eyes. Steve lived just across the road, in a much bigger ranch, spread over many acres. The home that came with it was quite nice. It was a brick house, with so many windows. His bedroom was on the top floor, and sometimes you could see him wave from your own room. Mrs. Harrington and your mother got along quite well. Both your families seemed to have much in common, so steve was constantly being invited to dinner.
One night, after just about 2 years of living in Hawkins, Steve was sitting across from you at the table.
âCan you pass the mash potatoes please?â he asked.
You grabbed the bowl, passing it towards him. Your fingers brushed, and Steve didn't pull away. Your eyes, which were glued to where your hands connected, shot up to meet his own. Steve was staring straight at you, all blushed out. You pulled away first, breaking whatever seal was connecting the both of you. He smiled to himself, let out a breathy laugh under his breath, and the night continued.
That's when you knew. Shit, you liked Steve Harrington. Sure, it was a simple moment. Lasted probably 10 seconds or less, but you couldn't help but notice the butterflies that pounded in your chest, stomach, lungs, head, even your toes. He just had a charm to him, that you couldn't shake off.
After that you didn't see much of him. Steve and your brother were always out doing who knows what with who knows who. Even though both of them were only a single year older than you, you didn't really run with their crowd. Probably because your brother was at that age where he still considered you his baby sister. Did it annoy the hell out of you? Hundred percent, but it was whatever. You had your own friends, and you didn't need to be all flustered with Steve's presence anyways.
months after that interaction, rumors started up about Steve dating this one girl. Allie Curtis. She had bright blonde locks, intense blue eyes, and always flirted with anyone within a 10 mile radius. He never really mentioned much about her when anyone asked, but considering how small the town was, everyone knew something was bubbling up.
You found yourself down in the stables that sat upon your ranch. Your horse was in absolute need of good grooming, so you woke up at the crack of dawn, and set off. She was a beautiful horse. Deep chestnut brown, with a stripe of creamy white on her chest. Her mane was thick and blonde, you often found yourself braiding it for fun when there was nothing else to do.
You filled up a bucket with some water from a hose outside the stables, and began cleaning her off. You scrubbed her hooves and picked off all the dirt from her hair, humming a quiet song to yourself.
âHey-â you jumped, nearly falling over, startled at the sound of Steve's voice. He rushed forward, settling his hands on your waist, initially catching your fall. You couldn't help but notice how he looked. He developed a tan, a caramel brown you assumed from him working with his father down at his own ranch. Sweat glistened off his temple, from the awful heat wave that coursed through Indiana this summer, and he had this stupid cowboy hat on, that made him look unfairly attractive.
Your thoughts were cut off by the realization you were starring.
His lips twitched, blush creeped on his nose. âSorry.. I- I didnât mean to startle you.â hands still on your waist, âJust your dad told me to come get you, your mom prepared lunch for us all.â
âOh, oh right,â your eyes shot down to his hands, still gripping you. âSorry, just Grace here, needed a wash.. Iâll be right inâ
He let go, but didnât back away.
Your heart almost shot out of your chest. His hand reached forward to push a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. Your eyes dashing between his and your ears turning pink, you wanted to say something. Quite literally anything. Before a word could come out, Oliver stormed in.
âHey Steve.. Allie called, said sheâs coming over to join us tonight at jamesâ houseâ
You both jumped back, the moment was broken. He turned towards your brother and mustered up a response,
âYeah alright..â he turned back around, trying to maybe address what just happened, or even apologize. But you were gone.
Your heart was racing, thoughts were spiraling. You ran out so fast. Had Steve really almost kissed you? No.. he has a girlfriend. Well sort of. You werenât really sure what Allie was to Steve. She couldn't have been just a friend. You saw them kiss a few times at parties, his hands feeling over her body. Friends don't just grope each other up. Right?
You sat down on a random rock you saw near the pond, a little breathless after you sprinted. You could skip lunch, no need to be put in any more awkward positions. Especially with your brother around. Oliver was just extremely protective over you. Probably why you never found yourself a boy of your own. Oliver just didn't like when any of his friends tried to flirt with you. Some stupid sibling rule you couldn't grasp your mind around. To be fair itâs not like you needed a guy, but sometimes, in the late nights, where your mind drifted off. You found yourself thinking it wouldn't hurt to have someone, who could hold you, kiss you, and even just talk to. You would never admit to it, but sometimes you hoped that person to one day be Steve Harrington.
The next morning, Steve apparently ended whatever fling was going on with Allie.
summer had passed, and winter crept as it became deeper into October. The temperature began to drop, and your mind began to wander off into other things. More important things, and not just about some stupid boy. Although, Steve still came around, your brother began to lay off on the rules, and you found yourself enjoying being in their little circle of friends. Julia, Oliver's current girlfriend, and you quickly became close companions. She was super sweet, always listened when you needed to, and she adored your brother.
On a random Tuesday she brought up the idea âhow come you don't date steve? I mean the double dates would be so much funâ immediately choking on your milkshake you turned around to see if anyone had heard her. Both of you were out at a local diner located in the middle of town. The seats were all ripped, and the windows stained, but overall the food was good and it seemed to really be the only place like this in town. However that also meant most people you knew gathered here for bites to eat, and warm pie to enjoy on the cold nights. You laughed it off and said you and Steve were just friends. Nothing could really even happen between you guys anyways, so you just never encouraged the idea.
That was until 3 days ago.
It was a chilly night, stars were out, and the sun was sleeping. You laid in bed reading a novel your mother had given to you. Your source of light was a sweet smelling rose candle that sat next to you on your wooden nightstand. Another piece of furniture you were able to fit in the small space given.
Flipping the pages, you were about to start another chapyer, when you heard a rock hit your window. Confused, and a little scared, you tip toed to the glass. Steve stood at the bottom, waving his hand in a âcome outsideâ motion. It was late, probably not a good idea to leave the house, but Oliver was out as well, and you were older now, not needing a stupid curfew. So you slipped on your boots, grabbed a hoodie and quietly made your way down the stairs.
Carefully you stepped out the front door, and saw Steve standing at the edge of your porch.
âSteve, what's going on?â
âHey! Uh, I just- i dont know.. Guess just wondering if you wanted to take a drive with me?â he held up his keys, dangling them.
You could have considered your answer more but it wasnât unlike Steve to ask something like this. There were plenty of nights spent, with you, him and all your friends driving down to lovers lake. Either for a late night swim, pregame a party, or even just discuss life with each other. It sorta became like a tradition. However it was never just Steve and you.
âsure.â he held out his hand, and you laced yours with his. He led you down your porch, and through the gate that wrapped around your whole property.
Steve's truck was your favorite. It was baby blue with a white stripe. You loved on hot summer nights, to stick your head out the window and let whatever slight breeze there was cast over your face and blow through your hair. What you didnât know was that Steve loved it too. Watching your eyes shut to enjoy the moment, and the way your hair flew in the wind. It was the highlight of his year, hell maybe even his life.
He opened the passenger side door for you before making his way into the driver's seat.
âWhere are we going?â you turned to face him better. His face was illuminated by the moonlight. Every curve of his features on display.
âI know we usually all hangout at lovers, but I was thinking of something a little different.. You trust me?â
âI don't know, should I?.â he laughed and started up the engine.
The ride was silent, but comfortable. Filled with a million things that needed to be said, but just couldn't make it out of either of you. The radio hummed with whatever the late night shuffle was. It was nice. Just being there. Just the two of you.
The engine shut off, reeling you back to reality.. He took you to a grassy, open stretch of land, on the other side of town. Not much was around just a few homes but those were quite far away.
âThought we could, sit in the back and just talkâ his voice was a bit nervous, which came to you as a shock. Is Steve Harrington nervous? There was no such thing, especially with you.
âYeah that sounds nice.â you smiled.
Steve set out a blanket on the bed of his truck. He helped you on and you laid down, gazing up at the stars above. He made his way next to you, arm behind his head as he followed where you were staring.
âNew York never had this many stars you know,â
âReally?â
âYeah, too much going on, there wasn't even time to really notice anyâ he hummed in response before adding,
âSpeaking of that, Iâm really glad you moved here. Feel like you add so much to this boring townâ
You froze a little and turned toward the boy.
âI mean I like your brother and all, but something about you⊠just- I don't know, makes my brain turn to mush, and I- I get all nervous, which is weird, iâve never felt that way before with a girl⊠i guess i just like being around youâ he confessed.
You first reaction was to laugh,
âYeah right, nice joke harrington..â
When you noticed he wasn't responding, you turned your head back out of curiosity, and he was already staring at you.
âTheres so much I need to say, but⊠I just can't wait any longer.â
Leaving you no time to think, he kissed you.
It was gentle, almost asking if this was okay. When you didn't pull away, his hand found your hip pulling you against him.
Steve fucking Harrington was kissing you and you were kissing him back.
Your hand found its way to his hair, pulling at the strands. he let out a slight moan in response, and his kissing grew hungrier. Tongues found each other, battling for dominance.
His hands made their way up and found the edge of your shirt. He yanked a little, asking for permission.
âCan I?â
you never nodded so fast in your life. Your arms stood up so he could remove the fabric. Leaving you in just a white lace bra.
âGod, you're beautiful.â his lips found yours again, except now he wasn't wasting any time, it was all teeth, tongue, saliva everywhere, and somehow in the haze of it all his shirt came off and so did your bra.
His lips traveled down your cheek, to your chin then your neck. Finding its way at your breast. Sucking, and licking the plush skin there.
As his other hand attempted to unbutton your pants, you heard footsteps.
âSteve, you in there?â
It was Oliver.
Your brother.
And you were half naked about to have sex with his best friend.
đïž A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Mishaâs Masterlist Library.
đ Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here
đ Book One: all chapters here
BOOK ONE: Chapter 32 -> continued
-> POV: back to Hawkinsâ during the interview aftermathâŠ
Continues directly after the first half of Chapter 32 {read first}
Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader
hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. đč
đč SUMMARY: The night before the Games air has flipped the world upside down... even more than it literally already was. After you shocked the nation with your publicly announced love confession for Steve Harrington, who I supposed to fight against you tomorrow morning â along with twenty-three other tribute â inside of the arena, the entire remaining civilization back in Hawkins is in a fit of disarray...
Which is exactly what you knew would happen.
You knew that putting your own heart on the line might help keep Steve's beating. You knew that struggling survivalists across the nation and elitist Capitol socialites alike would all be persuaded to empathize for the two of you. And you knew that this narrative flip would plant seeds for rebellion in ways that can put the power back into the hands of the people.
The only thing you couldn't possibly account for is the personal, harsh impact its had on all of Steve's people back home... not just the townsfolk.
The kids are instantly theorizing, their childlike innocence now taking over as they wonder if their hero and protector has fallen in love with the beautiful baker's daughter in just the seven short days he's been gone from them. The mayor is overwhelmed as people come forward and demand answers that he doesn't have. Eddie is realizing just how much the two of you have orbited each other differently than all the other district pairs. And as for Nancy Wheeler... she's in shambles. Absolute shambles.
Meanwhile, your grandfather and Jonathan have the warmest heart to heart while cursing out the government for dealing you such cruel odds. Joyce watches the old televisions inside Melvald's, longing to hug you like a second mother who's watched you grow up. And then thereâs your older brother â whose jaded eyes stay glued to the small TV inside the bakery in the dark during after hours, wondering how you can still grant him grace and mercy after all these years.
đč AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've become addicted with writing the POV back in Hawkins during the pre-Games... and really excited to say that, yes. There will be more of these during the actual Games and it makes everything that happens so much more darkly fun to write because the hometown reactions (in my humble opinion) raise the stakes even higher.
Xx, misha
đč OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst.
Chapter Thirty-Two
{extended}
The high school gymnasium hasnât looked this alive in years.
The old banners still hang from the rafters â faded fern greens and yellows boasting championships no one remembers anymore, curling slightly at the corners where time and damp air have gnawed at them. Half the overhead lights donât work, leaving long bars of shadow stretching across the cracked hardwood floor.
But tonight?
Tonight the place is packed so full of bodies it feels like the walls might burst.
People stand shoulder-to-shoulder across the gym floor, pressed against the bleachers, clustered along the entrance doors. Some of them have dragged in folding chairs. Others lean against the walls with cups of burnt coffee clutched in their hands like lifelines.
And at the far end of the gymâŠ
Where the scoreboard used to be.
Thereâs a screen.
Not a proper one.
Just a massive white sheet stretched tight between two rusted beams, a projector humming loudly on a rolling AV cart in the center aisle. Extension cords snake across the floor, taped down with strips of gray duct tape so nobody trips.
The picture flickers.
Grainy.
A little crooked.
But clear enough for everyone to see.
The Capitol news broadcast.
And the headline plastered across the bottom of the screen in bold white letters: DISTRICT 12âS STAR-CROSSED LOVERS
The entire gym erupts in overlapping noise.
âDid you see thatâ?â
âShe said she loved himâ!â
âNo, no, noâlistenâshe said she always has!â
âWhat the hell does that even meanâ?â
âDoes Harrington know?!â
âDid you hear what she said about him not saying goodbye?!â
The voices pile on top of each other until the sound becomes a roar.
Then?
âAlright! ALRIGHT!â
Mayor Larry Klein stands on the lowest bleacher with both arms raised like heâs trying to stop a riot. Which⊠quite frankly? He might be. Heâs sweating through his collar. His tie is crooked. His hair â normally slicked into place with obsessive care â has started curling at the edges from the humidity of the crowd.
âFolks,â he says breathlessly, trying to project authority that absolutely does not exist. âFolks, pleaseâletâs just settle down for a second.â
Nobody settles down.
Someone yells from the back:
âIS IT TRUE?!â
Klein points helplessly at the projector. âThatâs exactly what weâre all trying to find out!â
Another voice hollers, âHave they said anything else?!â
âNo!â Klein snaps. Then he immediately winces, realizing how that sounded. âI meanânot yet! The Tribute Tower is under complete lockdown before the Games. Peacekeepers everywhere. No press allowed inside. None.â
The crowd only buzzes harder.
âSo nobody knows anything?â
âNothing,â Klein huffs defeatedly, posture sagging. âNot the Capitol reporters, not the networks, not even the government spokespeople. The show ended after Renâs interview and Caesar Flickermanâs closing remarks. I am literally just as dumbstruck as you are.â
Thereâs a slight pause.
Larry wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. âAs far as anyone knows,â he adds grimly, âthe tributes went straight back to their quarters.â
Someone mutters âJesusâŠâ right as another voice calls out, âwell what about President Snow?!â
Klein spreads his hands. âHasnât said a word.â
The silence that follows is brief.
But heavy.
Then the projector flickers again.
The news broadcast cuts to a replay.
Caesar Flickermanâs blue hair fills the screen as he recaps his show⊠sitting on another talk show, where heâs being grilled by the hosts. ââand perhaps the most stunning moment of the evening came from District 12âs very own, our dove, Ren Everdeenââ
The gym falls quiet.
Everyone watches.
Again.
The clip replays. Your face on the stage. Soft, calm. Terrifyingly sincere.
âBecause he came here with me.â
The silence inside the gym deepens into something almost sacred.
Then the noise explodes again.
And right up front, on the gym floor, five kids sit cross-legged on a cluster of mismatched beanbags like theyâve claimed territory. Walkie-talkies. Pudding cups. Backpacks. A stack of comic books someone isnât even pretending to read.
They look like theyâre preparing for a sleepover.
Except nobodyâs laughing.
Dustin Hendersonâs mouth is hanging open. âDude...â
Mike Wheeler rubs both hands down his face. âDude...â
Lucas Sinclair shakes his head slowly. âDude.â
Erica leans back against the beanbag with her arms crossed. âAre you idiots going to say anything besides âdudeâ?â
Dustin slowly turns toward her, mouth still agape. âShe said she loves him.â
âYessss,â Erica drags the word out, eyeing him like heâs stupid. âWe all heard that part.â
Mike stares at the screen. âBut like⊠loves him loves him.â
Erica rolls her eyes. âThatâs generally what the word means.â
âWait, wait, waitââ Lucas leans forward. He points at the screen where the interview replay continues. âShe said sheâs always loved him.â
The boys stare at each other.
Then slowly turn toward Will⊠who sits very still. His chin tucked slightly into the sleeve of his sweater. His eyes never leave the screen.
ââŠyeah,â he admits quietly. âBecause she has.â
All four of them snap toward him.
âYou knewâ?!â Dustin squawks.
Will shrinks slightly. âWell⊠not knew-knew.â
Mike gapes. âDude!â
Erica groans. âOh not againâstop saying dude!â
But the boys donât let up.
âI just meanââ Will fumbles. âI mean she always looked at him like that.â
Lucas squints. âLike what?â
Will shrugs helplessly. âLikeâŠhe was the sun.â
The boys simultaneously go silent.
âAnd because likeâŠâ Will adds quickly, still tripping over his words a bit. âShe and Jonathan have been best friends for years, and sheâsânever looked at him like that, orâŠâ He pauses, peeking at them all shyly. âI dunno. Itâs hard to explain. Like even around town, when she sees us all at market with Steve? Her eyes just sort of⊠sparkle differently.â
Erica tilts her head thoughtfully.Â
âHuh.â Then she shrugs. âSeems reasonable.â
Dustin whirls on her. âREASONABLE?!â
âWell yeah.â She gestures at the screen where Steve Harringtonâs interview replay flashes briefly between clips. Heâs leaning back in the chair. Chainmail glinting. Eyes dark. Attitude blazing. His smile brooding and beautiful. Erica smirks. âHave you seen that man?â
Mike chokes on air.
âErica!â Lucas exclaims with boyish disgust.
âIâm just saying.â
âPlease stop saying,â her brother gags.
âItâs the facts,â she shrugs again. âIf youâre gonna fall in love with somebody before getting thrown into a death arena, heâs a pretty solid pick.â
Mike coughs into his fist.
Dustin points at the screen again. âYeah, and now we donât even know what the hell heâs thinkingâson of a bitchâŠâ He pinches the bridge of his nose⊠just like Steve always does. âThis sucks. Big booty hole sucks.â
Erica reels back. âEw?!â
âI wonder if he knows,â Will solemnly says.
âHow canât he?â Lucas asks exasperatedly. âHe was inside the same studio the whole time. He had to have heard it.â
Mike runs both hands through his hair. âWhich meansââ
âOh my God,â Dustin breathes. âWhat if loves her back?â
The boys freeze.
Erica squints at all of them before cracking open a new can of pudding. âHeâd be stupid not to.â
Down the hall, away from all the noiseâŠ
Nancy Wheeler paces.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The classroom smells like chalk dust and old textbooks. Thereâs a small TV sitting on the teacherâs desk. Itâs muted. But itâs still playing the same looping footage.
Your interview.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Nancyâs thin arms are crossed so tightly across her chest her knuckles have gone white. âThis is bullshit.â
The door warily creaks open.
Eddie Munson pokes his head inside like a man approaching a bear trap.
â...Hey.â
Nancy doesnât stop pacing. âThis is such fucking bullshit.â
Eddie sighs. âYeah.â
She spins toward him. âYou donât even know what Iâm talking about.â
âOh I absolutely do.â
He shuts the door behind him as Nancy gestures violently at the television.
âSheâs lying.â
Eddie lifts an eyebrow. âIs she?â
âYES.â Nancyâs voice cracks. âShe has to be!â
âWhy?â
Nancy stares at him like heâs stupid. âBecause she doesnât even know him!â
Eddie crosses his arms. âNanceâŠâ
âShe doesnâtââ Her voice breaks sharper now. âShe met him a week agoâ she canât be in love with him when theyâve never once hung out. Not once!â
Eddie stares. âYou canât possibly believe that.â
Nancy scoffs bitterly. âOh, really?â
âYeah. Really.â He shrugs. âBecause half the goddamn townâs been in love with Steve Harrington since middle school.â
Nancyâs face goes red. âThatâs not the same thing.â
âNo?â
âNo.â
She turns away, running a hand through her long brunette hair, feeling Eddie staring at her⊠tracking her like a hawk.
âYouâre missing the point.â
Eddie leans against the desk. âThen enlighten me.â
Nancyâs voice drops. âThere can only be one winner.â
Silence.
Eddie studies her. âAnd you think itâs gonna be Steve.â
Nancyâs jaw tightens. âI know it will be.â
âWhich means she dies.â
Nancy swallows down the better part of herself. âYes.â
âAnd if she dies,â Eddie says slowly, âthen this whole tragic love story thing⊠kinda goes down the drain.â
Nancyâs eyes flash. âThatâs not funny.â
âIâm not joking.â
âYouâre taking her side.â
âIâm taking Steveâs side.â
Nancy laughs bitterly. âOh, bullshit.â
âNancy?â Eddie pushes off the desk. âStop it.â
âNo,â she snaps, backing away. Her eyes are pure glass, angry with emotion that threatens to spill over. âYouâre supposed to be on my side.â
âYou think I donât get why youâre upset?â Eddie keeps going, his voice rough now. âYou think I donât know you love him?â
Nancyâs eyes fill instantly.Â
âI know you doâŠâ Her voice is barely above a whisper. âThatâs why Iâneed youâto be on my side.â
Eddie exhales slowly. âIâm always on your side.â
Silence stretches.
Then Nancyâs anger collapses into something fragile and raw. âShe doesnât even know him,â she grunts again, weaker now.
Eddie walks forward. âMaybe not like you or I do,â he agrees solemnly. âBut it doesnât change the fact sheâs grown up around him, too.â
âWell it isnât the same.â
His eyes soften. âI know it isnât.â
Nancy nods miserably at that, glaring at the ground. âGood.â
She takes a moment to gnaw at her bottom lip until itâs swollen and raw, then glances up at the small TV⊠where the news station is flashing an image of you and Steve arriving together at the gala, arm in arm.
Her blue eyes narrow, one rogue tear falling before she bats it away angrily.Â
âHeâs not like he used to be,â Nancy states through gritted teeth. âThat⊠flirty lifeguard golden boy that used to charm the halls. Make girls blush. Take me out on diner dates in his fancy car.â
âI donât think thatâs who sheâs in love with,â Eddie gently counters her.
âThatâs the only version of him girls are in love with!â Nancy argues, getting worked up again. She laughs humorlessly, eyes wild. âCâmon, Edsâthatâs all theyâve ever known him as! King Steve!â
Eddie exhales sharply. âThat version of himâs been gone for a solid year and a half. Everyoneâs seen that. Including her.â
âKey word: seen.â Nancy hisses the word, jabbing her finger at him. âTheyâve all seen the change. They donât know him, they donâtâ know why.â
He doesnât disagree with that.
Because he knows the dark truth that Steve carries with him, and Nancy has held him through many times⊠whenever he lets himself be held or touched at all.
âMaybe not,â Eddie relents, âbut she now knows a side of him we donât know either.â
Her eyes flash. âWhatâre youââ
âA lot happens in a day, Nancy,â Eddie cuts her off flatly. âYou know that.â
âSo?!â
âSo imagine seven days. Out there.â Eddie gestures at the television. âInside the Capitol. All aloneâno family, no friends. Just each other to lean on.â
Nancy shakes her head â arms crossed, pacing again. âNot true. Hopperâs there.â
Eddie roughly scrubs a hand down his face, mustering patience. âYou and I know damn well⊠Steveâs not gonna lean on Hopper for sanity.â
âWell he should! Thatâs what heâs there for!â
âTheyâre leaning on each other, Nancy,â Eddie states with finality. âAnd thatâs how it should be.â
Nancy stares, then scoffs bitterly. âYouâre unbelievable.â
ââand the flames arenât the only thing theyâve now shared,â a reporter is now saying on the TV, standing outside the White House. âSteve Harrington is rumored to have taken a mock bow during evaluationsâright at the end of his presentation for Seneca Crane⊠and now, Ren Everdeen has mirrored the exact same sort of bow. A curtsy, really! Which begs the question: was it merely rumored⊠or was it real?ââ
They watch the television for another moment as reporters lose their minds. Theorize. Voice conspiracies. Spread gossip. They show clip after clip, photo after photo, playback after playback â all on repeat.
One leaked shaky cam footage appears to have been filmed from a distance, as if captured by a hidden source â showing you and Steve, walking arm in arm, after the Gala. Heâs leaning into you, whispering in your ear with a grim expression⊠and youâre listening, leaning in closer, before nodding up at him as he pulls back and whisks you away protectively into the cybertruck. Every corner is flooded with paparazzi and reporters trying to get all of the tributesâ attention as theyâre escorted away â and for the most part, the tributes wave or acknowledge them.
But not Steve.
Not you.
Neither of you notice them.
And thereâs something unusually territorial in the way that Steve keeps your arm in his while looking around, then pausing as you reach for someone. Itâs a little boy.Â
Eddie squints at the screen, noticing itâs the kid from District Five.Â
Youâre asking him something with a warmly concerned expression, and Jack is just nodding at you quickly before Steve winks at him then ruffles his hair.Â
Itâs only after Jackâs been safely escorted into the other cybertruck with more of the tributes that Steve safely sees you inside the one assigned to you both parked parallel to it while all the other tributes keep waving and basking all of the glory⊠the attention⊠the pandemoniumâŠ
The sight makes something pull at Eddieâs heartstrings.
His eyes go round with wonder as he watches the camera footage end while the news anchors resume their theorizingâŠ
âYou really think sheâs lying,â he says quietly.
Nancyâs still staring at the TV, but she doesnât blink. âYes.â
ââŠand you think he doesnât love her back.â
She turns to him now, eyes hard⊠but her voice cracks. âHe canât.â
Eddie studies her face carefully. âAnd why not.â
Nancy looks like he slapped her. âDonât.â
âIâm just sayingââ
âDONâT.â
Her voice breaks completely now.
And suddenly sheâs crying.
Angry.
Ugly.
Heartbroken tears.
Eddieâs eyes go wide with horror and exhaustion alike. He sighs deeply while pulling her into a tight hug, desperate to make this all go away. Nancy resists for about half a secondâŠ
Then collapses against him.
âFuck,â she sobs into his jacket.
âI know,â he murmurs sadly. âI know, Nance.â
Outside the classroom door, the gym roars again as the broadcast replays your confession one more time. And on every single television screen across the country, the countdown clock ticks lower.
11 hours, 47 minutes until the Games.
The Capitol calls it analysis.
The people watching know better.
Itâs spectacle.
The footage doesnât stop. It keeps playing across every screen in the country â every bar, every storefront window, every dusty television struggling to hold signal through crooked antennas and half-dead wiring.
But no city is a match for Hawkins tonight.
Back in the gym, the projector hums louder as the next segment begins. The anchorwoman sits behind a sleek glass desk, Capitol lights glinting off her lacquered hair. Behind her, a massive still image from the parade fills the screen â you and Steve in the chariot, standing side by side, both of you wreathed in flame, your joined hands lifted toward the sky. He looks like fire incarnate. You look like something fallen from heaven.
The caption beneath the image reads:
THE KING AND THE DOVE
âDistrict 12 has captured the entire nationâs attention tonight,â the anchor narrates with zeal. âFollowing tonightâs interviews with Caesar Flickerman, analysts across the Capitol are now scrambling to interpret the stunning revelation from tribute, Ren Everdeen.â
Another commentator leans into frame beside her, eyes wide. âStar-crossed lovers entering the arena is not something this countryâs faced over the last forty-eight Games, all leading up to this one,â he says, folding his hands together. âBut itâs the declaration that has everyone stunned, given the small town bakerâs daughterâs vulnerable confessionâŠâ
His co-host nods reverently. âIt was just so⊠sincere.â
The screen cuts again.
A different image appears â the press photograph taken earlier in the week. Steve is seated, leaning back in a chair, head tipped toward the ceiling, eyes somber. The netting at his throat catches the light like liquid silver. Behind him stands you, an ethereal beacon of light⊠like an angel entered the room and graced it with her presence.
And of course, the viral photo is what gets the most coverage.
The studio image where Steveâs profile is to the camera, head tipped back⊠eyes closed. You stand behind him, temple resting gently against the center of his spine, your hands lifted near your chest â not quite prayer, not quite surrender. Your gaze locks straight into the camera, steady and daring.
The commentator whistles under his breath. âHow did we miss this?â
The anchorwoman smiles thinly. âPerhaps we were looking for the wrong signs.â
Back inside Hawkins High, the crowd reacts like a thunderstorm breaking wide open. People point at the screen, talking over one another.
âThatâs from the photo shoot!â
âNo shit!â
âLook at the way sheâs leaning into himââ
âJesus ChristâŠâ
Someone mutters from the bleachers, âHow long has that been going on?â
Nobody has an answer.
Down on the gym floor, Dustin nearly launches himself off his beanbag. âDID YOU SEE THAT?!â
Mike blinks dazedly at the screen. âYeah.â
Lucas leans forward, squinting. âNow, hold up.â He points at the image. âThat picture⊠I thought that was just a cool pose.â
Erica rolls her eyes. âYou thought that was a cool pose,â she mocks him.
Lucas turns defensive. âWell how was I supposed to know?!â
Will speaks quietly beside them. âSomeone leaked candid footage from that.â
The others turn toward him immediately.
âWhen?â Mike asks. âWhere?â
âIt was online,â Will explains, trying to remember. âBut likeâit wasnât anything news broadcasts were showing. Just some highlighted story from the zineâs account.â
Dustin leans over eagerly. âWhat happened in the footage?â
Mike leans in too, flat on his stomach while eating popcorn like heâs watching a new blockbuster hit onscreen for the first time. Lucas mirrors him, snuggled closely â like theyâre two girls at a sleepover. Even Ericaâs enthralled.
Will swallows, suddenly on the spot. âUhmâwell⊠They were talking before the photographer came in. During the press junket.â
Dustin scoots closer. âTalking about what?â
Mike crunches popcorn, not blinking.
Will shrugs sheepishly. âNothing important.â
Lucas narrows his eyes. âThat doesnât sound like nothing important.â
âWell they were justâŠâ Will hesitates, searching for the right words. âNormal. Like they forgot the cameras were there.â
For a moment none of the boys respond.
âAnd like,â Will continues, thinking back to the video. âThey were sorta just⊠I dunno, just really in sync. Like they didnât even remember that theyâre stuck inside a human death machine.â His eyes suddenly light up. âAnd, andâlike, theyâve both sort of had to survive some scary story together that the worldâs writing for them. So theyâve got their own language going on⊠but offscreen. Not just for show.â
Lucas still looks puzzled.
Mikeâs also trying to understand.
But Dustinâs connecting the dots faster. âLike the Empress and Atreyu in the Neverending Story.â
Will snaps his fingers excitedly. âExactly!â
Erica tilts her head thoughtfully, slowly licking her pudding spoon. âSo theyâre either hopelessly in love,â she observes, raising one eyebrow, ââŠor the best damn actors in Panem.â
Dustin points at her triumphantly. âBOOM!â
Lucas groans. âThat doesnât narrow it down at all!â
Mike rubs his face with both hands. "But is it real thoughâŠ? Thatâs what Iâm still wondering.â
Will looks back at the screen again. âI think itâs real.â
The others stare at him.
âWhy?â Mike asks cynically.
Will shrugs sadly. âBecause she looked scared.â
Lucas frowns. âWhen?â
âRight before she said it,â Will replies. âHer hands were shaking.â
Across town at Melvaldâs General Store, the televisions in the front window crackle through a mismatched set of speakers wired together with electrical tape. The store itself is technically closed, but the lights are still on, and half the town has gathered on the sidewalk outside anyway.
Inside, Joyce Byers stands behind the cracked counter of the cash wrap with both hands braced against the worn wood⊠watching the staff room TV that she and Donald moved out there for safety, given the constant news updates and state of the world.Â
The clip rolls again.
Your face on the stage.
Your voice is steady.
âBecause he came here with me.â
Joyce exhales slowly.
Behind her, the store owner shakes his head. âWell Iâll be damned.â
Joyce doesnât add to that. She just stares at the screen, her heart twisting in ways she didnât expect while Donald shakes his head â abandoning his task of price stickering new inventory.Â
Neither of them can focus on work now.
Especially Joyce.
Sheâs known you since you were small â small enough to sit on the counter while your father baked bread, small enough to walk home from school while holding Jonathanâs small hand⊠when both of you were just in grade school. You were always so gentle. Always so careful with peopleâs feelings.
Joyce presses her hand against her mouth.
ââŠoh honey,â she whispers tragically.
Suddenly she understands something she never noticed beforeâŠ
All those years you never talked about yourself. Never complained. Never asked for anything, or let yourself fall into relationships with boys⊠no matter how nice they mightâve been. Because all this time, you were just⊠waiting.
Youâve been waiting for Steve Harrington to notice you back.
And now the entire world knows it.
Across town, inside the Byers quaint house, Jonathan sits on the couch with the television volume turned low. Your grandfather sleeps in the old recliner beside the window, a blanket tucked around his knees.
The replay begins again.
Your voice fills the quiet room.
âI donât want the press spinning this to make him look heartless,â you tell the crowd. âBecause heâs not.â
Jonathan sighs down at his lap, then quietly glances over at the old man. He finds him still sleeping â which is a relief, because Burdockâs worry for you had only deepened after that interview. But given the strong medication that heâs on right now for pain, the drowsiness had set in⊠and heâd drifted off to sleep, shortly after the news stations went berserk.
ââbut despite Renâs assurance, others arenât so convinced,â a reporter is now saying, standing right outside some pompous bakery at the Capitol. âBecause now? People are speculating about the Everdeensâ collective silence on the day of the Reaping. Reaction footage only shows Renâs grandfather looking horrifiedâvery visibly refraining from shouting, no doubt given the fact Peacekeeps wonât tolerate it. However⊠when the cameras pan over to Parker Everdeen, his face is almost blankâalmost apathetic. The same can be said for the siblingsâ stepmother, Angelica. But could this perhaps just be shock? Are we reading this wrong?ââ
Your grandfatherâs voice rumbles suddenly. âNot entirely.â
Jonathan jumps, turning to find the old man with his eyes still closed. âYouâre awake?â
âHard not to be with that thing yappinâ all night,â Burdock sighs, opening one eye. âTheyâre not gonna believe her. No matter how good a heart sheâs got.â
The boy next to him stands up now, reaching for the remote.
But Burdock stops him. âNo, noâitâs alright. DonâtââÂ
He stops to painfully cough and wheeze into his elbow, which automatically makes Jonathan spring into action as he brings the glass of water to his lips. The old man looks ashamed of himself, but grateful nevertheless.
âThese news anchors are annoying,â Jonathan murmurs.
Your grandfather sighs gravely, glancing at the screen. âTheyâre all just trying to sound smart. Say somethinâ riveting. Like itâs anything original, when itâs just a bag of expired bologna packaged to look like prime rib.â
Jonathan smirks fondly. âYour analogies never miss the mark.â
The old man stares at him with a deadpan expression. âDonât kiss my ass. It ainât something you wanna be anywhere near with that clean mouth.â
That earns a barked laugh from Jonathan.
âDuly noted,â he chuckles.
Burdock tiredly grins, watching the local news reporters now talking around. Theyâre showing the bakery, which now sits dark on Randolph Lane. It wonât be open tomorrow during the Games. At least not until after the cornucopia.
Because if you go in the initial bloodbath, no one is going to want to work.
Especially not Jonathan. Not even your brother or stepmother.
Not until after theyâve properly mourned you.
ââŠYâknow, she always did say the Brothers Grimm fairytales seemed more accurate,â your grandfather murmurs, watching Peacekeepers onscreen now stand guard at the bakery, along with Office Powell and Callahan. âIt makes sense sheâd finally confess sheâs in love with him when darkness tries taking over.â
Jonathan blinks, quietly thrown for a loop.
He looks at your grandfather, then back at the screen. âYou knew?â
Your grandfather snorts. âGirlâs been mooning over that boy ever since they were size four tennis shoes.â He shrugs warmly, smirking at him. âAnd no, I didnât snoop through her diary. She told me herself.â
Jonathan blinks. âSeriously?â
âYep.â
The old man shifts slightly in the recliner. âI might be a crotchety old man, but Iâm a real good listener.â He smiles to himself, stifling a cough. âEspecially for my granddaughter.âÂ
Jonathanâs eyes gloss over.
Because he knows just how close you and your grandfather are, and he also knows just how long youâve been in love with Steve HarringtonâŠ
Which is almost as long as youâve known how in love Jonathan has been in love with Nancy Wheeler.
âAlso,â Burdock now drawls with a mischievous glint in his eye. âDâyou really think that your mama and I wouldnât have tried marrying you two off together, if we didnât know there wasnât a shot in the dark?â
At that, Jonathan laughs sheepishly.Â
âYeah, well,â he scratches his neck. âIf I wasnât so boringly content with being the closest thing to siblings, Iâd marry her in a heartbeat.â He smirks. âRenâs perfect.â
âSure is.â
âSheâs a real life Disney princess.â
Burdock smiles sadly. âYeah, I knowâŠâ
Jonathanâs chest tightens. âDonât think I haven't thought about it.â
Your grandfather looks at him then.
But Jonathan keeps staring at the TV screen. âIâve asked myself what the hellâs wrong with me. Why I canât just see her like that.â
âTo be fair,â your grandfather cuts in helpfully. âSheâs done the same.â
âOh, I know,â Jonathan crooked smirks, glancing at him sideways. âTrust me. Weâve talked about it.â
The old man smirks back fondly. âThatâs because youâre best friends.â
Jonathanâs charcoal eyes twinkle sadly. âYeah,â he whispers. âYeah, forever.â
The word lodges in his throat.
Forever.
Even though forever my end tomorrow.
âDamn it,â Jonathan mutters to himself, shaking his head shamefully as soon as he feels himself leaking. He turns away, jaw flexing. âSorry.â
Your grandfatherâs brow furrows, eyes solemn. âFor what? Loving her?â
Jonathan doesnât answer that right away.
He just sighs through his nose, composing himself before glaring at the news again⊠watching as they show yours and Steveâs silent motion images from the studio, where youâre both wearing the athleisure suits for your designated tribute avatars.
âNo,â Jonathan finally replies, now turning to Burdock. âFor not volunteering in her place.â
That actually makes your grandfather go eerily still.
A chill runs up his spine, his already failing heart twisting painfully inside his chest. He fixes Jonathan with a stern look.
âUnless youâve got female genitalia, I donât know about? No. You couldnât.â
Jonathan almost laughs at that, although it falters.
His face is pinched. âI still couldâve triedâhell, District Elevenâs got two boys going in there.â He flings a hand at the TV, bitter with himself. âThey couldâve let us do the same.â
âYou know they wouldnât have done that,â Burdock quietly reminds him.Â
âBut Iâmââ Jonathan cut himself off, eyes closing. He shakes his head at himself again, while taking a disarm intake of breath through noseâŠand then releases it slowly. âIâm still not there helping her.â
Burdock stares at him. âThatâs because youâre here⊠helping her.â
Jonathan nibbles at his bottom lip, still not sure.
But when he peeks up through his lashes to meet your grandfatherâs eyes, he stays quiet and listens.
âYouâre helping take care of me,â Burdock goes on to say. âYouâre helping run that bakery while sheâs gone. Youâre making sure no one burns any loaves of bread. Or the building down. Which all of us have almost done at least once.â
A breath of laughter tumbles from Jonathan before he can stop it.
âAnd youâre rallying behind her every step of the way,â Burdock stresses, his eyes completely serious. âYou know how hard it was to get Angelica to even agree to letting those ingredients be spared today?â
âYeah well, she can make me work to pay it off,â Jonathan blurts heatedly â not even hesitating now. âFor all I care? Iâll sell a kidney before that woman gets cheap. Renâs the only reason that bakery stays warm. Not the ovens.â
At that, your grandfather beams. âDamn right.â
They look at each other for a moment in solemn solidarity.
With mutual understanding.
With mutual love and respect.
With mutual adoration for you.
âSheâs coming home,â your grandfather says quietly, although the shakiness in his tone doesnât go unnoticed by either of them. He leans back in his seat. âBoth of them are. Least if Iâve anything to say about it.â
Jonathan huffs softly. âPretty sure the Capitol doesnât take prayer requests.â
The old man folds his hands over his stomach. âDoesnât mean we wonât try.â
That makes Jonathanâs eyes twinkle with hope.
He smiles at your grandfather, tight-lipped and aching â then reaches out to squeeze his hand as they watch the television screen.
âWeâll die trying.â
Back at the gym, the broadcast shifts again to a panel of Capitol analysts.
One gestures dramatically toward the screen. âWhether strategic or sincere, Ren Everdeen has changed the entire narrative of these Games.â
Another analyst nods. âPublic sympathy could translate to sponsor interest.â
The third leans forward. âAnd sponsor interest saves lives.â
The gym murmurs uneasily. Nobody likes hearing it put that bluntly.
And down the hallway, Nancyâs crying has slowed⊠though she still clutches Eddieâs jacket like itâs the only solid thing left in the world.
âGod,â she mutters hoarsely. âI hate this.â
Eddie rubs her back assuring. âYeah.â
âI hate the Capitol.â
âYou and me both.â
âI hate them.â
He kisses her crown, silently seething as he rocks her. âMe too.â
ââŠand I canât stand her.â
âThatâs not true, and you know it,â Eddie counters softly. âSheâs just as much a victim as he isâ
Nancy pulls back enough to glare at him. âYouâre not helping.â
Eddie shrugs helplessly. âIâm emotionally supporting you.â
âBy disagreeing with everything I say?â
âNo.â
She rolls her eyes. âExhibit A.â
âIâm keeping you honest,â Eddie murmurs to her calmly. âBecause you stand for truth, and your anger shouldnât blind that. No matter how valid.â
Nancy pulls father back to squint at him. âThatâs not support.â
âIt is if youâre crying.â
She huffs, wipes at her face. ââŠI still think sheâs lying.â
Eddie sighs sadly. âNancy.â
âI do.â
âShe truly looked like she meant it.â
Nancy groans. âThatâs not the point!â
âThen what is?â
âThe point,â Nancy snaps, âis that Steve is an idiot.â
Eddie blinks. âOkay, well that I can agree with.â
âAnd heâs probablyâfreaking out right now...â
âAlso accurate.â
Nancy suddenly pulls back, a new thought crossing her mind as she watches the television. A panel of women are now talking over each other while large monitors bring them display an image of you and Steve shaking hands, back at the ReapingâŠ
Her stomach dips as she watches.
ââŠwhat if he thinks he has to protect her?â
Eddie pauses.
He hadnât really thought about it. Or rather, hadnât had to think about it, given the fact Steve would never do anything except protect someone. But nowâŠ? Now that he knows you arenât just a good person, but that youâve supposedly been in love with him for yearsâŠ?
He blinks. âOh.â
Nancy points at him. âExactly.â
âThatâŠâ Eddie thinks about his best friendâs inability to put himself first, even if he should. He swallows. âThat might actually be a problem.â
Nancy throws her hands up. âTHANK YOU!â
Eddie sighs again. âBut⊠if the country falls in love with themâŠâ He gestures toward the gym outside. ââŠthat might save both their asses.â
Nancy glares. âOr it might get them killed faster.â
Neither of them has a good answer.
Near midnight, the crowd in the gym thins slightly, though not by much. Now people start sitting on the floor where there wasnât space before, making to camp out for the best seats in the house tomorrow morning once the Games begin.
The kids remain firmly planted in the front.
Because thereâs no way in hell they arenât going to be here, holding down the fort once the Games start. Theyâre still going to be helping take donations⊠make sure that Mayor Klein doesnât slow down⊠help run the soup kitchens with Joyce, since the old classrooms now serve as homeless shelters for any citizens whoâve lost their homes.
Lucas unzips his sleeping bag. âNone of us are separating, right?â
Dustin yawns but refuses to move. âNo way,â he stretches like a cat, settling deeper into his own sleeping back while taking off his glasses. âI filled up the automatic feeder for Mews, back at Steve's. Filled a mixing bowl of water. He wonât need anything for a while.â
That earns him a snort from Lucas. âUnless he Houdiniâs his way into Steveâs big ass pantry again. Then we gotta boogie.â
âPsh,â Dustin shrugs with a tired grin. âGood thing is, weâll know if he triesâŠâ He raises a little gadget, displaying a live cat-cam feed. âKitty cam has fresh batteries.â
Will giggles, straightening out all his pillows.
Mike does the same, then glances at the countdown clock on the broadcast.
10:58:11âŠ
10:58:10âŠ
10:58:09âŠ
âGames start at ten tomorrow,â he mutters with a shiver.
Lucas exhales slowly, laid back in his sleeping bag. âMan...â
Will hugs his knees.
From her makeshift pillow and blanket fort, Erica checks the screen again as she pulls her My Little Pony slippers over her feet.
ââŠyou know what? I still think itâs brilliant.â
They all look at her in childlike appall.
âThe Games?â Lucas asks incredulously.
She scoffs loudly, shoving him. âNo, dumbassâthe love confession.â
Mike groans. âWhy?â
âBecause the entire country is talking about them,â she replies passionately.
Lucas frowns. âSo?â
âSoooo,â Erica drawls impatiently, âif everyone wants them to surviveâŠâ She raises an eyebrow, âthen the sponsors might make that happen.â
Dustinâs eyes go wide. âHoly shit. Weâve gotta play that angle.â
Will nods eagerly. âThen we can actually get them both home.â
âBut there can only be one winner,â Lucas complains disdainfully.
âThey say that now,â Dustin points at him, then between all his friends. âBut how many times have we seen rules get changed? Even the Purge Act didnât make it past a year.â
Mike considers that, lips pursed. âFair point.â
Even Lucas nods slowly now. âAnd thatâs why we keep both donation jars out at all times. Theyâve gotta both have a fair shot. Steve would want that.â
Dustin nods fiercely. âEspecially if theyâre actually in love.â
Mike tilts his head. âDo you really think they are? I mean, likeââ He waves a hand around. âSeven days isnât really longâŠâ
Erica crunches a chip loudly. âPrince Charming fell in love with Cinderella in one night,â she deadpans. âI think seven days is more than enough time.â
âYeah, but thatâs a fairytale,â Lucas counters.
She makes a face. âSo?!â
âSo thereâs no such thing as fairytales,â he fires back.
Erica narrows her eyes to slits, jabbing the Pringle pinched between both her fingers in his direction. âYou really wanna tell me thereâs no such thing, when weâve been fighting storybook monsters in real life for two years? Hmm??â
âAnd if you think true loveâs a mythââ she adds, like a lawyer addressing the court of law. âThen I dare you to say that shit to mom and dad. Those two are so in love, itâs disgusting. They got married three months after dating and still act like stupid teenagers.â She grimaces just thinking about it. âBlehck.â
Mike stares at her. âYouâre ten.â
âYour point?â
Lucas shakes his head slowly. âThatâs terrifying.â
Erica smiles sweetly, slowly crunching her Pringle. âI know.â
The Everlark Bakery sits dark, except for a single dim lamp over the counter. Flour dust coats the empty display case. The ovens have gone cold. Cakes sit in the glass display, freshly baked earlier this afternoonâŠand the lingering scent of sage and sugar makes the air taste melancholy.
Parker sits alone at the small table in the corner.
The television above the counter glows faintly.
The replay runs again.
Your face.
Your voice.
Your confession.
Parkerâs fist presses hard against his mouth, eyes glued to the screen. Heâs not moved in nearly an hour. Not when news reporters tried knocking earlier. Not when he heard Powell and Callahan ordering them away, to ârespect the owners privacy in this difficult time.â Not even when Anjelica tried calling him, leaving a voicemail from the landline out back⊠inside the quaint house, just behind the bakery.
News anchors and reporters chatter endlessly onscreen.
âThe bakerâs daughterâŠâ
âThe dove of District 12âŠâ
âHawkinsâ CinderellaâŠâ
Parker stares at the floor.
All he can hear is your voice. Not theirs⊠yours.
I donât want anyone thinking heâs heartless.
I love him more than he knows.Â
I donât want the press spinning to make him look heartless. Because he isnât. Not even close.
His jaw tightens. Because even now, even after everythingâŠyouâre still being kind. Youâre still protecting him. Youâre still vouching to him.
Youâre still loving him.
âI love my brother more than he knows,â youâd said.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
For years, heâs told himself it didnât matter. That you didnât matter. That your existence was a cosmic mistake that stole his motherâs life.
But now youâre twelve hours away from dying.
And the bakery feels colder than it ever has before.
Parker looks up at the television again, at the image of you standing on that stage â soft, fearless, impossibly kind.
His voice cracks in the empty room.
ââŠIdiot.â
He doesnât know if he means you.
Or himself.
Outside, the streets of Hawkins are still full of people staring into glowing TV screens. Across the nation, the story spreads like wildfire. And somewhere far away, inside the sealed walls of the Tribute Tower, no one knows yet that the entire country has fallen in love with you.
đïž A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Mishaâs Masterlist Library.
đ Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here
đ Book One: all chapters here
BOOK ONE: Chapter 31 -> 32
-> Be sure to read Chapters 29 & 30 (-> andCh.30 continued)
Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader
hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. đč
đč SUMMARY: Caesar Flickerman introduces Steve like a fantasy. The Boy on Fire. The one they want to touch, to watch, to claim and strip down to something they can feast on for dessert.
The Capitol already decided what Steve Harrington is: a body for spectacle. Something beautiful enough to burn and easy enough to consume. They chant for him like they own him. Like theyâve always owned boys like him. But thereâs something under his skin they canât see. Something that doesnât perform for anyone anymore. Something that remembers, suffers and chokes on it. And the longer he sits under those lights, the more it starts to slip through the cracks.
Then you step onto that stage like mercy in human form⊠and suddenly the entire narrative fractures.
Because while heâs been surviving, youâve been watching⊠waiting⊠loving him in a way no one else ever has. And when you finally say it out loud, you donât just change the story. You rewrite it completely, handing them your truth in the form of a love story theyâre sure to devour.
âŠwhile somewhere just behind the curtain, Steve Harrington realizes he mightâve been the biggest fucking idiot alive this entire time.
đč AUTHORâS NOTE: Alright, this is it. I went balls to the wall with the interviews so that we could earn the everliving sh*t outta Steve and Ren's interviews. đ€ I really had so much fun re-inventing these, giving it my own twist. Hoping you all enjoy the spin I give to Steve Harrington's version of "the girl boy on fire," and how I tied it in with the signature Katniss-flame-skirts-twirl in Ren's grand exit.
**Please note: there are some heavier PTSD flashbacks sprinkled throughout Steve's interview that reveals some plot (not fully yet, but it's building...). So if you're sensitive to that, please consider before reading. It's mostly highlighted/indented in orange, but it's all huge character arc for Steve. So yes: it is plot pivotal.
Xx, misha
đč OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst.
Chapter Thirty-One
Man on Fire vs. Arena Angel
Sound disappears.
Not completely, but enough to feels wrong.
Youâre standing just behind the curtain with Hopper somewhere farther down the hall as you make your way towards the wings, the murmur of producers, of crew members and stylists, threading through the backstage corridors â and on the nearest cameramanâs monitor, you can see the stage.
Soon enough, youâre clapped in darkness standing in the wings, stage right.
And you can see him.
Steve Harrington.
And the moment Caesar Flickerman calls his name, the noise detonates.
Itâs like a bomb going off in an opera house.
The crowd explodes â cheering, screaming, stomping their feet so hard the cameras tremble slightly. The Capitol audience has been loud all night, but this is something different. Itâs feral. Women screaming like rock concert pits used to look before the world collapsed. Men hollering, whistling, clapping so violently it almost looks painful.
Onscreen, Steve steps out from the wings.
And for a second? He looks like he might fall over.
Not physically, but itâs all in his eyes.Â
Those big, beautiful brown orbs that have captivated your heart since fourth grade.
Steve keeps walking anyway. But thereâs something off in his posture, as if gravity itself tilted when he stepped into the lights.
Because the lights are blinding.
The stage is white marble and gold trim, polished so perfectly it reflects the overhead rigs. The heat from the spotlights washes everything out until the edges of the world blur together. The camera catches him squinting just slightly as he walks out, and if someone didnât know better they might think itâs confidence.
It isnât.
Inside his head itâs vertigo.
Caesar is saying somethingâsomething big and theatrical, probablyâbut the words reach Steve in fragments.
ââŠyou may know himâŠâ
ââŠthe boy on fireâŠâ
ââŠothers call him King SteveâŠâ
ââŠbut here in the CapitolâŠâ
ââŠDistrict Twelveâs ownââ
The rest gets swallowed by the roar.
Steve keeps walking.
The audience is a massive blur of color and flashing teeth and waving hands. Rows and rows of people stacked into balconies that climb higher than the eye can easily follow. Hundreds of faces. Thousands. Everyone screaming like they already know him.
His ears ring.
Shrill and deafening.
Itâs the kind of ringing you get after an explosion.
But he keeps walking.
Caesar is standing there with his arms wide, that enormous hostâs grin blazing beneath the lights. The moment Steve reaches him, Caesar grabs his hand and shakes it enthusiastically while the crowd keeps roaring.
Steveâs hand shakes back on instinct.
Autopilot.
They sit.
The chairs are angled toward each other, positioned so the audience gets a perfect view of their faces. Caesar settles in like heâs at home in the worldâs most expensive living room.
Steve sits a little slower.
The applause finally begins to taper off.
The ringing in his ears lingers.
He stares out into the crowd.
Caesar says something.
Steve doesnât hear it.
Caesar tilts his head, smiling patiently.
Steve keeps staring at him.
The audience grows quiet.
Caesar blinks.
Steve blinks back.
Three seconds pass.
Five.
Ten.
Finally he leans forward slightly, brow furrowing.
ââŠWhat?â
The audience erupts.
Laughter explodes through the amphitheater so loudly the microphones pick it up in a distorted wave. Caesarâs eyes widen before he bursts out laughing right along with them, slapping his hands together once.
âWell!â Caesar says brightly, turning toward the audience like theyâre all in on the joke. âIâm thinking someone might be a little nervous tonight!â
More laughter.
Steve glances sideways at the crowd.
Then back at Caesar.
His expression is flat.
Caesar recovers instantly, leaning forward again with perfect charm. âWhat I was saying, Steve,â he continues, âis that you made quite the entrance seven days ago during the Midnight Black Parade⊠when the tributes arrived in the Capitol.â
Steve nods slowly. âOh.â
âI was wondering if you might tell us what was going through your mind while riding that chariot in front of millions of people⊠completely on fire.â
Steve studies him.
The question hangs in the air.
Then he says, very matter-of-factly, âwell I was hoping I wouldnât fucking burn to death.â
The audience gasps.
Then laughs again.
Caesar actually looks delighted. âOh, I like this one,â he exclaims, tapping the arm of his chair with vigor. âLadies and gentlemen, donât worry. My show isnât censored.â
Steve tilts his head slightly.
ââŠItâs not?â
âNope.â
âThatâs⊠interesting.â
Caesar grins. âHow so?â
Steve shrugs. âWell,â he says dryly, âseems fair, I guess. If the countryâs cool with kids murdering each other on live television, it makes sense a couple swear words probably arenât the biggest issue.â
The audience bursts out laughing again.
The sound punches Steve straight in the chest.
For half a second heâs somewhere else.
The laughter becomes something uglier.
Masks. Music. Liquor spilling across marble floors. Hands grabbing at his jacket while strangers howl with amusement then moan with delight.
Purge Parties.
Tongues.
Teeth.
Skin.
Steve blinks hard. The stage snaps back into focus. And while he looks from Cinna out to the crowd again, trying to blink away the flashbacks⊠he finds his focal point.
Cinna.
Third row.
Dead center.
Exactly where he said heâd be.
Cinna leans forward slightly in his seat, elbows on his knees, watching Steve with calm focus. When their eyes meet, Cinna gives him the smallest and yet most encouraging nod.
Just one.
Youâve got this.
Steve finally exhales the breath heâs been holding all this time. The tension in his shoulders loosens a fraction. And when he turns back to face Caesar, thereâs the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Caesar is already moving to the next question. âNow tell meâthose flames, during the parade. Were they real?â
Steve leans back slightly in the chair. âYeah.â
âThey were?!â
âOh yeah. Very real.â
âHow on earth did your stylist manage that?â
Steve coyly glances at Cinna again before answering. âThatâs classified.â
The audience laughs.
Caesar clutches his chest theatrically. âOh, come on!â
âCanât give away trade secrets,â Steve says with a crooked smirk.
Caesar shakes his head, amused. âWell I must admit â when you and Ren Everdeen rolled out onto that avenue with fire blazing from your backsâŠâ He gestures dramatically. âIt was mesmerizing.â
The crowd murmurs approvingly.
âYou two were holding hands,â Caesar continues. âUnified. Side-by-side. And literally on fireâŠâ He shakes his head with awestruck wonder. âI have to tell you, my heart stopped. It literally stopped.â
Steve shifts slightly in his seat, the mention of your name rattling inside of his chest like a cage that refuses to set him free. But he grants the host a subtle smile.
âSo did mine.â
Caesar chirps â half surprise, half-tickled. And it only eggs on the audience to laugh some more, all of them startled into giddy adoration.
They love him.
The crowd loves Steve Harrington.
âAnd since that night,â Caesar continues, spreading his hands out wide, âthe Capitol press has given you quite the title.â
Steve lifts an eyebrow. âOh?â
âThe Boy on Fire.â
A pause.
Caesar tilts his head thoughtfully.
ââŠalthough personally, Iâm not sure thatâs quite right.â
Steve frowns slightly. âNo?â
Caesar studies him for a long moment before saying quietly, âNo. Because I donât see a boy sitting in front of me.â
The room goes still as he takes an intentional pause.
âI see a young man.â
The word lands like a stone dropped into deep water.
Man.
Man.
Man.
Steveâs jaw tightens.
For a split second the stage disappears again.
Hands.
Laughter.
Voices telling him heâs not strong enough. His father telling him heâs not man enough when he cried as a little boy. Deep, husky voices, humming against his ear, telling him heâs not as dominant as he thinks he is. That heâs going to submit to them. That heâs not anything except something to pass around for entertainment and lustful desire.
â âBig manâs down here,â theyâd purred and slithered through their teeth and crooned as they stroked his manhood with zero shame⊠âWhat a big boyâŠâ
Steve inhales slowlyâŠ
Then exhales slowlyâŠ
And then he looks back at Cinna, whoâs already watching him⊠nodding with a warm expression that radiates empathy and encouragement alike.
Off his nod, Steve remembers the conversation they had the night they met.
I want to feel respected.
He turns back to Caesar now, realizing that Cinna has granted him his wish.
âI appreciate that,â he tells the host humbly.
Caesar lets the silence sit for a reverent beat.
Then suddenly he slaps his hands together and beams at the audience.Â
âLook at this young man!â he declares. âHeâs fucking captivating!â
The audience explodes again.
Caesar throws his head back laughing.
Steve just stares at him with a faint smile that doesnât quite reach his eyes.
When the laughter finally dies down, Caesar gestures toward Steveâs outfit. âSpeaking of captivating⊠this ensemble is extraordinary. My god, is thatâreal chainmail under your jacket?â
Steve glances down at himself. âIndeed.â
âItâs gold,â Caesar revels.
âIt is, yeah,â Steve lightly chuckles. âCompletes the look.â
He starts to open the blazer slightly.
Thatâs when someone screams from the audience.
âTAKE IT OFF!â
The crowd immediately latches onto it.
âTAKE IT OFF!â
âTAKE IT OFF!â
âTAKE IT OFF!â
âTAKE IT OFF!â
The chant spreads like wildfire through the amphitheater.
Steve freezes.
For a second the world goes red.
Caesar jumps in quickly, waving his hands. âOh now, now!â he guffaws with mock disapproval, though he sounds almost nervous. âHeâs not going to strip for us on live television!â
But the chant only grows louder.
Take it off.
Take it off.
Take it off.
Steveâs eyes sweep across the audience.
Hundreds of faces.
Grinning.
Hungry.
Lusting.
His stomach turns.
He tastes the nausea rising in his gut.
He feels like nothing more than something people can buy.
âŠbut thatâs when he remembers.Â
Steve finds Cinna out in the crowd again, and the manâs already reading his mind. Sharing his thoughts. Confirming something they already discussed â earlier that day, back at the Tribute Tower, inside the penthouse suite.
Cinna gives him a single, calm nod.
Do it.
Steve inhales sharply, recalibratesâŠ
Turns back to Caesar.
âTheyâre asking me to take it off.â
âWellâtechnicallyâno one expectsââ
âNo,â Steve interrupts calmly. âTheyâre expecting it.â
The audience screams louder.
Caesarâs now backpedaling hard. âSteve, I can assure you that no one here can force you into anything.âÂ
âYou mean like at the Reaping.â
ââŠwell, noââ
âSâalright,â Steve stands, now addressing the audience. âConsent was never ours to give, right?â
The chant grows deafening.
He slips off the blazer in one sharp motion.
Flames.
The gold chainmail clinging to Steveâs torso isnât even fully revealed before it ignites. Flames roar to life across his chest and shoulders, licking upward in blazing gold and orange. Someone screams. Then the entire crowd gasps in shock as Steve stands there, fully engulfed in controlled fire.
He slowly spreads his arms.
Turning in a slow circle.
Letting them look.
Letting them bask in his presence.
Letting them see exactly what they asked for.
The flames dance across the metal links, bright and violent and breathtaking. And the entire time, Steveâs face is pure steel. Almost defiant. Refusing to let himself succumb to their games, their bloodthirsty lust, their sinful desiresâŠ
âŠand yet playing them like a fiddle.
He turns back toward Caesar.
The host is gawking at him with open-mouthed astonishment.
Finally Steve shrugs the blazer back on.
The flames vanish instantly.
He sits back down, tsk-ing his tongue. âI donât think the people are ready.â
The amphitheater explodes.
Caesar exhales dramatically, clutching his chest. âSteve Harrington⊠that was something! My godâŠâ
Steve nods toward the audience. âCredit goes to my stylist.â
Caesar nods enthusiastically. âWell thenâbravo to him! He must adore you.â
Then Steve glances toward Cinna, his expression subduing. âRespect goes both ways.â
Cinna beams.
The audience murmurs, all craning their necks to try and get a closer look at the stylist who is now being shown on the large monitors on opposite sides of the stage.
Caesar leans forward again, his expression turning thoughtful. âSpeaking of respect⊠thereâs something Iâd like to talk about.â
The mood shifts instantly.
âFrom the moment you volunteered during the Reaping in Hawkins,â Caesar says quietly, âyou demanded respect.â
Steveâs easy smile disappears, his expression sobering into something raw.
âYou stepped forward to take the place of a little boy,â Caesar goes on to say.Â
The audience is silent.Â
âAnd from what I understand⊠that boy isnât even your brother.â
Steve swallows thickly.
ââŠnot by blood.â
Caesar hums at that reverently. âBut in your heartâŠ?â
Steve looks down at his hands.Â
At the olive branch around his right wrist, at the inked robin on his left wrist⊠at the scars on his skin that will never fully fade⊠at the callouses that never quite seem to heal or smooth overâŠ
Then he glances back up.
âHe is my heart.â
Someone in the audience audibly croaks at that.
Someone else gasps while another one whispers.
Thereâs a ripple of ache amongst the crowd now that wasnât there before and it spreads like wildfire. Even Caesar himself nods very slowly, deeply moved.
âDid he get to say goodbye to you before you left?â
Steveâs throat tightens, barely managing a âyeah.â
Caesar sighs though his nose, eyes closing sadly before fixing his gaze right back on Steve. âAnd what did you tell him?â
Steve looks straight at Caesar.
His eyes are glassy now, but theyâre steady.
âI told him Iâd try to win.â
The room is deadly quiet.
âSo that I could come home.â
Caesar smiles softly, nodding sagely. âAnd try you will.â
Then he rises to stand.
Steve stands too, and the two of them firmly shake hands â eyes boring into one anotherâs before Caesar abruptly raises Steveâs arm high toward the ceiling while turning to face the crowd.
âLadies and gentlemen, Steve Harrington!â he announces loudly. âTHE YOUNG MAN ON FIRE!â
The crowd roars and rises to its feet.
A standing ovation.
Steve barely hears it.
Because all he can think about is home.
Dustinâs toothless grin.
Mikeâs endearing sarcasm.
Lucasâs bravery as he aims with his slingshot.
Willâs quiet wisdom and his miraculous return.
Nancyâs baby blue eyes and her radiant smile.
Eddieâs boisterous laughter and their shared brotherhood.
Claudiaâs endless devotion and motherhood sheâs always given him.
âŠand Robin, just a grave now, but still waiting for him to visit.
Waiting for him to come back to Hawkins.
Somehow.
Some fucking way.
Steve Harrington has to get home.
âYou did it, darling! That was incredible.â
Effie Trinket practically collides with Steve the moment he clears the curtain.
The feral roar of the audience is still bleeding through the walls behind him, muffled but unmistakable â like thunder rolling down a distant valley. Steve barely registers it, though. His ears are still ringing from the stage lights and the screaming and the way adrenaline crawled under his skin and refused to let go.
Effie throws her arms around him before heâs even fully in the hallway.
Her perfume hits him first â floral, sweet, expensive â and her voice comes next, breathless and bright with pure delight. âAbsolutely spectacular! I knew you had it in you!â
Steve blinks.
Heâs still half-there.
Still somewhere between the blinding lights and Caesar Flickermanâs laugh and the elitist sea of faces staring up at him like he was something holy⊠or monstrous⊠or both.
âCome along,â she says briskly. âGreen room. You need quiet. Immediately.â
Steve doesnât argue that.
He lets her guide him down the winding corridor, one hand still planted firmly between his shoulder blades as if sheâs afraid he might topple over.
Which⊠honestly feels possible.
His whole body is buzzing.
âSeriously,â Effie continues, half whispering now as they hurry down the long backstage hallway, âthe composure! The wit! The spectacle! Oh, Steve, when that chainmail ignitedââ
Steve exhales a shaky breath.
âYeah,â he says again, quieter this time. âThat part was something.â
He scrubs a hand down his face.
For a second the hallway tilts slightly.
âAre you alright?â Effie asks quickly.
âFine,â Steve croaks. âJustââ He gestures vaguely. âComing down.â
Effie nods in instant understanding. âAdrenaline crash. Perfectly natural.â
They finally reach the green room door.
Effie swings it open.
âŠand Jim Hopper is already inside.
The man is leaning casually against the far wall with both hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket like heâs been waiting there all night. When Steve walks in, Hopper straightens and pushes off the wall, sauntering toward him with a slow, crooked grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.
âWell done, Harrington.â
Steve blinks.
That was not what he expected.
For a moment the two of them just stare at each other. Then Steve exhales through his nose and lets his shoulders drop.
âThanks.â
Hopper reaches a small table and grabs two glasses: one already filled with water, and the other with something amber and expensive looking. He hands both to Steve without ceremony.
âDrink.â
Steve doesnât hesitate.
He downs the water in one brutal swallow.
The whole glass.
When he lowers it, Hopperâs watching him with that same half-amused smirk that never seems to disappear.
âChrist,â Hopper grunts. âYou looked like a goddamn bonfire up there.â
Steve puffs out a breath.Â
âYeah,â he mutters. âCinna said itâd look dramatic.â
âDramatic?â Hopper snorts. âYou nearly gave half the Capitol a heart attack.â
Steve lifts the other glass and takes a cautious sip.
The liquor hits his tongue.
His face immediately scrunches. âJesus,â he coughs. âWhat the hell is that?â
âBrandy,â Hopper says calmly.
âTastes like furniture polish.â
âDrink it anyway.â
Steve mutters something under his breath but takes another sip. Hopper just watches him with quiet amusement. Then he jerks his chin toward his chest.
âChainmail trick was a nice touch.â
Steve shrugs. âFigured if I was gonna get sacrificed to the nation tomorrow, might as well make it memorable.â
Hopper huffs a laugh. âFair point.â
Steve glances at him sideways. For a moment⊠the tension thatâs existed between them all week flickers at the edges of the room.
But it doesnât take over.
Not tonight.
Not after that interview.
Hopper shifts his weight and glances toward Effie⊠and thatâs when that old sort of mischievous glint appears in his eye. He tilts his head at her outfit.
âThink your dress would do the same trick?â
Effieâs beaming expression freezes.
Then slowly turns into a glare.
âAbsolutely not.â
Hopper spreads his hands innocently. âShame. Ratings would skyrocket.â
Effie lifts her fan and smacks him lightly on the arm.Â
The motion is half-hearted at best.
Hopper grins like an asshole and winks.
Steve stares at both of them like heâs watching some kind of strange marital sitcom. âWhat the hell was that?â he mutters.
Effie sniffs. âHopper has the sense of humor of a raccoon.â
âRaccoons are clever,â Hopper says mildly.
But before either of them can continue, Caesar Flickermanâs voice explodes through the television mounted on the wall.
âAnd nowâŠâ
All three of them turn instantly.
ââthe girl who has captured the hearts of the Capitol this weekâŠâ
Steveâs gaze locks on the screen.
ââŠDistrict Twelveâs ownâŠâ
The audience begins to roar again.
ââŠRen Everdeen!â
The crowd leaps to its feet.
Another standing ovation.
Right after the one Steve just got.
Steve goes completely still. On screen, you step onto the stageâŠ
And the entire green room falls quiet.
You move across the marble floor with effortless grace, your posture straight but unforced, like walking under a thousand eyes has never once intimidated you.
Your dress catches the light immediately.
Ivory.
Not stark white.
Ivory silk layered in cascading folds that fall from your waist like soft petals. The fabric moves with every step you take, whispering against itself in quiet elegance. The bodice is fitted but modest, embroidered with delicate patterns of thread so fine they almost look painted â subtle vines and tiny blossoms stitched into the fabric like living things.
Your sleeves are sheer.
Your shoulders bare.
A faint shimmer surrounds your eyes â like iridescent fairydust catching the lights every time you blink. Small gemstones sit at the corners of your angel eyes like dew drops, flashing gold and pearl when the cameras find them.
You donât look like a tribute.
You look like something celestial.
Mercy made mortal.
Steve stares. He hasnât seen you all day. Not since this morning. Not since you went to the training center without him.
And now�
Jesus Christ, he canât look away.
At long last, you reach Caesar. Then you gracefully extend your hand, which he takes immediately. But instead of just shaking it⊠he bows his head and presses a theatrical kiss to your knuckles.
The audience swoons.
You blink at him with soft surprise, your smile shy and warm.
âMiss Everdeen,â Caesar greets you reverently, practically glowing with what almost appears to be worship. âThe Capitol is enchanted.â
You dip your head politely. âThe honor is mine, Mr. Flickerman.â
Steve tilts his head slightly.
When did you start talking like that?
Caesar gestures to the chair.
You sit with perfect posture, hands resting lightly on your knees.
Calm.
Graceful.
Unbothered.
âMy god,â Caesar revels at you before addressing the crowd. âFolks, weâre literally meeting an angel going into this arena tomorrow.â
The crowd swoons.
You smile shyly, though warmly at them along with the host. âI donât think Iâd call myself that, but Iâll credit my stylist for helping me embody it.â
Caesar lights up. âThatâs rightâand heâs also your district partnerâs stylist as well⊠if Iâm not mistaken?â
You beam angelically. âYou are not mistaken.â
His smile broadens into something Cheshire cat like, now leaning in closer. âTell me⊠how in the world did you both manage to be given the same stylist⊠when everyone elseââ
âNow now,â you cut him off teasingly, though no less regal, despite your more easy-going, almost playful tone. âTrade secrets wonât be earned that easily for me.â
Caesar throws his head back with a mock grown of complaint, making the audience laugh brightly. â I tried, everyone! You saw it yourself!â
You just smile and glow, ethereal as ever as you grant the audience a wink that only an empress might grant every blue moon to her many admirers before continuing to speak with Caesar.
Steve narrows his eyes slightly at the screen. ââŠsince when,â he murmurs to himself, âare you this smooth?...â
Hopperâs squinting at the television screen like a grandpa without his readers now, mouth agape as he tries focusing on something. âIs she barefoot?â
Effie shushes him immediately.
Onscreen, Caesar leans forward eagerly. âTell me, Renâhowâre you finding the Capitol?â He raises a finger. âAnd please⊠donât say âwith a map.ââ
You laugh.
Itâs a real laugh.
Warm and bright.
âItâs certainly different from home,â you admit. âThough I must say⊠itâs given me a few ideas.â
âOh?â Caesar perks up.
âFor the bakery back in Hawkins,â you explain. âI think weâll need to redo the bathrooms.â
The audience chuckles.
Caesar blinks. âI beg your pardon?â
You pat your knees thoughtfully. âWell for starters,â you exhale, completely serious, âthe soaps here are shaped like pastries.â
The crowd laughs louder.
âPetit fours, I think,â you add with a tender smile. âWhich is brilliant, really. Iâm honestly embarrassed I never thought of it myself.â
Caesar clutches his chest dramatically. âLadies and gentlemen,â he cries, âa true daughter of a baker!â
The audience applauds warmly.
Back in the green room, Steve tilts his head again.
Petit fours.
You told him those were your favorite once.
Something about hearing you say it here, onstageâŠfeels strangely personal.
Like a secret that suddenly isnât one.
He shakes the thought off.
Thatâs stupid.
Of course other people know what desserts you like.
Onscreen, you lean forward slightly. âMay I ask you something?â
Caesar beams. âOf course!â
You extend your hand toward him. âDo I smell like roses?â
The host freezes.
ââŠWhat?â
The audience giggles.
You hold your hand out patiently. âI promise I wonât bite.â
Caesar hesitates⊠but then shrugs and leans forward. âWell⊠alright then.â
He takes your hand carefully.
Lifts it.
SniffsâŠ
His eyebrows shoot up.
âWell Iâll be damned,â he laughs. âYou actually do.â
The crowd claps.
Backstage, Steve shifts slightly.
Something catches his eye.
Your wrist.
Wrapped around it⊠is an olive branch.
His gaze drops to his own wrist.
Same thing.
The room suddenly feels a little quieter.
Onscreen, Caesar grins mischievously. âWell then,â he says, extending his own hand, âtell me⊠do I smell like roses?â
You accept it without hesitation. âLetâs see.â
Then you take his handâŠ
Take a polite sniffâŠ
You lean back slowly.
Thinking.
Pondering.
Contemplating.
The audience holds its breath.
Then you click your tongue. âNo,â you say gently.
The audience erupts with laughter.
Caesar gasps dramatically. âMadam!â
You smile sweetly.
âBut itâs not a bad smell,â you add quickly. âJust⊠poignant.â
The laughter doubles.
Caesar throws his head back laughing. âOh I adore her!â he declares.
You shrug modestly. âI grew up with quick-witted men,â you explain cheekily. âHad to keep up.â Then you glance toward the camera. âMy grandfather and older brother would never forgive me if I didnât.â
The audience lets out a collective aww.
Backstage, Steve stares.
Youâre a natural.
Absolutely fucking effortless.
When did that happen?
Were you always like this?
Did he just⊠not notice?
Caesar wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. Then his expression softens. âRen,â he says gently, âspeaking of your familyâŠâ
Your smile fades slightly.
The audience quiets.
âI understand that you were able to say goodbye to your grandfather after the Reaping,â Caesar continued solemnly. âBut your brother and stepmother did not come.â
You inhale slowly, allowing the exhale to steady you.
âThatâs true.â
Caesarâs expression becomes troubled. âMay I ask why?â
You pause.
Then you answer softly.
âBecause saying goodbye is all our familyâs ever known.â
That earns a collective silence from the crowd as they all lean in with equally as much curiosity as they do sympathy.
âTheyâre running the bakery still,â you add. âBack home, without me.â
A murmur ripples through the audience.
âOur family has⊠already known a great deal of loss,â you continue calmly. âMy father passed away six years ago.â
Gasps.
âAnd my mother died when I was born.â
More gasps.
The room goes melancholy with audible grief.
Backstage, Steveâs eyes widened.
He didnât know that.
He didnât know any of that.
Which is stupid, honestly. Because now in the world has he just now realized â just now acknowledged â the fact that you are both orphaned? Both left without your birth parents? Regardless of the fact you have a stepmother in your life, youâve lost both your parents to tragedy.
Your father to an unknown death that youâve yet to publicly discloseâŠ
Your mother to childbirth⊠your childbirth.
Suddenly, Steveâs throat feels tight.
Onscreen, Caesar looks genuinely stunned. âRen⊠Iâm so terribly sorry.â
You offer him a sad but peaceful smile.
âMy father loved us very much,â you say gently. âAnd my brother loved both him and our mother very much. Heâs had to lose both of them.âÂ
Your voice softens. âThatâs the heavier grief he carries alone.â
The audience is silent.
Caesarâs expression is grave. âAnd now he might lose you, too.â
You nod with genuine remorse in your eyes. Then you turn to the cameras. âI love him more than he knows. And him not coming to see me isnât something I want press spinning to make him look heartless.â Your eyes shine beneath the stage lights, grief and sadness piercing through your irises. âBecause he isnât. Not even close.â
You donât say anything in defense of your stepmother.
But you do defend Parker without hesitation and pray the world hears it.
âIâm sure he misses you very much,â Caesar nods sagely.
You nod back at him. Then you brighten slightly. âAlthough, my grandfatherâs still there. He more than makes up for it.â
Caesar chuckles. âAh yesâthe gentleman who ruined you for all other men.â
You grin. âAbsolutely correct.â
The mood lifts.
Then Caesar leans forward with a sly smile. âWell in that case⊠how has no gentleman managed to try and steal your heart?â
The audience giggles enthusiastically.
He gestures dramatically toward you. âI mean honestlyâlook at her!â
You glance down shyly.
âThere must be someone,â Caesar insists.
The crowd agrees loudly.
You hesitateâŠ
Then slowly lace your fingers together.
âWellâŠâ
The room goes quiet, leaning in.
âThere is one man,â you admit softly, âthat Iâve been in love with forever.â
Gasps ripple through the audience.
Caesarâs eyes sparkle. âLoveâŠ?â he asks.Â
You nod faintly. âIt stopped being a crush a long time ago.â Your voice drifts somewhere far away. âCrushes fade,â you murmur. âLove doesnât.â
Backstage, Steveâs stomach drops.Â
Youâre⊠in love with someone?
Caesar leans closer. âAnd does this young man know?â
You shake your head gently. âI donât think he noticed me until the Reaping.â
The audience groans sympathetically.
Caesar straightens. âLet me tell you something, sweet Ren. You go out there tomorrow⊠you win these Games⊠and I guarantee heâll notice you!â
The crowd cheers.
But you shake your head. âThat wonât help.â
Caesar blinks. âAnd why ever not?â
You inhale slowly.
Deeply.
Carefully.
Because you know your next words are not only going to drop like a bomb to the building. But itâs the first time youâve ever admitted the truth out loud. And youâre about to say it on live nationwide television.
âBecause he came here with me.â
There are times when the truth comes out and it doesnât fully register.
This happens to be one of those times.
The entire audience takes just a few short seconds that stretch across time, allowing your words to fully render a response⊠which are slow gasps.
Backstage, Steve has a similar experience.Â
He only blinks twice before he goes rigid.
Completely stricken.
âWhat the hell,â he whispers to himself in stunned disbelief.
Onscreen, Caesar sits back in shock.
ââŠwell,â he clears his throat. âThatâs⊠bad luck.â
You laugh softly.
It sounds like it might break.
Just like your heat.
âYeah,â you whisper shakily. âIt really is.â
Your eyes shimmer with tears.
You inhale again. âIt really fucking is.â
The audience erupts into stunned murmurs.
Steve stares at the television like it just punched him in the face.
Did youâ
Did you justâ
Onstage, Caesar gently takes your hand. âWell,â he says warmly, âI wish you the very best of luck.â
He kisses your knuckles.
Helps you stand.
âAnd perhaps,â he asks submissively, âa twirl for the audience?â He looks out at the crowd eagerly, as though hoping theyâll back him up. âShall we see our Cinderella girl give us a twirl?â
The crowd cheers wildly.
They practically beg you to do it.
You nod grimly, swallowing back your emotions, chin held high.
And sure enough, Caesar spins you.
OnceâŠ
TwiceâŠ
Flames.
The skirts of your dress ignite.
Fire catches, blooming along the hem like living light.
The audience screams.
Caesar jumps back in shock.
But you keep twirling. Fire dances around you like a halo â licking at the air, spinning in a furious tornado thatâs more hypnotic than it is threatening. And thereâs a sparkle to it that almost appears mystical. Magical. Like someoneâs cast a spell on you, even though itâs entirely your own.
Then slowly⊠you stop.
The flames vanish.
The crowd rises in a roaring standing ovation.
But your face has changed.
Your expression is stone.Â
You look out at them like youâre witnessing a tragedy⊠then you give them a theatrical curtsy while staring at them straight in the eye with a newly burning fury inside your eyes.
The exact same one Steve gave at the training evaluation.
The parallel is unmistakable.
Back in the green room, Steve glares at the screen â watching as you walk offstage with poise and grace, his own fury is now boiling hot. Threatening to bubble and burst into flames that have nothing to do with chainmail, or twirls, or fashion trickery.
His chest burns.
His jaw clenches.
âOh,â he mutters darkly, right before he clunks the brandy down. âFuck that.â
Before Effie or Hopper can react, he storms out the door.
Chapter Thirty-Two
You & I? Born to Die.
The roar of the audience is still shaking the walls when they usher you offstage. It isnât the polite kind of applause that fades when the cameras cut. Itâs feral. It follows you down the hallway like a living thing â shrill screams, jarring whistles, the rapturous thunder of people slamming their ringed hands together because the Capitol has just been handed something delicious.
You walk anyway quietly.
Almost cautiously.
Your breath is shallow, your lungs forgetting how to work properly while the bright stagelights fade behind you and the colder, harsher lights of backstage take over. The carpet here is ugly and industrial. The walls are concrete. The air smells faintly like hairspray, sweat and hot electrical wiring.
You keep walking.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The curtsy still lingers in your muscles.
You feel oddly weightless, like youâve stepped out of your own body and left it back on that stage.
A pair of production assistants trail behind you, keeping a respectful distance while murmuring something you donât quite catch. They donât dare touch you. Nobody seems eager to break whatever fragile, humming silence surrounds you.
For a moment, you look around.
Puzzled.
Because Effie should be here.
Effie should be exploding with praise or shrieking about posture or dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes with some aggressively, sweetly scented handkerchief.
But she isnât.
Instead, somewhere down the corridorâŠ
You hear her voice.
Panicked.
âSteveâSteve, pleaseâ!â
You slow.
Your brow furrows.
Because Effie Trinket never sounds like that. Even at her most frazzled, that woman has never sounded like this.
And then you hear Hopper.
Low.
Sharp.
Growling.
âHarrington, donâtââ
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Fast.
Your stomach drops.
But you turn towards the mayhemâŠ
âŠand thatâs when you see him.
Steve Harrington is coming down the hallway like a fucking storm.
Even from a distance you can feel it â the energy rolling off him in violent waves. Humiliation. Confusion. Rage. Something deeper underneath all of it that looks a lot like fear dressed up as fury.
His strides are long and heated, boots striking the floor hard enough that the sound echoes against the walls. The lapels of his blazer are flying back now, the chainmail clinking unforgivingly⊠as though heâs barreling off into war.
Effie is scrambling behind him in heels that were absolutely not designed for sprinting. âSteve, pleaseâthis is notââ
âDonât,â he snaps without even turning around. âJustâdonât.â
Hopper quickly follows only a few steps behind her, slower but no less tense. His eyes lock onto you the moment he sees you standing there.
But then you hear another voice.
From the opposite direction.
âRenââ
You turn your head.
Cinna is coming toward you from the far end of the corridor, moving quickly but with a steadiness that almost hurts to look at. His kind face is tight with concern, dark eyes already searching you over like heâs trying to make sure youâre still breathing.
He calls out again. âDoveââ
And suddenly, youâre standing between two worlds.
One world is sanctuary.
Cinnaâs arms are already opening slightly as he approaches, like heâs ready to catch you if you fall.
The other world?
The other world is Steve Harrington hustling toward you like an angry fucking hurricane thatâs equal parts beauty as it is rage.
You donât even realize youâve started moving until your feet carry you a step in Cinnaâs direction.
Then another.
And thatâs when Steveâs voice cracks down the hallway like a gunshot. âOh, donât you fucking dare.â
His voice freezes you in place.
Your spine goes rigid.
But you keep walking.
Keep avoiding.
âRenâ!â
The way he says your name is sharp enough to draw blood.
You keep walking anyway.
Toward Cinna.
âHEY!â
Now heâs shouting.
âDONâT IGNORE ME.â
Your jaw tightens.
You make it three more steps before his footsteps thunder closer.
âREN.â
And then suddenly, his hand grabs your arm.
Hard.
Your body jerks to a stop.
Steveâs fingers wrap around your forearm with enough force that you feel the heat of his palm through the sheer fabric of your sleeve. You allow it openly. Just like that, you simply stop walking and look at him.
Heâs breathing hard.
His chest rises and falls under the dark suit. His hair is already half falling out of place from the way heâs been shoving his hands through it.
Up close, the fury in his gold-rimmed, dark brown eyes is almost blinding.
âWhat the hell was that?â he demands.
You blink once.
You open your mouth.
ââŠSteveââ
âOh no,â he cuts in instantly. âNo, no, noâyou donât get to tragically âSteveâ me right now.â
Effie finally skids to a halt beside him, nearly tripping over her own feet, high heels nearly stabbing themselves into place. âSteven, darlingâperhaps we could allââ
âNot now, Effie.â
His voice cracks through the hallway again, echoing off the walls.
Cinna reaches you a second later and gently places himself half between the two of you, one hand coming to rest on your shoulder.
âEasy,â he murmurs. âLetâs justââ
âWhat the fuck was that?â Steve repeats, louder. Not looking away from you.
His grip on your arm tightens.
Your other hand lifts instinctively, reaching toward him.
He flinches.
Actually flinches.
And immediately yanks his other hand away like your skin burned him.
âDonât,â he snaps. âDonât do that.â
Your hand hangs awkwardly in the air for a second before you slowly lower it down again, your cheeks flushing a few shed of crimson.
You try again. âSteve, Iââ
âIs this a game to you?â
You blink. âWhat?â
âA game.â He gestures wildly toward the stage entrance behind him. âWas all that a game?â
You tremble, shaking your head slightly.
âNo, Iââ
âBecause from where Iâm standing,â he barrels on, voice climbing higher, âit kinda looks like you just went out there and told the entire fucking country youâre in love with me.â
Your throat tightens.
âI amââ
âAnd thatâs afterââ he keeps going, louder now, ââyou spent the last twelve hours acting like I donât exist!â
Fuck, you hate thisâŠ
You try again. âSteve, if youâd justââ
âNO!â he barks. âYou donât get to talk yet.â
You stare at him.
Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.
He paces a step away and then right back again, dragging both his hands through his hair.
âSeriouslyâwhat the hell was that?â he says again. âYou go to bed last night without saying goodnight after saying goodnight every single night this week, by the way.â His eyes flash with heat. âAfter making dinner. Watching movies. Like that wasnât weird enough.â
His laugh is sharp.
âAnd then this morningâ? You just vanish. Gone. Off to training by yourself.â Every vein in his neck, his temple, his eyesâŠtheyâre all prominent now. âYou just up and left. Didnât say a word, then played dumb. Like Iâm dumber.â
You swallow shamefully. âI thoughtââ
âAnd now suddenly weâre star-crossed lovers?â he continues, voice cracking with disbelief. âNow suddenly youâre in love with me?â
Your chest aches.
Cinnaâs arm tightens slightly around your shoulders. âSteve,â he tries softly, carefully, âmaybe we should all take a breathââ
âOh, you knew?â Steve snaps, whipping toward him.
Cinna blinks, eyes sad. âNo.â
âYou didnât?â Steveâs voice goes thin with disbelief.
âNo,â Cinna swears quietly.
You speak quickly. âHe didnât know. Honestââ
Steveâs head snaps back toward you. âI wasnât talking to you.â
But Steve isnât finished. âNo, itâs not, itâsââ
Heâs pacing again, hands flying as he talks, each sentence tumbling over the last like he canât slow down enough to think.
âSeriously, Ren, what the hell is wrong with you? Were you just messing with me this whole time? Is that it?â
Your stomach twists. âNo.â
âBecause if this was some kind of strategy,â he keeps going, pointing at you now, âyou couldâve maybe clued me in before telling the entire damn nation Iâm your childhood sweetheart!â
âI wasnât lyingââ
âOh, bullshit.â
âI wasnât lying!â
Your voice cracks.
The word rips out of you before you can stop it.
Steve freezes.
For half a second.
Just long enough for the silence to drop like a stone.
Then he laughs again, harsher this time.
âRight,â he hisses. âSure. And that Avox girl also told you she likes railroads. Oh waitâthatâs right. She canât fucking talk. See what happens whenever we let liars run free in the world, but permanently silence the honest folksâ?â
Hopper moves suddenly.
He grabs the back of Steveâs suit jacket and yanks him backward.
Steve twists instinctively, reacting like a cornered animal. âLet goââ
âBack up,â Hopper demands.
âLet me go!â
âNot until you calm the hell down.â
Steve struggles once, nostrils flaring. For a moment it genuinely looks like he might swing. But even so, Hopper doesnât budge. He simply manhandles Steve another few feet backward and plants him against the wall with a solid thud.
âEasy,â Hopper growls.
âLet me fucking go,â Steve growls back.
âLower your fucking voice.â
Steve glares at him.
His chest is heaving.
âShe made me look weak,â he spits.
Hopperâs brow furrows.
âNo,â he says flatly. âShe made you look desirable.â
Steve stares at him like he just spoke another language.
âWhat?â
âDesirable,â Hopper repeats sternly. âWhich, last I checked?âdoesnât exactly hurt when youâre trying to get sponsors. Which currently? You lack.â
Steveâs mouth opens.
Then closes again.
His head turns slowly.
Because behind you, Cinnaâs voice comes, quiet but steady.
âHeâs right, Steve...â
Steveâs eyes widened slightly. He only looks at Cinna now. Really looks this time, no longer blinded by pure rage.
âDo you swear you didnât know about this?â he asks, suddenly vulnerable.
Cinna shakes his head with the utmost sincerity. âI swear, I didnât know.â
You speak quickly again. âHe really didnâtââ
âI said I wasnât talking to you!â
The snap in his voice slices through the hallway.
Hopper shoves him harder into the wall. âEnough!â he barks. âCalm the hell down. Cinnaâs right, sheâs right, Iâm rightâjust fucking listen for a second, alright?â
Steveâs jaw clenches.
His eyes flick up to the ceiling like heâs trying not to explode.
You can see the effort it takes for him to stay still.
Cinnaâs arm slides around your trembling shoulders fully now. You feel the quiet steadiness of him behind you â grounding you while your chin quivers, despite your best effort to control it.
You will not cry.
You refuse.
But damn if you're not close.
Effie is hovering nearby like a colorful ghost having a nervous breakdown, on the brink of haunting herself. âOh dearâoh my goodnessâthis is simply not idealââ
âEffie, Iâm begginâ you,â Hopper says sharply without looking at her.Â
She clamps her mouth shut.
After a long moment, Hopper releases Steve.
Slowly.
Warily.
But Steve stays against the wall.
Breathing.
Fuming.
Hopper turns slightly, looking between the two of you. His expression is tired. But thoughtful. Pensively connecting all the dots, allowing himself the silence so that he can quickly check his mental math before speaking.
âThis can work,â he finally says.
Steve shakes his head immediately. âNo.â
âIâm serious.â
âNo.â
âListen to me,â Hopper cuts in sternly, though keeping his voice calmer now. âAlright, I can sell the star-crossed lovers actââ
âWe are not star-crossed lovers.â
Hopper drags a hand down his face. âFor the love ofâSteve, itâs television.â
âThat doesnât make it true!â
âIt makes it useful!â
Steve laughs harshly. âOh great. Fantastic. So now Iâm useful.â
Hopperâs patience finally snaps.
âDo you wanna go home?â
The question slams into the hallway like a dropped weight.
Steve freezes.
Everyone does.
âDo you wanna go the fuck back home?â Hopper continues, his voice rising. âBecause that little stunt out she just pulled out there might actually help make that happen. And last I heard, you were telling good ole Caesar that you promise Dustin youâd try.â
Now Steveâs eyes burn.
Tears gather there, angry and bright.
âDonât say that shit to me,â he hisses.
âIâm saying it because itâs true.â
âYou donât get to hold that over my goddamn head.â
Hopper takes a step closer. âI do if itâs my goddamn job.â
âYour job is mentoring,â Steve snarls.
âAnd part of mentoringââ Hopper goes toe to toe with him. ââis landing you sponsorships thatâll get you the hell home. And that girl?!ââ He jabs a finger at you. ââmightâve just bought you your ticket home. So start acting like it.â
Steveâs fists clench. âYou think I donât want to go home?â he snaps, his voice laced with incredulous betrayal. âYou think thatâs the problem?â
âNo,â Hopper admits quietly.
âThen stop acting like Iâm the asshole for not wanting to humiliate myself on national television!â
His voice cracks.
Raw.
Ugly.
âIâm sick of it,â he says hoarsely. âIâm sick of sacrificing every shred of dignity Iâve got left just to survive another goddamn day.â
The hallway goes silent.
The honesty in his voice sits there like a bruise.
Then his eyes slide back to you.
And the anger flares again.
He pushes away from the wall.
Hopper moves instantly to block him, but Steve swats his arm aside without even looking â his gaze staring locked on yours.
âWhatever the hell this is,â he says, voice low and cutting, âwhatever game youâre playing⊠Iâm not doing it.â
You shake your head. âItâs not a game.â
âOh yeah?â he mutters coldly.
You take a shaky breath.
âIt wasnât a lie.â
Thatâs when he goes quiet.
Really quiet.
His eyes search your face like heâs trying to solve a puzzle that doesnât make any sense. Like youâre the most complicated disappointment of his life. For a moment, though â just a moment⊠his fury flickers.
Something else slips through.
Recognition.
Confusion.
Something dangerously close to understanding.
Then he crushes it.
âYou wanna talk about odds?â he asks softly, jaw flexing.
Your heart stops, brows pinched.
âBecause the odds in those games out there?â he gestures vaguely toward the arena somewhere far beyond the walls. âThey were never in our favor.â
You feel your throat close.
âAnd you and I?â he continues, voice dropping lower. His dark eyes burn into yours. âWe were born to die in them.â
The words land like a blade.
Your vision blurs.
The first tear finally spills down your cheek.
You donât wipe it away.
Steve sees it. His expression flickers again. And for a split second, it looks like something inside him breaks as the two of you stare each other downâŠ
Then he shoves a hand through his hair and steps backward.
âNo,â he mutters to himself. âNope. Not doing this.â
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warnings: barely edited, fem!reader, reader wears a dress, flirty banter and teasing, king steve is dead but loverboy steve reins supreme, steve has been pining over reader for years but she never said yes in order to protect herself, kissing, fluff, happy ending, keep in mind i wrote this ages ago and only just finished it so expect plotholes/things not making sense
summary: steve 'the hair' harrington had been a nightmare all throughout high school, and you'd always attempted to protect yourself from his 'king steve' ways. it's years later, now he's working at hawkins middle and he seems to have changed...
word count: 7K
author's note: tell a friend to tell a friend - i'm back! this has been sat in my drafts for so damn long i think i started writing this before christmas? i can't remember it's been so long but i finally rushed out a finale bc i was feeling steve tonight and that's pretty much all i need sometimes
The cup of coffee was tepid, at best. It had been sat on the counter in the break room, waiting for you while you sorted out some disagreement with two of your sixth grade students. Middle school meant the kids getting to the age where they were beginning to get mean which meant all the girls who were friends at the beginning of the year were no longer getting along.
Every year, it meant leaving cups of coffee on the counter until said issues were sorted out, meaning that for most of the day, you sipped on nearly cold, room temperature coffee. Not the pick up you needed while teaching 11 year olds, that was for sure.
Until one year, where everything changed.
See, there was a new teacher this year. Not new to you, but new to teaching. The old gym teacher had ditched Hawkins the second the military had, too, meaning Hawkins needed someone to take their place. The perfect replacement, according to rumour, had walked right into the principles hands.
The first time you saw him was during assembly on the first day back. All the students, gathered in the gym, piled onto the bleachers with sneakers bought for the new academic year squeaking on the fresh vinyl. The teachers always sat on a row of plastic chairs along the side of the hall, pretending that whatever the assembly topic was, that it was important for the kids to know and that they should be listening the whole time.
In reality, you couldn't care less. Hell, even the principle knew that they only held these 'beginning of the year' assembly's because it was tradition. There was no real meaning or necessity behind them.
So, you busied yourself with the notepad you always brought with you, plus that black inked biro always tucked in some pocket. At first it started off with things you could get away with; like making notes for the different classes you were teaching today, or a list of the shopping you had to get on the way home. Eventually, you ran out of productive things to do, and it moved onto little doodles in the margins. A star, a little faceless character, a badly attempted recreation of your favourite album art⊠you know.
Then, you felt someone nudge your arm. Not harshly, not sudden in the accidentally way, but in the thought out â let me time this perfectly way.
When you turned, it was someone you simply did not expect to see sitting in Hawkins middle, wearing the bright blue cubs jacket of the school's baseball team. It wasn't difficult to figure out why he was here, the school needed a new gym teacher and he'd always been good at gym from middle all the way through until high school â hell, it had been the only class he had ever been on time to.
None other than Steve Harrington.
"You know, if you were a student, I'd tell you off for doodling during assembly."
Lips parted, your eyes widen slightly at the sight of the man in front of you. How he happened to sit next to you and you didn't even notice â or (shit!) did you sit next to him by accident? You can't remember who walked in first.
It wasn't that you hated him, or that it was the end of the world that you had bumped into him. No, it was just awkward. That you didn't say hello when you sat down, or that you didn't even know that he was starting here this year, or that you⊠for fuck's sake. This really isn't what you needed this year, that was for sure.
Because you knew Steve. Not as well as Nancy had, not in the same way. Not like Tommy H or Carol had back in the day, god, nowhere near that, you would've died if that had been the case. You knew Steve pretty much like every general student did at Hawkins high. You knew him as the guy that went from girl to girl, never able to stick with one because of some half strung excuse that left the girls he dated annoyed, pissed off, and alone.
Steve Harrington had spent any period where he wasn't dating a girl during high school, asking you out. Not caring whether he had just ghosted one of your friends the previous week, not caring that you'd passed him up nicely two months prior.
He was a constant, all the way through high school. That guy who turned up by your locker, just to hand you a note that read movies, 7pm? in his scrawled blue-ink penmanship, only for you to fold it back up and pass it back to him with a small but polite and not shy, shake of the head.
He never let it get him down.
Steve always tried again, no matter what.
After Shirley, he tricked you into meeting him behind the bleachers through one of your friends, offering to take you to his 'designated spot' he liked to call skull rock. You'd laughed in his face and shaken your head, congratulating him for successfully getting you behind the bleachers as you walked away. A month later after Daniella K, he made you jump by appearing behind your locker door as you shut with, with a note asking you out. You'd drawn two little boxes, labelled them with yes or no and ticked the no box, before handing it back to him and heading off to English.
Three months later, he'd left a flowers on your desk behind him, and you'd rolled your eyes as he grinned at you, head swivelled to look around at you. This had followed by him getting told off by the teacher, at which he simply laughed and made some joke to get away with it. This went on for quite some time, practically all the way through 9th, 10th and even halfway through 11th grade. He didn't let up and neither did you.
Sometimes you felt mean, really. I mean, the boy was consistent, you had to admit. He wasn't going to stop any time soon and you knew that. You just knew that he couldn't stick with one woman, just because he hadn't gone on a date with you yet, didn't mean that was going to change if you'd ever said yes.
You, naturally, fell for people pretty quickly. It would take maximum two months for you to be distraught at Steve leaving you for whatever reason, and you wanted to protect yourself from that. Plus, you knew Steve was only so insistent with different attempts because you kept on saying no and you were pretty much the only girl all the way through high school that hadn't said yes eventually.
So you never went on the date with Steve.
You knew about Nancy, who didn't? You were at the Halloween party where everything went down, and just happened to be passing by the gym when they were talking in the alley. Plus, rumours spread like crazy in a small town like Hawkins, and you knew that Steve loved Nancy.
For the first time, he didn't come running to you. In fact, he pretty much disappeared. Slowly but surely, his King Steve crown fell into the mud and everything fell apart. Through a friend of a friend you heard that post-graduation he was working in the Scoops in the mall and that he was somehow linked to the fire that burnt it down towards the end of summer. Other than that, you didn't hear much about him any more.
Eventually, you moved away for college. It was something you enjoyed, but you did miss Hawkins. It was your home, no matter how many weird or cursed things happened there.
You dropped out of college, decided to come home and take up teaching. At first it started off simply tutoring the English students that needed help. Then you kept taking on new students and they simply loved you. When the English teacher that you had grown up with needed to retire, she offered you to the principle as her replacement. You had a steady job with good pay, and it was doing something you loved.
And now it felt like you were back in high school, sat next to Steve Harrington during assembly with him trying to win you over again. Except you were both adults now, and teachers, and technically co-workers. This had to stay a professional relationship.
"Steve?"
"Hey." He grins, that same toothy flash that he always used to give you back in the day, but with something more mature to it.
Because it had been a while for the both of you. You hadn't seen him since graduation, what, nearly four years ago? A lot had changed. You had become a very different person and you didn't even know where to start with guessing how he had changed. All you knew was that he had hated coming into class each day and now he had voluntarily taken up a job in the same school, doing some good, doing what's right.
So he had changed, and it was looking like it was for the better.
"Heyâ" Christ, and after all these years, that's all you can come up with? "Uh, what are you⊠are you working here, now, then?"
Steve's smile softens, nodding slightly, glancing back to the kids sat on the bleachers and making sure their conversation wasn't getting caught. "Yeah. I am. Thought I might do something better with my life."
"Good on you." And with the lighthearted glint in your eyes, Steve believed you.
With that, yours and Steve's attention was drawn back to the assembly, as the principle brought the gathering to a close, and dismissed both the children and the teachers. If you hadn't had a 9am class to teach, you would have stuck around to have a real conversation with Steve, but the bell was ringing, and this particular 8th grade class were just about to start reading Animal Farm so you wouldn't dare be late.
As you stood, you tucked the pen in a random pocket again and turned to Steve. "I'll see you around, Mr Harrington?"
"I hope so." He smiles, sticking around because the gym was his equivalent of a classroom, and his 8th grade class were rearing to begin the new semester and find out what their new teacher was like. Somehow, still, after all these years, Steve wasn't able to look away from you as you left the gym, following some kids and telling them off for running down the hall.
When a kid from his class came up to him to ask a question, he had to force the smile off his face and actually become a teacher â but Steve didn't miss the realisation that it was the exact same feeling as all those years ago.
You were still you. And you still had him wrapped around your fingers.
It was two days later that you next saw Steve. Usually, you would have bumped into him sooner, but it was the beginning of the academic year so there was a lot to do and you rarely left the classroom. Today hadn't been much different,
The bell had just echoed around the building, meaning the children had scampered out of the classroom before the last bell even rang, running off to their lunch time. You sat at your desk, going through the pop quiz on the first chapter Animal Farm you'd just given them, marking with a red ball point pen while spooning cold pasta into your mouth. It wasn't the nicest thing in the world, but hey, there wasn't anything else to eat and you'd have to eat properly if you wanted to get through the second half of the day.
Until there was a soft knock on your door. You turned, pausing your pen movement and looking through the window in the door to see Steve sheepishly standing there. He had that shy, nervous smile curved into his lips that softly warmed your heart, like he didn't know whether it was okay that he had turned up outside your classroom.
When you smiled, nodding for him to come in, the door swung open to reveal him in a white polo with the cubs logo embroidered into the fabric. In his hand was a brown paper bag that you could only assume was his lunch and⊠a mug, steaming with hot coffee. Your mug to be specific.
"Hey Steve, everything okay?" You ask, looking up at him as he stood by the desk, fiddling with the pen in your hand, even though you'd stopped writing with it.
Steve nods, placing his bag on the desk but not letting go of the folded top and setting the mug in front of you. "Yeah⊠d'you mind if I eat my lunch here? I, uh, brought you a coffee."
"That's... my mug. How did you know that was my mug?"
The man shrugs, fiddling with the table edge because lowly, somehow, his nerves were taking over and all he wanted to do was not seem like a creep. "It's your favourite colour⊠still- I'm assuming it hasn't changed. And it's got stars on it. You love stars. Again- I'm assuming nothings changed since high school and that's stupid of me considering it's been so long since then. Iâ"
"Steve." He pauses at your soft speech.
"Yeah?"
You laughed a little, your smile lighting up the room. "You can eat lunch with me. Thank you for the coffee, I must have left it in the staff room and forgot about it, it's been one busy morning, that's for sure."
He smiles, a more toothier one this time, dragging one of the plastic chairs from a students' desk over to the side of you. Honestly, he looked a little silly sitting in it, as it had obviously been made for kids and not a 23 year old, adult man. You watched him carefully as he sat in the chair, watching the expanse of his shoulders specifically because â well, he'd gotten broader, that was for sure. Put on a bit of muscle, grown a little mature in the face. He was definitely more put together than he used to be, that was for sure. Tempting, you realised.
Once he's settled, he glances up at you, feeling your eyes burning into him, and he lets out the cheeky little nervous laugh that you remember hasn't changed at all. "Whatcha looking at?"
You snap out of it, shaking your head. "No, nothing, that chair is just⊠really small that's all."
"Very funny." Steve shakes his head, pulling out a sandwich from the brown plastic bag. "What else was I supposed to do? I don't get a chair in the gym, you know. I have to stand all day."
A fake pout forms on your face as you attempt to hide a laugh. "Aw, poor Stevie."
Steve feels his stomach drop at that. Nobody has called him that for a good while, it was only ever you back in the day when he'd attempt to get you to go out with him through pity. God, even after all this time, he was back in the exact same position that he had been in all those years ago. Still caught up on the same girl, no matter what. Even after demogorgans and Vecna and well⊠everything, here he was. Right back at square one.
"That's terrible." He laughs it off â that's the best thing to do. He doesn't wanna scare you off again. He doesn't wanna fuck this up like he did before. Give you space, let you explore how you feel for him first and if you feel the same way back? Then he'll go from there.
You shrug at his comment, a smug grin plastered on your face. "So, how've your first couple days been?"
Steve takes a bite of his sandwich, something he just about managed to pull together without being late this morning and lets his eyes wander the room. "Not as bad as I thought it would be. There's a couple good kids I'm already spotting. Some that definitely have potential, too."
"It's a big range here." You murmur, dragging the fork through the pasta that you've barely eaten. "But there's a kid called Dylan Garrosby in 7th grade, he's a real pain so watch out for him."
"Dylan G?"
You nod.
Steve makes a face, something like a frown but not quite, then shrugs, sitting back as much as she can in the little chair he's placed himself into. "Yeah I had him yesterday, he wasn't horrible. Likes basketball but just struggles to concentrate."
A chuckle escapes you as you process Steve's words. "Well, he's a menace in my class, that's all I know."
"You gotta give them the benefit of the doubt." Steve says, even though he's only been teaching for a couple days as far as you're concerned. "I hated Mrs Click's class all through high school and always sacked it off but whenever I had basketball I was there before the ball rang. The kid's just gotta find his passion, he'll be fine."
You pause for a minute, jaw slightly dropped as you stared over at the man in front of you. "Steveâ"
Steve looks up at you and grins. "What?"
"I can't believe you're comparing me to Mrs Click!" You cry, dropping your fork on the desk and gesturing wildly. Steve seems to find this very funny, cackling to himself into his food with that warm glint in your eyes that hadn't changed even with all the maturity he's earned. "She was horrible!"
Steve begins to giggle, attempting to get words out through each hiccup of laughter.
"I'm not comparing you to Mrs Click! I'm just sayingâ the kid'll sort himself out eventually." A sharp eyebrow raises at him as you cross your arms over your chest and Steve's face drops immediately, pointing at you. "Oh my god! That's it! That's the Click Look!"
Somehow, your jaw drops even further this time, you're sat up to full height with a look of betrayal plastered onto your face. "This is my classroom you know. I could kick you out and make you eat lunch on your own."
There's a glint in Steve's eyebrows as he speaks again. "You won't."
"Why won't I?"
"You enjoy my company too much." Steve shrugs, taking a bite from his sandwich again, probably only the third or fourth since he started because of how much you're talking with him. "Nothing's changed since high school. You say you hate me but never reject my company. You don't actually hate me, in fact, I think you really like me."
You scoff a little, sitting back in your chair and fiddling with your food again, attempting to hide the guilt that just swarmed through your bloodstream. "Mhm. I never said I hated you in high school."
Steve glances awkwardly between you and his food. "Everybody thought you did. I mean, I don't blame them. How many times did you reject me?"
"Steve."
"No, come on." He spoke, his voice much stronger than yours as he goes in for another bite. "It's been years, we can joke about it now. Honest to God, it doesn't bother me anymore. Hellâ it barely bothered me in high school. It's just⊠banter between friends now."
You're warming to him again when you meet his eyes. "Friends?"
He nods. "If you're okay with that."
You smile again, then, and nod at him, sitting forward to begin eating again. "Yeah, I'm definitely okay with that, Steve. Thank you."
"Much obliged." He grins.
Over the first month of the academic year, you and Steve grew closer and closer. He hadn't made any moves, but that settled flirty air still circled you whenever Steve was nearby. It was interesting, to say the least. While you knew that it felt the same as all those years ago, you didn't quite know what to make of that feeling. Whether your feelings were platonic or more, you just couldn't figure out.
Back in high school, you didn't reject Steve because you didn't like him, you just didn't want to end up like all the other girls he dated for a couple weeks and then ghosted. You were protecting just yourself.
But things were different now. As much as you didn't want to admit it â Steve had grown up. He had a job he took seriously, he was living in a little apartment on main above the old record shop that shut down when you were just a kid, rather than his parents old mansion that you couldn't figure out what had happened to.
He didn't talk about dates anymore. He didn't mention a girl he liked or someone that he had a crush on, whether you were in the room or not. There were no rumours about him being seen in his car with a girl nor of anybody coming out of his apartment in the same clothes as last night. So, the only reason you had ever rejected him during high school was gone. It was no longer a problem. But had he moved past you now, too? Was it too late?
No matter how much marking you shoved yourself into, how late you stayed at the school doing work, the thought of Steve couldn't leave your head.
Towards the end of October, and you had your head against the wood of your desk, forehead pressing against some kids essay, tapping the pen against the desk. This was getting silly now. You couldn't get it to leave your head. Passing him in the corridor, having to stupidly smile at him like he wasn't on your mind constantly. Sitting next to him in assembly pretending like he wasn't paying rent in your brain.
God, it wasn't even this bad in high school. How had it gotten worse?
Steve wasn't doing much better.
Because while he had tried to avoid a repeat of high school, he had failed and in fact, had done the exact opposite. It was the exact same as before â him completely infatuated with you and you simply just being your lovely self: being kind and letting him down softly.
Except â Steve hadn't actually asked you out again yet. It had been in the back of his mind, sure, but it had stayed there. Steve realised that if he was ever going to give in a try this again, it would have to be in a way where you couldn't say no. He just had to convince you that if you went out with him, you would get all the perks you get now â just more, and with some extra ones. You said it yourself, you never hated him in high school and you definitely don't hate him now.
It was about halfway through November that talks of the Snowball started circulating. Posters started appearing on bulletin boards across the school, in hallways and on doors. Passed through at morning registration and included in department meetings.
Steve remembered his own Snowball like it was yesterday. He'd gone with this girl, Debbie something, he couldn't quite remember. What he did remember was that it was the beginning of everything with you. One of his friends, Chris, had asked if you wanted to go together and you had said yes, so you'd been around him practically all night. Steve had thought you were gorgeous, he couldn't keep you out of his mind all night. In fact, he'd gone home that evening and talked his ear off to his childminder (this was back when his parents still cared to hire one whilst they were away) about you.
Soon enough, teachers were being asked to volunteer to set up, chaperone and set down the Snowball. Steve had turned up outside your door at lunch time the same day, with your mug filled with hot coffee in his hand and the brown paper bag with his sandwich in, like usual.
It was nearing the end of the slotted lunch period did he ask, sat back in that same tiny chair, picking at the filling of his sandwich while you sipped at the coffee. "You gonna do the Snowball?"
You'd smiled down at the sandwich in your hands, shrugging your shoulders slightly. "I was thinking about it. Got nothing better do to that night, you know? Are you?"
"My answer was entirely dependant on what you were gonna do, honestly."
"Why?" The smile was sly now, edging upwards to meet Steve's gaze, that glint in your eyes that scared Steve just that little bit because it always meant you knew something he didn't â in this case though, he did know. "You wanted to ask me to it?"
Steve scoffs ever so lightly, taken aback by how blatant you're being. You catch the light pink dusted against his cheeks as he shuffles in his chair, unsure how to answer, unsure how to understand what you're playing at. Did he just imagine you saying that? Did you want him to ask you out? "Uhâ Um. Sh- Did youâ?"
Then suddenly you're chuckling to yourself, interrupting his train of thought with that pretty giggle of yours that kept him awake every night. "I'm kidding, Steve. It's the 8th graders disco, one teacher can't take another teacher on a date, especially because we'd have to stay professional the whole night."
He gulps at your words, eyes glued to you, the way your fingers shuffle against your food, the quirk in the corner of your lips when you joke about staying professional. This isn't just the usual banter, Steve realises. This is you flirting back for once, this is you flirting with intent, with a want and a need for Steve to do something about it. Oh god, he better not be wrong about this, this time. He can't lose, this, you again.
"Is that the only thing stopping you?" He murmurs, making sure his eyes don't stray from your own.
He watches your lips part softly, and his ears piqued at the softness of your voice as you spoke. "What if it was?"
"You'd want to?" Steve spoke, sitting up slightly, a bit overwhelmed by what exactly was happening, he couldn't quite believe it was actually happening, in all honestly, hearing you say that⊠you would. "Go with me to the Snowball, I mean. Not just as⊠chaperones."
You smile, large and grinning and you go to nodâ oh my god, it's happening.
Then the bell rings, indicating the end of the lunch period. The laughing and screaming of children outside comes to a halt and the halls fill with the squeaking of sneakers against the lino floors. Steve deflates, knowing both of you have a half next and he can't do anything to avoid it.
As he gets up to leave, he chucks his half eaten sandwich in the bin, and stops at the door.
"Hey Stâ Mr Harrington?" You correct yourself as the kids for your next class start piling into their chairs. He turns around to face you, eyebrows high with confusion. You grin over at him, that same glint in your eyes. "This conversation isn't over."
A slow smile curls itself into Steve's lips, and he nods, like he's proud of himself. "Yeah, okay. Talk to you later, Miss."
The door shuts tentatively after the last kid sits down, and you bin the last of your sandwich too, letting it fall into the bin right next to Steve's. You stand, moving to the blackboard to write the lesson topic on the board, when you notice a kid has their hand up already.
"Yes, Erin?"
She's cute when she speaks too, even if her question has nothing to do with anything she should be involved in, but kids, aren't they so damn observant. "Do you have a crush on Coach Harrington?"
You laugh her off. "That's none of your business, Erin."
"But you do!" Another kid pipes up from the other side of the classroom and you begin to notice just how many kids are nodding at the offered idea. Was it really that obvious? "We always see you together at lunchtimes and you always smile at each other in the corridor and Coach always mentions you like aaalwayss andâ"
"Right!" You clap, cutting him off and watching them all burst into little fits of giggles. You have to admit, it's cute that they've noticed, but you're not going to let the lesson get derailed because they want to gossip about something that you don't need spread around the whole school by the end of the day. "Animal Farm everybody! Final chapter, are we ready?"
"You like Coach Harrington." One of them singsongs, dragging out the 'a' and the 'o', but you don't catch who, because they've all been very sneaky and gotten their copies of Animal Farm already out and already in front of them.
You brush it off and pull out your own copy, beginning to read.
Suddenly, it was the day of the Snowball.
You didn't know how it had come around so quickly. A whole semester over just like that. A whole three months of meeting with Steve for lunch and trying to pretend you weren't slowly falling in love with him. Just trying to act exactly like you did in high school⊠pretending.
Because while you had said the conversation wasn't over, you'd actually never picked it back up again. Steve had come around at lunch and you'd eaten together and chatted and laughed but⊠neither of you had ever brought it up again. It was like the conversation had never happened. Did he regret it? Did you push too far? Was it actually too late and you'd actually, finally missed him?
In the previous couple Snowballs that you had helped out with, you hadn't thought about what you were going to wear. You'd stuck to the basic make up you did for work and maybe changed shirts, but this time was different. It's cheesy and you hate yourself for giving a shit about it because Steve had only ever seen you in the past three months in work clothes, but this was the one chance you had to convince him to ask you out again.
So you tried this time. You made sure you had time to go home and change between set up and the end of school that day. You had laid out the dress you were planning on wearing on the bed before you left, and made sure all your make up was out so it would be quick and easy.
It felt weird, because it had been so long since you'd gotten dressed up for something other than a girls night out with a couple mates a good few months ago.
You arrived at the Snowball on time, a couple teachers already there putting up the bunting and hangers, two history teachers at the far end of the hall attempting to put up the banner that the art department had worked so hard to make the past couple weeks. No Steve yet.
Walking into the storage cupboard, you went for the folded plastic tables, opting to set up something easy for the snacks and punch you were offering the kids. But once you were crouched on the vinyl flooring, fiddling with the clasps and the switches, you just couldn't figure it out. You'd had your nails done the other week and they just couldn't slip under the latch quite in the way you needed to pop the table open.
It was embarrassing, but also kind of the best thing that could have happened, because Steve only came in a couple minutes after you, blazer round the back of some chair, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow.
"Need any help?"
You feel your shoulders deflate at his voice and you rest your head against the edge of the table where its propped on its side. "Shut up and help me Harrington. And don't lecture me, I know how to do it, my nails just won't let me."
Steve chuckled and lowered himself onto the ground, moving so he could reach the latch but making it so his knee was pressed against your back. Too close for comfort. Too close to keep your heat at a steady rate. He was doing this shit on purpose, you were sure. "But they're so pretty. Can't risk breaking them."
"What are, my nails?"
He nodded, smiling and flipping the latch. "Yeah, they're real cute, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. If he didn't ask you out by the end of this, you were going to kill him. You rolled your eyes, playing it off playfully and letting him pull the table out, shuffling backward to accommodate the space. "Well⊠thanks Steve." You stand, brushing any dust from your dress.
You watched Steve for a second. The way his arms flexed flipping the table to stand correctly. The way his eyes darted to every corner of the table to make sure he was doing it right. The way he ran his fingers down the metal edge of the table and grunted, brushing his hands off and turning to you with a smile. You were gone. You were well and truly gone. There was no getting out of it now â it was impossible. He'd be in your head forever, until you were on your fucking death bed.
And then he caught you staring, a knowing smirk that made your stomach twist playing on his lips. "What?"
Quickly, you straightened, shaking your head. "Whatâ? No, nothing."
"Come on." He laughed, heading towards the storage cupboard again to grab something else. You swiftly regathered yourself and followed him in, finding him hands deep in a box full of white table cloths that definitely wasn't repurposed fabric from the art department.
You knelt down next to him, but was quickly pushed back onto your feet at Steve's protests. "Woah, what?"
"Your pretty dress, c'mon, it's gonna get all dusty!" Steve whines, a hand waving about and forcing you to stand back up again.
"Oh." You murmured, wiping down the front of the skirt, looking down at him as he passes a cloth up to you. You take it between your two arms and let Steve follow behind you with another sheet to leave out with the next table.
Together, you set up the main tables available for the little food and drink the school can afford for the kids, next moving onto another table that Steve again, does not let you set up. You can't tell if he's just being gentlemanly or attempting to irk you enough to make you shout at him but either way, it's working. Once the tables are set up, you head off to the kitchens to get the food while Steve gets dragged into hanging up the silver and blue shining fringe that was planned to run across each wall of the gym.
Somewhere along the lines, set up is finished and the children begin arriving.
Steve gets caught up manning the toilets and making sure too many students don't start crowding in them, leaning against the wall outside the door, caught up in a long conversation with one of the 6th grade kids. You watched from the punch bowl, a fond smile on your face whenever there wasn't a kid asking for a refill, eyes trained on Steve as he spoke from across the gym.
Every time that Elsie, that little 6th grader than wouldn't leave him alone, spoke, he'd smile that familiar warm curl of the lips, and you could tell even from where you were standing that he was making some sort of joke to the girl, some Coach Steve banter that was the reasons the kids loved PE so much since he joined the school.
Then every time he got a spare second, his eyes trained upwards, looking for you, the glint in his eyes turning into something more special. Something he was reserving just for you.
For practically the whole period of the Snowball, you and Steve were kept apart. It was only about halfway through the night (which meant 7pm for the kids), when shifts changed and you were allowed to leave the punch bowl. Mrs Jones, a History teacher, nicely took over from you, telling you to go have at least a little fun.
You gave her a smile and immediately headed over to where you thought Steve was standing, reaching the middle of the gym before realising that he wasn't standing there anymore.
Bastard. You furrowed your brows, looking around for him.
"Hey." That low, rough and calming voice spoke as you turned, making you jump slightly as he did so, suddenly appearing behind you even though you thought you'd already checked that direction. "Woahâ"
"Christ, Steve, you scared me!"
Steve grinned, a hand on your waist to steady you. You attempted to ignore the fuzzy feeling the feeling of his hand gave you. "Sorry, sugar, just wanted to surprise you."
A soft smile curls it's way into the corners of your lips as you draped your gaze over his face. "Well, you certainly did that. You okay?"
"No, actually, there's uhâŠ" He stuttered over his words, waving his hands about, your eyes catching the veins in his arms move against the rolled up fabric of his shirt as he tripped and stumbled over his words. "Something I wanted to talk to you about."
"What is it, Harrington?"
His eyes leave the floor then, meeting yours sweetly, lips quirked upward, crinkles by his eyes from the past semester with you. You've completely forgotten about the kids, about how you're just stood in the middle of the gym, you barely even notice the song playing.
Barely. "We've known each other a while now, and I think it's safe to sayâ"
Take a chance on me, he mouths, along to the song, that started playing at the perfect moment. As the kids start cheering and the song starts the first verse, you start laughing, a full-blown, whole hearted laugh, glee radiating from your face and your smile and just the whole situation he's managed to arrange.
"I'm the first in line, baby!" Steve shouts over the music, taking your hand and forcing you to spin, a shriek of surprise and laughter and happiness and he dips you, getting you face to face with him for a single second.
You grin up at him, feeling his hand at your waist supporting you, and you're so close to the floor but you don't feel like you're going fall at all, not in his arms. "You're such an idiot!"
Steve laughs, dragging you back up to full height.
Before he can force you to dance any longer, you take his hand in yours, you take the lead with footsteps towards the back door. Already, the kids have forgotten about you and are back to dancing in their own little worlds, so not a single soul notices you and Steve slip out the door.
You're met with the alley, the one that stretches between the gym and the English block, Steve's back hitting the wall as you're over taken with laughter.
He's practically giggling too, so you know you're not alone. As though it was an automatic gesture that he had done a thousand times before, Steve's large palms find your waist, steadying you as your breath slowly calms, cheeks beginning to hurt from the grinning and smiling and laughingâ oh.
"C'mon baby, we're missing the songâ just for you!" He grins, squeezing your waist.
"Steven Harringtonâ" You sigh, unable to keep the glazed, dreamy look from your eyes, letting your hands rest against his shoulders. "You are such an idiot."
Steve shrugs, tonguing the inside of his cheek. "What? It's a simple question, sweetheart, you gonna take a chance on me? After all these years? After every offer, after every rejection, I've liked you for yearsâ"
The song, still playing in the background but muffled by the closed metal doors to your left, is now the last thing on your mind as you lean up and press your lips against Steve, half to shut him up, half to answer his seemingly endless questions.
He chuckles against your lips immediately, pulling you closer to him via the grip he's got, tight on your hip, making sure that you are flush against his warm torso. There's a couple more brushes of his lips against yours that stay soft, but it doesn't take long for the neediness to break through. For every feeling, every daydream he's ever had over the past however many years it's been now.
You gasp slightly as his teeth nip at your bottom lip, and your hands are digging through the soft locks of his hair, the hair that used to be so precious to him and isn't so much anymore, not since he realised there were more important things in his life.
"Mhmphâ" You giggle against his lips, head tilted because he needed to be just that much closer to you. "Steve."
"Wha..?"
You pull back, just enough to be able to scan over his face, dazed from the kiss as well as the reality of finally kissing you. "I'm taking a chance on you."
Steve giggles, a dreamy chuckle pressed between his lips. "Yeah, I got that, sweetheart."
"Took me long enough, I reckon, don't you?"
"I would've waited as long as it took you, sugar, don't even worry your pretty little head about it." He speaks, voice rough and low and familiar and finally yours.
Because even if you had said no over and over and over again, things had changed. Things were different now. Good different. Steve presses his lips up against yours again and you let yourself have a moment before having to go back to the Snowball and take care of the kids again.
You had a feeling you'd never be able to be normal at work ever again, all thanks to Steve.
a/n: why is it no longer fun to write man idk maybe it's uni burning me out or something but I've just not been feeling it recently. hope you all enjoyed this! it was lowkey strung together horribly but the concept is there you understood what I was going for lmao... thanks for all the support! <3
Summary: Sam Winchester getting wounded on a hunt? Completely normal. Confessing to the wrong girl that he's in love with her? Definitely not.
Words: 6,8k.
Warnings & Tags: sam get hurt. YEARNING. typical supernatural stuff. more like an au but in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Soo finally this is here, you can stop pressuring me:p
It all started with his lack of sleep and the sound of your voice.
Sam Winchester had never admitted it out loudânot to Dean, not to you, not even fully to himselfâbut in the strange rhythm of this life, he had come to depend on certain things. The steady weight of a book in his hands before a hunt, pages worn thin beneath his thumbs. The metallic click of the motel lock turning at night, a small but definitive promise of temporary safety. The familiar rumble of his brotherâs voice drifting through paper-thin walls, a sound that meant Dean was still breathing, still alive, still there.
And you.
Specifically, your laugh.
Motel walls were notoriously unreliable. They carried everything, television static bleeding through like white noise, ice buckets clattering in distant hallways, muffled arguments from couples three rooms down who would pretend not to see each other in the morning. They were thin enough to make privacy a myth.
But for Sam, those walls carried something softer.
Every night before a hunt, like a ritual none of you had agreed to but all of you somehow kept, he would hear you and Dean next door. It always began the same way: His big brother exaggerating the creature youâd faced, inflating as if he alone had subdued it. Heâd lower his voice dramatically for effect, draw out certain words, make the monster bigger, uglier, more theatrical than it had been. You would interrupt him, always correcting, mocking, applauding with fake grandeur. The retelling would spiral into something ridiculous, louder and louder until one of you shushed the other with exaggerated urgency.
And then your laugh.
It never sounded forced. Never polite. It wasnât the careful sound people made when they were trying to keep things light. It came from somewhere low, spilling out of you like it couldnât be contained. Sometimes it would dissolve into breathless giggles, the kind that made it hard for you to get words out between inhales. Sometimes it would soften suddenly, as if you remembered he was technically on the other side of that wall and tried to quiet it, but the warmth remained, threaded through even your whispers.
Sam would lie on his back, staring at the cracked motel ceiling where the paint peeled in uneven constellations, hands folded loosely over his chest, and wait for it every single night.
He always told himself it was just routine.
Just proof you were okay, alive.
That the hunt hadnât taken too much from you.
That whatever youâd seen that day, whatever youâd had to kill, hadnât hollowed you out in a way that couldnât be repaired by bad jokes and cheap beer.
He told himself he listened because it meant he could close his eyes without bracing for something else. For a scream. For Deanâs voice turning urgent. For the sound of a fight breaking out. For another death that would break his heart.
But the truth was simpler. And more dangerous.
Your laugh settled in his ribs.
It didnât just reach his ears and fade the way most sounds did in those cheap roadside motels. It lodged somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter. It loosened something tight in his chest that he carried around without noticing most days, like a muscle permanently braced for impact.
It made the world feel survivable.
He never chased the sound. Never leaned closer to the wall, never shifted his pillow to listen better. He never lingered in the hallway outside your door or invented excuses to stay up later than he needed to. When you spoke to him directly, he kept his voice careful and neutral, steady in the way heâd trained it to be.
Books. Research. Case files. His brother.
Those were the things he allowed himself to orbit.
Not you.
But still, every night before a hunt, he lay on his back staring at the cracked ceiling and listened in secret. The easy rhythm of you and Dean talking. The clink of bottles. The exaggerated stories. And eventually your laugh.
And then he slept like a baby all night.
But not that night.
That night, the silence felt wrong immediately. So wrong it pressed against him before he could even name it, before his thoughts had time to catch up with the instinct crawling under his skin. It wasnât loud or obvious; it didnât arrive like a crash or a shout. It came as absence. As something missing from a pattern his body had quietly memorized over months of shared motel rooms and restless nights, a rhythm so familiar he no longer had to think about it.
And now that rhythm had broken. The hum of the air conditioner sounded too loud, too mechanical, filling spaces that should have been occupied by voices. The distant highway outside the motel felt farther away than usual, its steady stream of passing cars fractured into uneven bursts that made the quiet between them feel deeper, heavier. Even the buzzing motel sign outside the window grated against his nerves instead of blending into the background like white noise. Everything was there, and yet nothing was right.
Sam lay on his back for a long time, hands folded loosely over his chest, staring up at the ceiling where cracks spread like veins across the plaster. He waited, not consciously at first, but with the quiet certainty that something would fill the silence. That it always did. That any second now Deanâs voice would rise through the wall in some exaggerated retelling of the dayâs hunt, stretching the truth into something bigger than it had been. That your voice would follow, cutting through his brotherâs bravado with sharp corrections and dry humor, grounding it, reshaping it into something real. He waited for the familiar shape of the night to settle back into place around him, for the invisible thread that connected the three of you through thin walls and shared routines to tighten again.
Nothing came.
Minutes stretched thin, pulling longer than they should have. He shifted once, then again, unable to find a position that felt right, like his body knew something his mind hadnât fully processed yet. Eventually he turned onto his side, facing the wall that separated your room from his. The paint near the outlet was chipped in a jagged crescent shape, heâd noticed it days ago while unpacking his bag, a small, irrelevant detail that had stuck in his memory for no reason at all. Now he stared at it like it might move, like it might shift or reveal something if he focused hard enough. Like the answer to the discomfort pooling in his chest might be written there in those broken edges.
His body felt restless in a way he couldnât quite name. Not anxious. Not afraid. JustâŠunsettled.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it. Counted his breaths slowly. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. Let the darkness press against his eyelids, let the weight of exhaustion try to drag him under. He even tried to count sheep in his headâsomething he hadnât done since he was a kidâjust to give his thoughts something to latch onto that wasnât the silence next door.
And thenâ
A murmur.
So faint he almost missed it.
The sound slipped through the wall like a thread, fragile and easy to lose if he shifted even slightly. He hadnât meant to listen at first, he clung to that, even later. He wasnât trying to eavesdrop, wasnât trying to piece together words or invade something that wasnât his to hear. But once the cadence of your voice reached him, it was impossible to ignore.
He wasnât even focusing on what you were saying. He was just listening for you, for the safety your voice always carried with it. But something about the way you spoke tonight was different. Quieter. Like you were holding something fragile in your hands.
Deanâs voice drifted in and out too, teasing, careless in the way only Dean could be.
Then your laugh.
But it wasnât the same.
Now it was small, it broke at the edges.
Samâs eyes opened in the darkness and he heard the words next as clearly as if the wall had vanished entirely.
âYouâve got the wrong brother.â
Everything inside him went still.
Not metaphorically. Physically.
His lungs forgot how to move. His body froze against the mattress like it had been pinned there. The hum of the air conditioner faded into the background, the buzzing sign outside dissolving into silence as his mind latched onto those four words and replayed them over and over.
Wrong brother. Wrong brother. Wrong brother.
For a moment he thought heâd imagined it. That exhaustion had twisted the sounds into something they werenât.
But then Deanâs voice came again, different now.
And yours answering, the truth unfolded piece by quiet piece through the wall.
Your confession.
And everything went to hell.
Sam didnât sleep that night. Not even for a second. He lay there staring at the ceiling long after your voices had faded into silence, long after the faint creak of the mattress next door suggested that exhaustion had finally pulled you under. His body remained rigid, wired with a kind of awareness he couldnât shut off, his mind replaying the same words over and over until they lost meaning and then found it again. Every sound felt amplified in the absence of your voiceâthe hum, the buzz, the distant rush of carsâfilling the space where something warm and familiar had once been. And somewhere beneath it all, under the confusion and the disbelief and the slow, creeping realization of what heâd heard, there was something else taking shape. Something quieter. More dangerous.
Because now he knew.
The realization didnât come all at once. It settled heavily, sinking into him in layers until it reached something difficult to ignore. He lay there in the darkness, eyes wide and dry, heart pounding slow and heavy against his ribs like it was trying to break free from the weight pressing down on it. You were just a few feet away. Just on the other side of that thin wall. Close enough that he could almost map your position in the room from memory alone: where the bed would be, where you might have collapsed, still half-dressed from the day, boots kicked off carelessly, exhaustion pulling you under before you had time to think.
And somehow, impossibly, you felt something for him.
The thought didnât settle. It didnât make sense. It circled endlessly, catching and snagging on every version of himself heâd ever believed in.
How? How could someone like you look at him that way?
You were fearless in a way he had never quite managed to be. You moved through fights with a kind of instinct he still had to think his way into, blade steady even when something lunged for your throat, reflexes sharp and certain. You didnât hesitate. You didnât second-guess. And when it came to the parts of the job that lived outside the fightâthe patterns, the research, the quiet details that turned chaos into something solvableâyou were just as good. Fast. Observant. Clever in ways that made connections feel obvious once you said them out loud. The kind of hunter people trusted immediately, without question, without needing proof.
And him?
Half the time he felt like a walking encyclopedia with too many nerves and not enough instinct to back it up. Like everything he contributed had to be earned through overthinking, through memorization, through long explanations that stretched just a little too far because he was afraid of leaving something out. There was always that tight knot in his stomach when he started talking through a case, that quiet fear that heâd miss something obvious, that heâd talk too long, that heâd look up from his notes and see it in your expression, that flicker of realization that he wasnât as put together as he tried to seem.
Heâd always assumed you tolerated the information dumps because they were useful. Because they helped. Because in a world like this, practicality mattered more than anything else. Not because you were watching him.
Now every memory rearranged itself in his mind, shifting into something new and terrifying.
Every time youâd volunteered to ride shotgun when he was driving instead of letting Dean take the wheel. Every time youâd stayed up late beside him at a cluttered motel table, books spread out between you, choosing research over sleep or over whatever chaos Dean had found to fill the night. Every time heâd glanced up from a page and caught you looking at him, your expression unreadable for half a second before you looked away.
Heâd never questioned it.
Not really.
But now those moments played back in his mind with a different weight, a different meaning that settled heavy. And he realized that he had been standing inside this truth for months without recognizing it.
The motel room felt smaller somehow.
The ceiling lower.
The wall between you impossibly thin.
Sam turned onto his side again, staring at the chipped paint near the outlet until the shape blurred in the darkness.
Sleep never came.
Because now he knew.
And knowing didnât settle neatly into place, it unraveled everything. It took something that had once been quiet and safe and turned it sharp, unpredictable, dangerous in a way he didnât know how to handle. The comfort he used to find in your voice, in the steady reassurance of your presence just beyond that wall, twisted into something else entirely. Something that made his heart race instead of slow, that made his thoughts scatter instead of settle. It filled the space between your rooms with tension, with possibility, with a fragile kind of awareness that made the distance feel thinner than it had any right to be, like it wasnât a barrier at all but something temporary, something easily broken if either of you reached too far.
Inside his head, everything tilted.
There was no clean way to separate before from after, no way to return to the version of himself who hadnât heard you say those words. He tried, at first. Tried to pretend it hadnât happened, to push the memory aside and file it away like a piece of irrelevant lore. Something interesting, maybe, but not useful, not necessary to dwell on. Something he could ignore because it didnât directly affect the case in front of him.
But it didnât stay buried.
It surfaced in every quiet moment, in every pause between tasks, in every second where his mind wasnât actively occupied with something else. Because suddenly you were everywhere in ways you hadnât been before, or maybe you always had been, woven into the edges of his awareness, and heâd just been better at ignoring it, better at compartmentalizing the parts of you that didnât fit neatly into research notes and hunting strategies.
Now there was no compartment left to hide it in.
Every time you spoke, his attention snagged on your voice before he could stop it, the cadence of it pulling him in the same way your laugh used to through the motel wall, except now it didnât soothe, it unsettled. It made something in his chest tighten and expand all at once, like his body didnât know whether to relax or brace. Every time you leaned over a book beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his, he noticed things heâd never let himself notice before: the faint scent of soap that clung to your skin, clean but never quite masking the metallic trace of iron that lingered after a hunt, the way your hair fell forward when you focused, the small crease that formed between your brows when you were thinking too hard.
And every time you corrected him midâinformation dump, slipping in one of your quick, precise observations before he could finish explaining, he felt that same flicker of nervous energy in his stomach, the one he used to dismiss as simple concentration, as the natural pressure of wanting to get things right.
It wasnât that.
It was awareness.
And once he recognized it, he couldnât unrecognize it.
It made everything harder.
Words heâd said a thousand times before felt unfamiliar on his tongue, like they no longer belonged to him. He stumbled over explanations that used to come naturally, losing his train of thought halfway through sentences, pausing longer than he should have as he tried to remember something that should have been automatic. Details slipped through his mind like water, things he would normally recall without effort now just out of reach, forcing him to double-check notes he didnât usually need.
And it wasnât subtle.
Dean noticed.
Dean always noticed.
âYou good, man?â he asked one afternoon, the question cutting through the quiet of the motel room after Sam completely blanked on a Latin translation heâd known since college, one heâd recited so many times it should have lived in muscle memory by now.
Sam nodded too quickly, the motion sharp, almost defensive. âYeah.â
But even as he said it, he could feel the lie sitting there, lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat. His hands tightened slightly around the edge of the table, fingers curling against the worn wood as he forced himself to look back down at the open book in front of him, to pretend that the words hadnât just slipped away, that nothing had changed.
He wasnât good.
And the worst part was that he didnât know how to fix it without confronting the one thing heâd been trying not to touch at all.
The hunt that day was supposed to be simple, simpler than the mess in his head, at least. A ghoul nest just outside a small town cemetery, the kind of job that usually ran on muscle memory more than thought. Salt, silver, steady hands, good timing. Nothing complicated. Nothing that required more than the basic coordination the three of you had built over years of working side by side. Sam had done worse on three hours of sleep. Heâd handled worse on less. But that night, under a sky that felt too wide and a moon that cast everything in a pale, unforgiving glow, the world didnât quite line up the way it should have. The smell of wet earth and rot clung thick in the air, heavy enough to taste, mixing with the sharp tang of disturbed soil as the ghouls came at them from between crooked headstones and broken crypts.
He should have been focused.
He wasnât.
His thoughts moved slower than his body, or maybe faster, scattered in the wrong directions, catching on things that had nothing to do with the fight in front of him. A flash of your voice from the night before. The echo of those words. The way everything had tilted since then. It only took a second. Less than that, really. A brief lapse, a moment where instinct and action fell out of sync.
And that was enough.
The ghoul lunged from the shadowed side of a crypt, its movements jerky and wrong. Sam turned, but not fast enough. Not clean enough. Its claws caught his arm before he could fully react, tearing through fabric and skin in a sharp, violent swipe that burned instantly, the pain bright and immediate as it split through muscle. He drove the blade up into its chest on reflex, ending it in the same motion, but the damage was already done.
âSam!â
Your voice cut through everything, through the noise of the fight, through Deanâs shouted curse somewhere to his left, through the ringing in his ears that followed the hit. It grounded him in a way nothing else did in that moment, pulled his attention back into his body, back into the present.
After that, things blurred.
He barely registered the last of the ghouls going down, barely registered Dean moving through them with efficient, practiced brutality, already dragging bodies toward the pile with muttered complaints about idiots getting themselves hurt. Fire. Gasoline. The familiar rhythm of cleanup. It all faded into the background.
What stayed sharp, what stayed painfully clear, was you.
Your hands on his arm, despite the tension in your grip as you guided him toward the Impala. The solid weight of the bumper against the back of his legs when you pressed him down to sit. The way you moved as you reached for the first-aid kit in the trunk without hesitation, already assessing the wound before youâd even fully opened it.
It wasnât fatal. He knew that. Even through the haze of adrenaline and the lingering shock of the hit, he could tell. The cut was deep enough to bleed steadily, dark and slow through the torn sleeve, but not deep enough to be anything worse than painful.
Still, you treated it like it mattered.
Like he mattered.
You worked with practiced precision, fingers steady as you cleaned the wound, your focus narrowing down to just that, just the injury, just the task. The antiseptic burned as it hit, pulling a quiet hiss from him before he could stop it, but you didnât look up. Your attention didnât waver. Your brow was furrowed, a faint crease forming between your eyebrows as you concentrated, like the rest of the world had dropped away.
âHold still,â you murmured, your voice softer now, but still carrying that same quiet authority.
He did.
Not because the pain demanded it.
Because you did.
The parking lot lights above the cemetery cast everything in a soft amber glow, turning the edges of the world warmer than it should have been, almost gentle in contrast to the cold night air. A breeze moved through the space between you, lifting a loose strand of your hair and brushing it across your cheek. You pushed it back absentmindedly, not even breaking your focus, your fingers already returning to their work like the motion hadnât happened at all.
Samâs mind filled in the rest before he could stop it.
Late-night motel rooms.
Thin walls.
Your voice in the dark, saying his name like it meant something.
The memory tangled with the present so seamlessly it blurred the line between them, until for a moment it didnât feel like two separate things at all, just one continuous thread heâd been following without realizing it.
âYou really scared me tonight,â he heard himself say, the words slipping out quieter than he intended, rough around the edges.
Your hands stilled against his arm for half a second, just long enough for him to notice, before you continued wrapping the bandage, your movements just a fraction more careful now.
âYouâve been distracted all week,â you replied, your voice softer than usual, but edged with something else, concern, maybe. Or frustration. âWhatâs going on with you?â
He exhaled slowly, the breath heavier than it should have been, like it had been sitting in his chest all day waiting for a way out.
And for a moment, everything else fell away.
The cemetery behind you.
Dean moving somewhere out of sight, still working, still muttering.
The smell of gasoline and ash mixing with the cold night air.
None of it mattered.
And the words slipped out before he could stop them.
âI heard you,â he said, his voice quieter than he intended, roughened by exhaustion and something far more fragile than that.
You stilled immediately, your hands pausing against his arm mid-motion, the gauze caught between your fingers like the world itself had hesitated with you. Sam didnât give himself time to think, because if he did, he knew heâd lose whatever momentum had carried him this far, and the truth would collapse back into silence where heâd kept it for too long.
âThat night. In the motel. I wasnât trying to listen, but I did,â he admitted, his gaze fixed on you, or at least on the shape of you that his mind had already decided was yours. âYou said you were in love with me.â
The silence that followed didnât feel empty. It felt stretched, like it might snap under the weight of everything hanging inside it. Sam forced himself not to look away, even as something in his chest twisted painfully, even as the vulnerability of what heâd just said settled in with a kind of delayed clarity. He focused on your face, on the familiar lines and expressions he thought he knew so well, grounding himself in that image as he pushed forward, because stopping now would be worse.
âI donât know why,â he said, and there was something raw in the honesty of it. âYouâreâŠyouâre amazing. You move through this life like it makes sense, like you belong in it, and half the time I feel like Iâm just trying to keep up.â His throat tightened slightly, the words catching for a fraction of a second before he forced them through. âHalf the time I feel like you deserve someone who isnât constantly tripping over his own thoughts, someone who doesnât second-guess every step he takes.â
He swallowed, like he was steadying himself against something unseen. The world had narrowed down to this moment, to the quiet space between him and the person he believed he was speaking to, to the weight of everything he hadnât said before pressing forward all at once.
âBut if you meant it,â he continued, softer now, the edge of uncertainty creeping in despite everything, âif that wasnât just the beer talkingâŠâ He let out a breath he hadnât realized heâd been holding, his voice dropping just enough to make the confession feel almost private, even out here under the harsh glow of the parking lot lights. âI think I feel the same.â
The words settled between them, heavy and still, like they had altered something fundamental in the air itself. For a moment, everything seemed to pause, the distant crackle of flames where Dean was finishing the bodies, the faint rustle of wind moving through the trees at the edge of the cemetery, even the low hum of the Impala cooling behind him. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to shift.
And then a completely unfamiliar voice said, very carefully, ââŠIâm sorry, what?â
The illusion didnât fade gradually. It shattered.
Sam blinked, the world snapping back into focus with a jarring clarity that made his stomach drop. The person crouched in front of himâthe one whose hands had been on his arm, whose face he had been looking at like it was yoursâwasnât you. Not even close. It was the girl from town, the one Dean had sweet-talked into driving them out to the cemetery earlier, the one who had hovered awkwardly nearby during the cleanup when youâd gone to grab the kit. She was holding it now, her fingers frozen halfway through wrapping the bandage, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and alarm, her eyes wide as she tried to make sense of a conversation she had very clearly not signed up for.
Samâs brain stalled completely.
For a split second, nothing connected. Not the words heâd just said, not the person in front of him, not the sudden, awful realization clawing its way up through his chest.
Then it all hit at once.
He turned his head too quickly, like he was trying to escape the moment by physically looking away from it. And there you were, exactly where you should have been all along, standing a few feet away by the Impala, arms crossed tightly over your chest, your posture rigid in a way that didnât look like anger so much as shock. You were staring at him, not blinking, like youâd just watched something unfold that your mind hadnât quite caught up with yet, like you were still trying to piece together what youâd just heard and whether it had actually happened.
Behind you, Dean was losing it.
He was bent halfway over the trunk, one hand braced against the metal for support as laughter tore out of him in uneven bursts, loud and unrestrained in the quiet of the night. âOh man,â he managed between breaths, shaking his head like he couldnât believe what heâd just witnessed. âSammy finally cracks and the poor girl thinks heâs proposingâJesus, I wish I had a camera.â
The sound of it only made everything sharper, more real, more impossible to ignore.
Heat rushed violently up Samâs neck, spreading across his face in a way he couldnât control, his entire body going tense. The girl in front of him blinked again, still processing, her grip on the bandage loosening slightly as she looked between him and you like she was trying to find solid ground in a situation that had none.
âSoâŠthat wasnât for me?â she asked, her voice smaller now, uncertain.
Sam dragged a hand over his face, covering his eyes for a second like he could somehow undo the last thirty seconds if he just blocked it out.
âDefinitely not,â Dean answered for him, far too quickly, far too pleased with himself.
And somewhere in the middle of it allâthe laughter, the confusion, the weight of what heâd just said out loud where it couldnât be taken backâSam lowered his hand and looked at you again.
Because the worst part wasnât that heâd said it.
It was that now you knew.
For a long moment, you didnât move.
It wasnât dramatic. You didnât storm off or snap or laugh it away like it was nothing. You justâŠstood there, arms still crossed tight across your chest like youâd forgotten they were there, your weight shifted slightly onto one leg, like your body had stalled halfway through deciding what to do next. Your eyes stayed on Sam, fixed and searching in a way that made his chest tighten, like you were trying to read something he hadnât even figured out how to say yet.
Behind you, Deanâs laughter kept spilling out, loud and relentless, bouncing off the Impala and the gravestones like heâd just witnessed the funniest thing of his life, and under any other circumstance, maybe it wouldâve been. But right now it just made everything feel worse. Too exposed.
You inhaled slowly through your nose, then let it out, and when you spoke, your voice was quieter than usual, but firm enough that it cut clean through the noise.
âDean,â you said, not even looking at him, âcan youâŠnot?â
That was all it took.
Dean sobered a littleânot completely, there was still a grin tugging at his mouthâbut he straightened, lifting his hands in surrender like, alright, alright, I get it. He glanced between you and Sam, something more perceptive slipping into his expression, then jerked his head toward the girl still crouched awkwardly by Samâs arm.
âCâmon,â he said to her, nudging her gently. âLetâs give Romeo here a minute to recover his dignity.â
âDean,â Sam muttered weakly, dragging a hand down his face again.
âToo late, man,â Dean shot back, already backing away. âWay too late.â
The girl followed him, still looking confused but clearly grateful to escape, and within a few seconds their voices faded off toward the edge of the cemetery, leaving behind a quieter kind of silence.
Not empty.
JustâŠcharged.
You shifted your weight again, uncrossing your arms slowly, like the movement took more effort than it should have. Then you stepped closer. Not all the way, not enough to crowd him, but enough that there was no space left for misunderstanding. No distance for him to pretend heâd been talking to someone else.
âOkay,â you said, a little softer now, your hands hovering awkwardly at your sides before you shoved them into your jacket pockets. âUmâŠlook at me.â
Sam blinked, like he needed a second to catch up to the request, even though he already was. His shoulders straightened instinctively anyway, like heâd been called on in class, like he was bracing for something. His injured arm rested stiffly against his side, the half-finished bandage still loose around it.
âYeah,â he said, a little too quickly. Then, quieter, âI meanâI am.â
You nodded once, like you were gathering your thoughts, your gaze flicking over his face in quick, almost nervous passes before settling again.
âYouâŠheard me,â you said, not quite a question, but not fully a statement either. âThat night.â
He swallowed.
âYeah,â he admitted. âIâI didnât mean to. I was just trying to sleep and then Iââ He stopped, pressing his lips together briefly. âI heard.â
You nodded again, slower this time, like you were absorbing it.
âAnd just now,â you continued, your voice dipping slightly, the confidence from earlier slipping just enough to reveal something more uncertain underneath, âwhat you saidâŠthat wasnât justââ You gestured vaguely, like you couldnât quite find the word. ââa concussion thing? OrâŠyou know. Blood loss. Or whatever.â
Sam let out a breath that almost turned into a nervous laugh but didnât quite make it.
âNo,â he said, shaking his head quickly. âNo, itâsââ He hesitated, his eyes dropping for a second to his hands before flicking back up to you. âI thought I was talking to you. But I meant it.â
There was a beat.
He shifted slightly on the bumper, like he didnât know what to do with his legs, with his hands, with any part of himself, really. âI just didnâtâI didnât realize it, I guess. Not like that. Not untilâŠâ He trailed off, his mouth tightening, then forced himself to finish, quieter, âuntil you said it.â
Something in your face softened at that. Not completely, there was still that guarded edge, that carefulness you both carried, but it wasnât as sharp anymore.
âYou realize,â you said after a second, exhaling a small breath through your nose, âthis is really bad timing.â
Sam huffed out a weak, awkward laugh, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.
âYeah,â he said. âIâm getting that.â
âYou confessed to the wrong person,â you added, almost incredulous now, like you still couldnât fully believe it.
âI know,â he said quickly. âI know, Iâyeah.â
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then, despite everything, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, like it had slipped out before you could stop it.
Sam noticed.
And it made something in his chest twist in a way that was both terrifying andâŠnot entirely bad.
You looked at him again, more steadily this time, like youâd made a decision somewhere in the silence.
âSo,â you said, your voice quieter now, a little less guarded, even if your hands were still tucked into your pockets like you didnât know where else to put them, âyou feel the same.â
Sam nodded, once, firm despite the nerves that still showed in the way his shoulders were a little too tight, the way he shifted like he wasnât sure where to look for more than a second at a time.
âYeah,â he said. âI do.â
Another pause.
Longer this time, but not as heavy.
You rocked back slightly on your heels, then forward again, like you were working up to something, your gaze flicking briefly to the ground before coming back up to meet his.
âOkay,â you said, almost to yourself. Then, a little louder, âOkay.â
Sam blinked.
âOkay?â he repeated, a little uncertain.
You nodded, a small, nervous huff of breath escaping you as you glanced away for half a second, then back.
âYeah. I justââ You shrugged slightly, one shoulder lifting. âI didnât think youâdâfeel like that. About me.â
He frowned faintly, confusion cutting through the nerves.
âWhy not?â he asked, genuinely baffled.
You let out a short, awkward laugh, looking down again.
âHave you met me?â you muttered.
Samâs frown deepened, his head tilting slightly.
âYeah,â he said, softer now, like that part was obvious. âThatâs kind of the point.â
That caught you off guard.
It showed, just for a second.
And then, slowly, something in your posture loosened, like a knot had eased just a little.
Neither of you moved right away.
The space between you felt new. You stood there with your hands half out of your pockets now, like youâd forgotten what you meant to do with them, your shoulders still carrying the last remnants of tension from everything that had just happened. Sam hadnât moved from where he sat, but he looked different somehow.
The wind picked up just enough to shift the quiet.
It slid through the open cemetery, carrying the faint smell of ash and damp earth, tugging at your jacket, lifting strands of your hair and pushing them across your face in a way that made you blink. You huffed softly, trying to blow it out of your eyes, but it only made things worse, the strands catching awkwardly against your lips, your cheek, sticking where sweat and dried blood hadnât quite been cleaned away.
Sam noticed immediately.
His brow furrowed just slightly, his attention snagging on it like it always did with small details. For a second, he hesitated again, like he was still getting used to the idea that he was allowed to reach for you, that this wasnât just something he had to keep at a distance, tucked safely behind careful words and polite boundaries.
âHold on,â he said softly, almost instinctive.
You stilled without thinking, your breath catching just a little at the tone alone.
He stood this time, a little awkwardly, one hand bracing briefly against the Impala before he stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him again, that subtle shift in the air that made everything else fade just a little.
His hand lifted, slower than it probably needed to be, like he was still giving you time to stop him if you wanted to.
You didnât.
His fingers brushed gently against your temple, careful as he tucked the loose strands of your hair back where they belonged, smoothing them away from your face with a softness that didnât match the roughness of everything else around you. His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary, like he hadnât quite planned for what came after.
Your heart stuttered.
He noticed that too.
You could see it in the way his eyes flicked to yours, searching.
âSorry,â he murmured again, like he wasnât sure what else to say.
You shook your head slightly, your lips curving before you could stop them.
âYou donât have to apologize for that,â you said, softer now.
He huffed out a small breath, something almost like a laugh, his shoulders loosening just a fraction.
âRight,â he said. âRight. Okay.â
There was a beat.
Another one.
And then you did the thing he hadnât quite managed to.
You closed the distance.
It wasnât dramatic. You didnât overthink it, didnât give yourself the time to spiral into all the reasons you shouldnât or all the ways it could go wrong. You just leaned in, one hand coming up to catch lightly at the front of his jacket, steadying yourself more than pulling him closer, and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was soft, but certain.
Still a little clumsy, his surprise showed in the way he inhaled sharply against you, in the awkward adjustment before he found the rhythm, but he melted into it quickly, like heâd been holding back something he didnât know how to release until now. His hand came up instinctively, hovering for half a second before resting gently at your jaw again, thumb brushing lightly against your skin like he needed to make sure you were real.
You smiled into it, just slightly.
And he felt it.
A few yards away, partially hidden behind the Impala, Dean had a perfect view.
He leaned casually against the trunk, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with a grin that had lost most of its teasing edge and settled into something more relieved than heâd ever admit out loud. Beside him, the girl from town peeked around his shoulder, still trying to piece together what sheâd accidentally walked into.
Dean shook his head lightly, like heâd just confirmed something heâd suspected all along.
âSee?â he muttered to her, nudging her arm with his elbow. âTold you.â
She raised an eyebrow. âTold me what?â
Deanâs grin widened, eyes flicking back to the two of you standing a little too close under the dim parking lot lights, like the world had narrowed down to just that space.
âThat loveâs in the air,â he said, satisfied.
(king steve warning i guess? tiny bit of angst, mostly fluff)
steve harrington is the kind of guy who does not want to admit that he likes the quiet girl at school.
he would rather die than tell tommy h that he had been staring at you in history class. would rather saw off his own arm than admit he had been checking you out and not the cheer squad in gym.
he swore that his little crush on you would have been a secret that he took to his grave.
but then he heard scotty w was going to ask you to prom.
and steve wasnât going to let that happen.
he found you the first place he lookedâthe library.
nowâhad steve ever talked to you? not really. steveâs little crush on you involved a lot of looking at you from afar and not a lot of well, talking to you. and so, the look on your face when steve (king steve, steve âthe hairâ harrington, whatever else it was people called him these days) sat down at your table was one of complete and utter surprise.
you blinkâlooking at him for a long moment before glancing around the study area where there was a large array of empty tables.
âum, hi?â you sayâutterly perplexed why steve harrington was sitting on your table in the library and not somewhere moreâinteresting.
steve hadn't really thought about what he would say to youâand now you were looking at him curiouslyâhe was wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.
"hi," steve replies as he forces himself to smile. reminding himself it was either him or scotty.
"you lost or something?" you ask, smiling in a teasing manner that makes steve's insides feel warm.
"no iâ" steve begins, looking around the library as though it would give him strength for what he was about to do. "i wasâi was just wondering if you had a date forâyou knowâfor prom."
you blink. for a momentâyou think too much about the question before you stop yourself. this was steve harrington he wasn't going to ask you to promâ
"because if you're not going with anyone," he continues, picking out one of your pens from your pencil case just to have something to do with his hands while his heart hammered in his chest. "thenâiâi'd quite like to go with you."
you had to be dreaming. you had to have entered some alternative dimension in the past few minutes. you were so shocked that you didn't answerâjust stared at steve in some sort of state of shock.
when you say nothingâsteve swallows. suddenly more nervous than he has ever been before in his life. your pen in his hands tapping against the table.
"or not," he shrugs casually after a moment. "if you don't wantâ"
"âi don't have a dress," you tell him finally, your face warm as your eyes flicker up to meet his.
"oh," steve says, putting the pen down on the table and looking back at you. "why not? were you not going to go?"
you shake your head.
"well, you should," steve says. "i meanâyou'd look good in a dress."
your face warms even more and for a moment you look away from him and down at your lap.
"you sure you don't want to ask anyone else?" you ask steve quietly when you look back up at him. "someone like penny orâ"
steve snorts and shakes his head. "noâi'm sure. i wantâi really want to go with you. even if you end up wearing a trash bag or something."
you laugh at that and steve wants to bottle up the sound to listen to when his days are dark. it makes him feel lighterâa little more confident. not in that cocky 'king steve' way more. but something softer. something more steve.
"so, what do you say?" he asks, leaning over the table a little so that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "prom. you. me. a trash bag or two?"
the corner of your mouth twitches as you fight back a smile.
"yeah," you say finally. "minus the trash bag. maybe."
dividers by @zclhs / banner by @cursed-carmine
đ day eleven of the 1k followers special!
fuck this new tumblr update honestly! if you want a explainer read here but yeah itâs really disappointing. but anyway!! please enjoy this one! slight king steve. only three more days left of the 1k followers special!
You and your picky four-year-old daughter, June, become frequent faces in the ER, where the devoted Dr. âRabbitâ works. TW mentions of eating disorders/vomit
You and your picky four-year-old daughter, June, become frequent faces in the ER, where the devoted Dr. âRabbitâ works. 1.3k
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âAlright, listen up. Trauma inbound. Highway pileup. One critical, three moderate behind. ETA four minutes. First patient is a female, intubated in the field, possible chest trauma. Letâs set up for rapid transfusion.â
âOn it.â
Jack can't help but think of you. He knows you take the highway to work and that you'd be on it about this time. But he's also in charge; he has a job to do. His therapist would tell him to let go of what he cannot control.
He claps his hands together and instructs, âJohn, Katie, youâre with me. Ellis, cover the other three with Joy.â
âGot it.â
âLena, whatâs open?â
âTrauma one.â
Jack shimmies his arms into a paper gown, but doesnât get a chance to knot it before the back doors fly open with their intubated woman on a stretcher.
âWhat happened to four minutes?â
âGot to keep you on your toes, grandpa,â the EMT teases.
Jack walks alongside as they drive the patient inside. He's glad it's not you, but guilty that it had to be someone else. He would normally have some quip for his EMT buddy about his lack of grandkidsâ or kids for that matterâ if it werenât for this womanâs distended belly turning black and blue.
âGCS was six on arrival. Intubated on scene. Seven-five tube, secured at twenty-two at the teeth. Bilateral breath sounds initially, diminished on the left about five minutes out.â
Jackâs eyes flick to the patientâs chest. âYou decompress?â
âNeedle decompression left side en route. Brief improvement in sats.â
âPressures?â
âStarted at ninety systolic. Dropped to seventy-eight despite a liter of fluids.â
âAny blood given?â
âNegative.â
âIV access?â
âTwo eighteens.â
Jack nods once. âAlright. On my countâ one, two, three.â
After the chest tube goes in, a rush of dark blood comes out. Massive internal trauma, what Jack feared. They push blood through the rapid infuser, and somebody starts compressions when her pressure crashes. The OR is alerted, but she codes before she can be moved.
Jack calls it. He chucks his gloves into the bin, fingers raking back the curls plastered to his forehead. Itâs been a shit show of a night. He naively believed it couldnât get worse before the end of his shift. His shift that ended thirty-five minutes ago.
While Jack loves what he does, some days itâs simply less forgiving than others. He wishes Robby were here to run the post-mortem debrief, to be the leader Jackâs residents deserve. But he buckles up his boot straps and breaks the somber silence in the room.
âWe did good. There was nothing else we couldâve done. Night shift, go home. Get some rest.â
Heâs retreating back to his favorite corner of the ED, to rinse his brain of the last thirteen hours and grab a drink of water from his bag, when he overhears Santos say, âIsnât that Abbotâs lady friend?â
Heâs quite perplexed because, for one, Â heâs single, and he knows what her tone is implying, and second, because heâs pretty sure Santos is into women and could not care less about his relationship status. But his gaze trips across the room to where youâre sitting, scrunched over yourself on a gurney in the hall.
His heart plummets right into his stomach. Heâs still wearing the aftermath of the woman in trauma one on his gown when he rushes to you.
âWhat happened? Were you in the accident?â
You blink up at him like youâre surprised to see him in his own place of work. âIâm okay.â
"June?"
"At school."
âHave you been looked at? I sent Ellis over toâ shit, let me see you.â He canât breathe. And his brain is tumbling through words faster than his mouth can get them out.
âSome kid came by. Oger-bee, I think?â
âOgilvie?â
âYeah.â
He doesnât trust Ogilvie with you, not for a second.
âHe said I have a concussion,â you continue slowly. âBut I dunno. I feel fine.â
Jack doesnât waste any time arguing. He moves into your space carefully, forgoing a new pair of gloves.
âHey, look at me for a second.â He slots your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting gently so your face catches the fluorescents. âEyes open," he says, voice low. He checks your pupils first. Penlight out of his pocket like muscle memory. One eye, then the other. Watching for constriction, then for asymmetry. âAny double vision?â
âNo.â
âFollow this.â He moves his finger slowly. Up. Down. Left to right and back. âHeadache?â
âI told you, Jack, Iâm fine.â
His eyes return to yours, pressing for the truth. Heâs so pretty up close. Lashes dark as night and stubble like snow flurries.
âBarely,â you lie.
âNausea? Dizziness? Light sensitivity?â
âNo.â
He cups his palm across the base of your skull, your hair catching between his fingers.
âSorry,â he whispers. âNeck pain?â
You shake your head. But when his fingers palpate along the knobs of your spine, you tense.
âWhereâd you hit?â
You gesture vaguely to the strip of gown between your neck and chest. He feels up your arm instead, from your fingers to the ball of your shoulder, like some sort of weird massage. But itâs niceâ his touching you. His hands are warm and heavy in a way thatâs soothing. But then his thumb presses into your clavicle, and you flinch before you can help yourself.
Jack pauses and warns, âAgain,â before pushing more deliberately. You squirm away from his touch with a wince.
âLift your arm,â he asks, fingertips grazing the underside of your wrist to spot you.
You can lift it, but not fully. It's an immediate and shooting kind of pain.
âOkay. Weâll do an X-ray.â He lowers himself until heâs at eye level. âHow many fingers?â
âThree.â
He nods. âWhatâs the date?â
You hesitate for half a second but answer correctly.
His jaw tightens visibly. All the stress he must keep there, you think.
âDo you remember what you had for breakfast?â
You think about it for an alarming amount of time. And he has no idea if youâre telling the truth or not so he considers it wrong.
âAny back pain?â His tone is serious but still warm, still Jack.
You say no much too quick for his liking.
He leans closer, palm sliding up against your mid-back. Itâs nice. Itâs almost like a hug.
âWhere?â he asks, applying some pressure. Some more when you don't answer.
âThere.â
He hums dissatisfactorily. âWeâre imaging that too.â
âIâm okay, Jack. Itâs probably just a bruise.â
âBetter safe than sorry," he reasons. And he gifts you his first real smile of the day. He wants nothing more than for you to feel better and he hopes his pearly teeth will do the trick. Selfishly, he wants to hug you, too, to make himself feel better more than anything. He thinks you wouldn't mind, but youâre too injuredâ heâs afraid heâll do more damage than good. Your arm gets a little rub in compromise. âGlad youâre okay,â he says, not as your doctor but as something more.
You grin back, masking the fatigue and the steady pulse of pain. âMe too.â
âI wouldâve come first thing if I knew you were here, sweetheart. I wish somebody told me. Iâm sorry.â
âNo, no. Donât be.â
âLet me run and grab you a sling.â
He turns the other way, but you grab his arm before he can get too far. âWait, can you just⊠stay? Do you have a minute?â
He deflates like a big balloon. You have him wrapped around your finger, whether heâs willing to admit it or not. âOf course, I do. You need something, just say the word, okay?â
A wave of relief. âThank you.â
He perches on the edge of your cot, and you lean into his shoulder despite how much it hurts. He feels a dozen eyes on him the second he takes your hand in both of his, but he canât find it in himself to care right now. Not with you and your gorgeous face pressed into his arm.
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đïž A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Mishaâs Masterlist Library.
đ Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here
BOOK ONE: Chapter 23 -> 24
Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader
hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. đč
đč SUMMARY: Forty-eight hours to go. Then youâll be thrown into an arena full of apocalyptic beasts and twenty-three other tributes all playing this hellish game of survival. But before youâll be forced to fight and starve, you bake a home cooked meal in the penthouse suite to share with Steve⊠and to also watch the second movie on your double feature watch list.
Beauty and the Beast.
Meanwhile, the press is all abuzz across the nation leading up to the Games⊠especially back in your hometown. Hawkins might be a cluster of dystopian debris and disheveled civilians, but itâs holding down the line in both yours and Steve Harringtonâs absence. Joyce takes care of your sick grandfather, while Jonathan helps run the bakery. Eddie still runs the household on Steveâs behalf. Posters are plastered everywhere. Banners hang from boarded up windows, remaining buildings downtown and the old high school. Yours and Steveâs faces are draped across every corner of the town that Dustin, Eddie and the kids can fillâŠ
But nothing compares to the magazine articles that shatter none other than beautiful Nancy Wheelerâs scorned heart, displaying photographs of you and Steve standing side by side in ways that none of the other tributes do.
đč AUTHORâS NOTES: Itâs almost time to enter the iconic THG canon moments (but with a twist): Seneca Craneâs evaluations, and Caesar Flickermanâs interviews that stir the whole damn pot. Please sink your teeth into all the pre-games lore that weâre still exploring here, because Iâm truly setting this all up to be the most angsty Hunger Games.
But, as always, there's also quiet domesticity to be found within the Tribute Tower, between District Twelve's unknowingly star-crossed lovers.
These chapters are some of my favorite gritty-turned-tender moments. Lots of world-building in these, but hoping you'll find the lead-up to the Games to be worth it. I hate rushing plot, so hold my hand. Walk with me. Enjoy.
p.s. Nell Fisher's portrayal of Holly Wheeler lowkey might've become my permanent face card for Hannah. Sorry. The Price twins are Holly canon in this fic for me now.
Xx, misha
Chapter Twenty-Three
The penthouse kitchen has somehow transformed itself into a semblance of what used to be your world back in Hawkins. Not because itâs been stripped of its neon accent colors, bouncing off the gaudy chrome. Its true nature, its sheer unapologetic abundance, still remains intact. The marble countertops stretch farther than your childhood home ever did. Sleek drawers slide open soundlessly. The cabinets are stocked with ingredients youâve only ever seen illustrated in old cookbooks or whispered about in ration lines.
It smells like yeast and butter and citrus zest.
It smells like home, if home had ever been allowed to exist like this.
It smells like magic that only a bakerâs daughter can pinch and sprinkle.
You stand barefoot on the cool stone floor, cardigan sleeves pushed up, hair half-pinned off your face but already slipping loose as you move, gliding from counter to stove, like youâve done this a thousand times. Because you have. Just not here. Not with this much.Â
Not with death waiting politely on the calendar.
Steve leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching you with an expression he keeps trying to flatten into disinterest â and failing miserably.
âYou know,â he says dryly, âitâs deeply fucked up that they give us access to this much food right before they throw us into a dirt pit to stab each other.â
You hum, checking the pan. âMm. Bread and circuses.â
You glance over your shoulder, smiling. âI read.â
âI know,â he says. âThatâs the problem.â
You snort fondly. âYouâre the one who agreed to watch Beauty and the Beast with me tonight.â
âThat was under duress.â
âLiar.â
Steveâs mouth quirks despite himself. âI prefer the term reluctantly cultured.â
âIf Iâm not mistaken,â you playfully drawl, still working the stove effortlessly, âI believe it was you who suggested a double feature. Two movie nights. Back to back.â
He tilts his head, feigning forgetfulness. âDid I?â
âYou did,â you cluck your tongue once, mock-sagely. âI even tried suggesting we just watch both the same night, butâŠâ You pause, lightly sighing as you swirl the butter around the pan. Your angel eyes flick to him â a teasing glint shining through them, a smirk tugging at your lips. âAlas, weâre here. Youâve dragged out the inevitable, Harrington.â
He clicks his tongue back with mock-disapproval. âIâm my own worst enemy.â
You laugh â soft, genuine⊠and it does something unpleasant to his chest.
Especially because the words heâs said arenât even a complete lie.
He clears his throat, his doe eyes tracking the way you move. The ease of it. The care. You taste as you go, adjust seasoning instinctively, tear herbs with your fingers instead of chopping them. Thereâs no rush to it. No stress. Just intention.
âDid your dad cook like this?â Steve asks suddenly, the question slipping out before he can stop it.
You pause only briefly.
âYeah,â you say softly. âAll the time.â
Thereâs a melancholy wistfulness to your tone⊠as if maybe the bittersweet memory strangely brings you more comfort than it does painful longing.Â
You turn down the heat, wiping your hands on a towel. âHe said food tasted better when it was made with purpose. Not just hunger.â
Steve nods slowly.
You continue, unaware of the way his gaze sharpens. âHeâd wake up early on Sundays and bake bread from scratch. The whole house would smell like yeast and honey.â A little smile meets your eyes as you eye the sizzling pan, then look at Steve. âHe used to tell me it drove my mom crazy, because she swore it made the neighbors jealous.â
A soft huff escapes him.Â
âAnd I guess he justâŠâ He pauses, considering his words. âDidnât let it stop him. From living his life. Right?â
Your smile deepens. âNever. Not if it meant providing a life of peace.â
Steve watches your eyes glance down to the spatula resting near the stove, your mind wandering a moment.
âHe was⊠warm,â you added quietly. âEveryone loved him. Not because he tried to be anything special. He just⊠was.â
He watches the way your shoulders lift in a small shrug, like itâs no big thing.
And it guts him.
Because everything that youâre describing about your father â every gentle quality, every unassuming kindness â is standing right here. In front of him, barefoot in a Capitolâs Tribute Tower penthouse kitchenâŠcooking a meal like this is normal.
âYouâre like him,â Steve says without thinking.
You blink, startled. âI am?â
âYeah,â he mutters, suddenly very interested in the marble countertop. âYeah, and you donât even notice. Never met him. But Iâd bet money on it.â
You smile to yourself, your heart rate doing something stupid and painful and tragically devoted all at once. âThatâs⊠nice of you to say.â
âDonât get used to it.â
You smirk. âGod forbid.â
Steveâs big brown eyes meet yours again, thawing out the second they do.
Thereâs a charged moment of silence that neither one of you rushes to fill.
And from somewhere down the hall, a television blares faintly. Muffled sound with indistinct voices, Capitol news on too loud. Hopperâs room, you assume. The sound is oddly grounding, a reminder that the world hasnât completely stopped spinning just because youâre stealing this moment.
A reminder that even cynics still care.
Steve grimaces. âHeâs been glued to that thing all day.â
âHe is mentoring,â you point out gently.
âYeah,â Steve replies flatly. âOr drinking.â
You shoot him a look. âSteve...â
âWhat?â He shrugs. âIâm not wrong.â
Your brows furrows, chest pinching. âI really do think heâs trying.â
A weak, humorless chuckle huffs past his lips as he stares at the fire sizzling beneath the pan, feeling his own simmer. âSomeoneâs gotta.â
You donât argue. Because God, thereâs something there. That shared tension between them that you donât yet understand⊠so you let it lie.
Instead, you slide the finished dishes onto plates. Roasted vegetables. Fresh bread, torn instead of sliced. A simple protein, cooked perfectly. It looks like something out of a magazine â but it feels like survival.
Steve stares. âJesus.â
You grin. âTold you. Bakerâs daughter.â
ââŠis that lamb chop?â
âYeah,â you smile sadly. âCouldnât cook it the way I usually do, but⊠it works. For now, at least.âÂ
He catches a flicker of sadness inside your eyes as you hand him a plate.
âI hate to cook it at all,â you confess, sheepishly. Almost shamefully. âBut with a nationwide apocalypse, we donât⊠really have much choice.â
Steve nods slowly, quietly understanding. âWere you vegetarian before?â
âPescatarian,â you clarify with a gentle nod as he fills glasses of water for the two of you. âBut given we donât have much fish coming in from vendors these daysâback in Hawkins, I meanâŠâ
âYou had to make due,â he finishes.
You nod once, forcing a tight smile. âI just canât bring myself to slaughter any living thing. If it has a soul, it weighs heavy on mine.â
His brows pinch â but before he can see your weakness, you turn away and collect some fresh napkins for the two of you.Â
âBut I know,â you add, taking your glass from him. âI know thatâs not exactly a dietary mindset people can afford in times like these.â
To your surprise, Steveâs cynical eyes donât harden or cast judgement toward you. In fact, he looks sympathetic. Empathic, even.Â
âDoesnât mean you should stop caring about what matters to you,â he says.
Your lips part in further surprise, words failing you. And you stare at him for a second longer than you should. Because that wasnât a Capitol answer. That wasnât something polished or rehearsed or performative.
That was Steve.
Unfiltered.
The same boy who once skipped class to drive clear across town because a middle schooler thought his cat was missing forever.
You swallow. âI donât plan to,â you say gently. âStopping would make it easier. And I donât think easierâs the point.â
He studies you then. Really studies you â like youâve just said something he needs to memorize for later.
âYeah,â he mutters. âYou donât really do easy.â
You huff softly, fondly scrunching your nose. âNeither do you.â
That earns a quiet look. Something unreadable flickers across Steveâs pretty face â something almost defensive⊠but it fades before it can settle.
You reach for the freshly baked loaves of bread and tear one open, steam curling into the air between you as you smile down at the result of your skills. For a second, neither of you speaks. The kitchen hums. The faint television down the hall drones on about training scores and sponsor odds and Capitol spectacle, where you assume Hopper is still keeping with the media, with the strict understanding that no oneâs to disturb him tonight â hence the crudely written âdonât know, donât disturb, donât askâ sign heâs left on his door. So you donât, and neither does Steve. But you do slip a note under the crack, so that he knows that youâve set aside a plate for him thatâs being kept warm â just beneath the heated lamp inside the kitchen.
This penthouse is stocked for indulgence.
But the two of you are hoarding something else entirely.
Normalcy.
Steve pushes off the counter first. âAlright,â he says, grabbing two plates. âIf weâre gonna pretend this is a normal movie night in Hawkins, might as well commit.â
You smile faintly at that.
Movie night.
As if there will be another one.
You follow him out of the kitchen, balancing bowls and silverware, stepping into the living room like itâs something sacred instead of staged luxury. The lights are dimmer here. Warmer. The massive windows reflect the city instead of revealing it.
For a fleeting second, it almost feels like home.
Almost.
____
The two of you migrate into the living room like conspirators. The coffee table is quickly overtaken. Not just with the steaming dinner plates, but also bowls and trays of scavenged desserts, chocolates, pastries and god-knows-what that only you can pronounce. Itâs excess, piled high in quiet rebellion.
You both eat on the floor, side by side, knees almost brushing.Â
Almost.
Youâre trying not to openly blush or lean to close, in fear heâll retreat.
Steve just chews slowly, eyes widening despite himself. âDammit, Everdeen.â
You laugh. âHigh praise.â
âThis is⊠insane,â he says. âWeâve eaten Capitol gourmet food for days now and this is still better.â
You sweetly shrug. âFood tastes different when it isnât trying to impress you.â
He considers that.
Then stabs another bite. âNothing at that goddamn luncheon tasted like this.â
The way that makes you smile down at your plate makes Steve feel an odd sort of satisfying run through him, making him smirk at you sideways.
âWell,â you lightly chirp, slicing your lamb chop. âTo be fair, that little âHawkins on a platterâ dish they served us was commercially compromised.â
âOh fuck that shit,â he groans, grimacing around a mouthful at the memory.
âIâd really rather not,â you said mock-gravely.Â
Thatâs enough to make Steve slightly choke on his food.
Steve barks a laugh, reaching for the remote. âWhyâre cuss words outta your mouth the weirdest thingâŠâ
You shrug, eyes full of mischief. âMy grandfather would say that itâs because angels donât cuss, but⊠Iâm not that.â
He lightly hums that, flipping through channels lazily, the television remote dangling from his fingers. âI dunno. Youâre a lot closer to being an angel than a devil. Wouldnât say heâs entirely off.â
Steve isnât even looking at you when he says it.
And thank fuck for that, because currently? Youâre fighting for your life, trying to survive the frenzied swarm butterflies in your stomach, whoâre performing their happiest ballet yet. But you just stare down at your dinner while he surfs for the channel with the old vintage Disney films.
Then you watch him. Quietly, secretly⊠stealing glances at him through your lashes. Enough to etch the shape of him into your memory. One frame, one blink, at a time.
He doesnât catch you at first.
Until he does.Â
âSomething on my face?â
You blink, throat closing. âNo.â
âYou sure?â
A shy chuckle tumbles from you before you take a much needed sip of water. âIâm sure, Steve,â you insist warmly.
He arches a brow, eyes flicking back to the TV. âThen whyâre you staring.â
You smile, unperturbed. âIâm not.â
âRen.â
Fuck.
You sigh, your heart rate picking up speed as you fork another bite.Â
Shit, what do you say to this?
âBakerâs habit,â you say, settling for a half-truth. âJustâalways stealing peeks at our taste-testers. Hoping to not disappoint.â
You chew closely. Keep your eyes on your plate of food.
Fuck, what if youâve ruined this?
What if he doesnât trust you now?
What if he can see youâre full of shit?
What if he thinks youâre just another helplessly smitten girl?
What ifâ
ââŠRen,â he says again, softer this time.
You still canât look at him yet. Not until you catch him craning his neck out of the corner of your eye, trying to catch your gaze.Â
Finally, you look up⊠meeting his brown-eyed gaze.
Itâs tender.
âItâs great,â he tells you sincerely. âReally. You're great.â
Your heart flips again. And you know better than to misunderstand his words. To misinterpret them. To naĂŻvely believe that they mean more than what heâs actually saying.
The food is great.
Your cooking skills are great.
Your temporary companionship is great.
âOkay, good,â you murmur, a tiny smile gracing your features.
Steve looks at you another moment, expression unreadable.
Then he winks, returning his attention to the channels. Youâre both still sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, now leaning back against the couch â content in a way that feels almost illegal.
âBingooo,â he mutters, finding the digital selection of vintage Disney movies. Then he tilts his head at the screen. âWhich one are we watching again?â
You beam. âOh, nice try.â
âNo, really.â His mouth twitches. "Dementia's settling in. Help me out here.â
You slowly turned to him, mouthing: âwow.â
Steve just shrugs, innocently. âWhat?â
âEven my poor old grandfather hasnât tried that one,â you deeply giggle.
He stares.Â
Then blinks at you. Once, twice.
Visible guilt starts creeping in and you can see it in his doe eyes.
âShit, IâmââÂ
âAnd heâs old enough to sell it, too,â you keep giggling.
His mouth closes, then opens.Â
Closes, opens.
Then hesitantly asksâŠ
ââŠare you actually amused right now?â
âYes,â you laugh, genuinely tickled. âYes, Steve. That was tragic.â
Steveâs rigid posture finally loosens with full-body relief. âJesus.â
âDonât bring Him into this,â you fire back, still grinning. âYouâre the one whoâs got poorly timed nursing home jokes.â
A huff of laughter leaves him, brows raised. âIâm sorry. You got a better one?â
You donât miss a beat. âSure. Itâs called Weâve Been Over This. Ghostwritten by actual caregivers. Youâve read it.â
That actually makes Steveâs brow arch towards the stratosphere.Â
You smirk with morbid delight, head tilting. âNeed an orientation check?â
ââŠJesus Christ,â he snorted, eyes shut, nose scrunched with laughter. âJust when I think youâre all wholesome and sweetâ you say shit like that.â
Your smirk only deepens as he looks at you in bewilderment.
âWhere does thisâŠâ He gestures, searching for the words. ââthis morbidly weird, twisted side of you come from?â
You look at him with sudden concern, solemnly lowering your voice, carefully placing your hand on his forearm. âYouâve already asked me thatâŠâ
He blinks.
Then barks a sharp, quick laugh before shaking his head while you just take a bite of bread like you didnât just detonate the night with uncharacteristically dark humor.
âAlright, Everdeen,â he drawls dryly. âYou scare me a little.â
The brightest little hum, almost a chirp, slips from you as you nod, satisfied. âNow pleaseâif you donât mindâŠâ you gesture to the screen. âHit play.â
He rolls his eyes, still grinning. âSure thing, youâre highness.â
You sit back with theatrical grace, smoothing over your silky loungewear then cradling your glass of water as the movie starts. The opening music begins, vintage colors and credits painting the screen as you feel Steve settle better beside you. Not touching you, just⊠nearer. Unintentionally. Unconsciously. And you hold your breath as he reaches for a fresh napkin, then picks up his plate and opts to sit on the couch â just behind you. Still beside you.
Close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his knee.
You feel it immediately. The way your heart stutters.Â
You donât move.
Neither does he.
The classic animated film unfolds, familiar as breathing. The prince becomes a beast, morphing into something dreadful before the dark beginning bleeds into the warmth of a little town in a quiet village. You mouth along to all the words without realizing it, eyes shining. Steve pretends not to watch you â and fails spectacularly.
Good thing heâs seated above you, just enough out of sight, so that you canât catch him stealing glances, or his quietly lingering stare.
Belle floats across the television screen.
âSheâs just like you,â he says absently.
You hum. âStubborn? Bookish?â
âBrave,â he adds. âAnd annoying.â
You peek at him over your shoulder with a playfully wry expression, elbowing him lightly before glancing back at the TV and eating your dinner. He doesnât flinch or move away. Just smirks and sips his water.
As the story continues, Steve grows quieter. He watches the way you react â the ache in your expression when Belle sings about wanting more than this provincial life. The way that your lips tremble whenever Maurice gets lost in the woods.
You subtly wipe at your eyes quickly, not drawing attention, secretly annoyed with yourself and internally longing for home.
But Steve notices anyway.
âMiss your grandpa?â he asks softly.
You nod, your gaze still on the screen. âEvery day.â
He swallows.
When Belle trades her freedom for her fatherâs, you go eerily still. And as the beast whisks her away, Steveâs jaw tightens. He's watching the film, but heâs watching you more⊠his mind perceptively clocking details. He understands, then. Because something clicks into place with a dull, painful certainty.
You would do it.
Youâd volunteer in your grandfatherâs place.
Without hesitation, just like Steve had volunteered for Dustin at the Reaping.
Heâs not really sure why he knows that to be certain, after spending the last handful of days â not even a full week â getting to know you better. Here at the Capitol, being groomed for gore. He just⊠does.Â
And it unsettles him.
Because he doesnât believe in people this instinctively. He doesnât believe in purity that survives this long. Heâs seen what the world does to good things. Heâs been what the world does to good things. You donât look like someone whoâs survived the kind of rot heâs crawled through. And yet you have fought to survive the same apocalyptic reality that heâs faced, back in Hawkins.
Same fire.
Different flavors.Â
Onscreen, Belle now pushes back against Gaston â firm and unimpressed.
You scoff softly. âThe most arrogant villain.â
âYeah, well,â Steve murmurs grimly. âGuy thinks heâs owed something just because he exists.â
You glance at him.
Clocking his tone.
That tone.
You donât press it. But you hear it.
âBeast isnât much better at first,â you murmur. âHeâs just angry.â
Steveâs jaw shifts, still watching the movie. âAnd?â
âAnd,â you echo, eyes also still on the screen, âanger isnât the same thing as cruelty. Oneâs pain. The otherâs choice.â
The room goes quieter.
He doesnât respond right away.
But something about that lands.
He leans forward slightly, forearms on his knees, eyes flicking to you instead of the film as he sets his plate back on the coffee table. âYou think he gets redeemed too easy?â he asks.
You think about that for a moment.
âNo,â you say honestly. âI think he has to choose it. Over and over. Thatâs the point.â
Steve watches your profile when you say that.
You have no idea what you just handed him.
Even he isnât quite sure. Not yet, anywayâŠ
He wonât for a long time.
The film continues to fill the space. The storybook unfolds scene by scene, song after song, plot twist after plot twist... and then the library scene finally arrives, hitting you like a freight train.
You beam. âOh my godâŠâ
Steve laughs under his breath. âYouâve seen this a hundred times.â
âI donât care,â you whisper, eyes shining. âLook at it...â
Rows upon rows of books bloom across the screen â towering shelves, ladders on brass rails, sunlight pouring through high cathedral windows like something holy. Knowledge stacked into sanctuary. Escape bound in paper and ink and enchanted sanctuary.
You sit forward without realizing it. âThe most enchanted safe haven,â youâre saying quietly, almost to yourself as you watch in awestruck wonder. âI canât even remember what any other Disney princessâs castle looks like. But if you asked me to draw you a blueprint of this from memory? Iâd tell you exactly what color pencils and markers I need.â
Youâre saying it to him, gesturing to the screen, completely mesmerizedâŠ
But Steve doesnât look at the screen now.
He looks at you.
He watches the way your entire face changes. It isnât childish. It isnât naĂŻve. Itâs reverent. Like someone who understands what it means to claw for scraps of quiet in a world that never shuts up. You smile like youâve just been handed oxygen, watching the Beast tell Belle that the library is all hers with a dashing smile that makes her glow from the inside out⊠and something in Steveâs chest shifts.Â
Itâs a slowly dawning, unwelcome thought.Â
A thought he might have once had, back when he wasnât incapable of having unrepressed love to offer someone in the form of resources and dreams come true.
And yet, he thinks it anyway. Right now. Distantly, and without permissionâŠÂ
I would give you that.
A room like that.
Walls of books.
No obligations.
No cameras.
No blood.
Just quiet.
The realization scares the shit out of him.
Because giving you something like that would mean surviving.
And surviving would meanâ
He shuts the thought down hard, allowing himself to tear his gaze away from you and back towards the TV screen â where Chip is telling Mrs. Potts that he canât hear what Belle and the Beast are talking about.
You lean back slightly, hugging your knees, voice soft. âHe doesnât give it to her because sheâs pretty,â you murmur. âOr something heâs determined to conquer. He gives it to her because heâs finally listening.â
Steveâs eyes flick to you again.
âThatâs what changes him,â you add. âNot romance. Respect.â
You donât know youâre dissecting him.
You donât know he hears every word like itâs personal.
He swallows, glancing back at the film. Onscreen, Belle runs her fingers along the spines of books.
You whisper warmly, âImagine...â
âWhat?â Steve asks quietly.
âHaving that much choice,â you say, chin perched on your knees as the animated film dances across your eyes. âThat many worlds. And not being trapped in any of them.â
Steve wishes he could imagine that.
But how can he? When heâs been trapped inside nightmares that far surpass the worst novels, the darkest tales that collect dust on shelves, untouched and unwanted⊠where no happy endings soften the blow, ease the pain, or make anyone believe that things might turn out alright in the end?
He watches your reflection in the television glass.
âYouâre not trapped,â he says before thinking.
You glance at him then, surprised by his choice of words, catching him staring at the screen.
He feels your eyes on him, but doesnât look back. Just squints at the screen as Beast and Beauty toast their bowls to one another from across the long table. âNot if you fight hard enough.â
Your gaze softens, eyes glossy as you see the tension in his jaw and the raw vulnerability behind those dark brown eyes that his untold story hardens from the inside. Thereâs no accusation in his tone, or his statement. Just acute awareness.
Two days.
Two days before youâre both trapped inside an arena.
The two of you stay quiet for a while after that, content with sharing silent company as your favorite film continues to color the screen with its magic. At one point, you catch Steve grinning boyishly at the ottoman-dog â and it's enough to make you verbally jest at his love for dogs with heartfelt humor. He leans into it, allowing himself the lighthearted change of tone.Â
Then Be Our Guest explodes across the screen.
Steve exhales, smirking at the screen. âHere we go.â
You light up instantly. âIt never gets old.â
âThis is where it gets ridiculous,â he mutters.
You grin like youâve been waiting for that exact cue. âDonât lie. You love this part.â
âI absolutely do not.â
âYou so do.â
He squints at you. âProve it.â
You turn to him â eyes alit with challenge, brows raised to the ceiling.
And then you do exactly that.
Prove it to him.
You launch into the song without hesitation â switching voices seamlessly, gesturing with your breadstick like itâs a conductorâs baton, eyebrows flying with exaggerated dramatics. You slide into LumiĂšreâs swagger, then Mrs. Pottsâ operatic vibrato, then Cogsworthâs stiff panic. You donât merely overdo it. You commit.
Not for attention.
Not to perform.
But because you love it.
Steve stares at you. He actually stares, taken aback. Youâre not even trying to impress him. You arenât trying to be adorable, or win him over, or capture his heart in a way thatâs meant to earn you some sort of prize or praise. You are just⊠incandescent. And it floors him. Because he doesnât understand how someone standing this close to death still burns like that. How they can burn without burning others, scorching their skin in ways that sear, damage and scar.
You rise from where youâve been perched on your knees, standing to belt out the final flourish of the song with unapologetic conviction, holding your empty dinner plate so that it serves as your imaginary hat â just like LumiĂšre.
âCourseâŠbyyyyâŠCOURSE! One! By! ONE!â
And now youâre literally can-canning, floating about the living room like itâs a full-blown Broadway production.
âŠand Steve loses it.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a smirk.
He laughs.
Head tipped back against the couch, shoulders shaking, hands over his face like heâs trying to contain it and failing.
Itâs loud.
Real.
Unfiltered.
You freeze mid-dance move, eyes widening slightly⊠and then you smile. Softly, brightly. Because you did that. You made him laugh like that. Youâve actually made Steve Harrington actually laugh out loud, with zero restraint whatsoever.
âOh my god,â he wheezes. âYouâre insane.â
You bow dramatically from your place near the screen. âThank you. And yesâI take requests. But only if given ample heads up. Two business days preferred.â
Steve shakes his head. Still smiling. Still smiling, like he forgot how for a second and just remembered.
And something warm floods your chest.
Not possession.
Not triumph.
Just gratitude.
For this.
For now.
The song ends. The room settles again as you lightly giggle at yourself, taking your seat next to him on the couch this time. And you keep a careful distance, enough to not crowd him without making him feel like his close proximity isnât safe. But the air between you feels different.
He exhales slowly. âYouâre something else, Ren.â
You glance over him.
âSteady on,â you murmur, warm and teasing, though shyly feigning an English accent. âThis is my best work.â
He meets your eyes.
And for once, thereâs no deflection.
âNo,â he says quietly. âI mean it.â
Your throat tightens.
And you look back at the screen before you can betray yourself, because if you hold his gaze one second longer, you might tell him everything. That youâve loved him since you were ten. That you memorized the way he laughed a long time ago, before he ever noticed you. That heâs beautiful, not just physically but inwardly.
That you donât need a library all to yourself.
Just this.
Just him.
The film moves toward its final act. The storm. The wolves. The balcony. The wicked spell being broken, in the midst of turmoil that seems hopeless. You go quiet again â not in sadness, but in absorption. And from beside you, Steve watches the tension build onscreen⊠but then he secretly watches you.
He notices how your fingers curl slightly when Belle runs back to the beast as he fades.
How your breathing stills during the final fall of Gaston and his evil ways.
How your lips part when the magic lifts and the spell breaks.
You arenât reacting like someone watching romance.Â
Youâre reacting like someone watching hope claw its way back from the edge.
The transformation scene glows across the room. Light. Music. Resurrection. Your eyes shine with joy and quiet tears alike. You donât cry outright or gasp. You just⊠exhale. Like something at long last has unclenched inside you.
Steve doesnât realize heâs been holding his breath too.
Not until he lets it go as the credits begin to roll.
Neither of you moves right away. The television hums softly in the darkened room. The Capitol lights blink outside the window like distant stars, holding your fate in a dark void of unknown. Eventually, you slide down to the floor again â beginning to stack the plates before an Avox girl steps in without prompt, wordlessly forbidding you the chance. She quickly winks at you, which only makes you smile warmly at her in return before sheâs clearing the table with ease.
Your shoulder brushes Steveâs knee fully now.
Not almost, like last time.
Fully this time.
But he doesnât pull away.
So you lean back carefully, resting your head against the couch cushion near his thigh. Not touching him. Not asking, or expecting anything other than sharing in his company for however much longer he's willing⊠before retiring to bed. Your voice is quiet when you break the silence first.
âTwo more nights,â you say lightly, not with fragility⊠just acknowledgement.
Steve looks down at you.
Youâre staring at the ceiling now.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. âYeah.â
You smile faintly. âGood thing we picked a double feature.â
Thereâs no tremor in your voice. And strangely, thatâs what kills him. Because you arenât pretending it isnât happening. You just⊠refuse to let it take this tiny moment of peace away from you, or from him.
He studies the side of your face.
You truly look peaceful.
Not because you donât understand.
But because youâve chosen, deliberately, to live inside this moment instead of the next one.
He doesnât know how to do that. Heâs always bracing. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, always calculating damage. Youâre not. Youâre just here. And for the first time in a long time, heâs letting himself be here too.
After a moment of hesitation, Steve gently nudges your foot with his.
A small thing.
A small little everything.
You glance up at him shyly.
He smiles faintly, crookedly, subtle but real. âWorth it.â
Something about that makes you gnaw at your bottom lip for a moment. Your eyes close for just a second. Not to fall asleep or doze off. You aren't trying to leave this moment just yet⊠Because youâre memorizing. The steady sound of his breathing. The warmth behind you, having him near without even having to be held by him. The way the city hums beyond the glass. The lithe footsteps of the Avox girls clearing out the kitchen, placing everything on a chrome cart as they make for the hallway and take everything to the nearest staff roomâŠÂ
If this is all you get, youâll take it.
Every stolen second.
Every laugh.
Every near-touch.
And Steve sits there, staring at the ceiling long after the credits finish.
He doesnât even realize that heâs smiling again. Not widely. Not intentionally. Just⊠genuinely.Â
But then it fades⊠because it terrifies him. Because two days from now, he will be expected to survive. To seek and hunt and slaughter and kill. And for the first time since the Reaping, he doesnât know if surviving is the same thing as winning.
The screen finally goes dark. Even so, neither of you move. And in the quiet hum of the penthouse â in the warmth that shouldnât exist here â you steal something that doesnât belong to the Capitol. Not spectacle. Not strategy. Not even romance.
Something far simpler.
Something thatâs all yours, for just a few illegal minutesâŠÂ
Time.
END OF CHAPTER
Chapter Twenty-Four
Downtown Hawkins doesnât look dead.
It looks tired.
Not the cinematic, blown-to-hell apocalypse people used to imagine in movies. No flaming wreckage. No dramatic craters swallowing buildings whole. Just the quiet erosion of a town that has been holding its breath for almost two years.
The storefront windows along Main Street are cracked like spiderwebbed ice. One of the traffic lights at the corner still blinks yellow because no oneâs bothered to fix it, and honestly, no one really needs it anymore. The grocery store two blocks over is boarded halfway up, not to keep people outâbut to keep whatever might crawl in from being seen too easily.
Hawkins survives. Thatâs what it does.
It survives the Upside Down tearing fissures through the pavement.
It survives the Purge Act and the riots and the earthquakes that followed.
It survives the Hunger Games announcement.
âŠbarely.
Nancy Wheeler stands beneath the awning of what used to be a boutique dress shop, holding a glossy magazine that looks like it was printed on another planet.
Capitol Vogue.
The glossy cover is obscene in its elite perfection. Gold lettering. Smooth paper. A studio-lit image of the Indiana Tributes, all twenty-four of them arranged like porcelain dolls in tailored costumes meant to evoke âindustrial resilience.â The tagline splashed across the bottom reads: INDIANA BURNS BRIGHT.
Nancyâs thumb presses hard enough against the cover to crease the corner.
Around her, Hawkins limps forward⊠A man drags a cart of canned goods down the sidewalk. Two women argue quietly about ration vouchers near the soup kitchen Karen Wheeler has practically moved into. A group of teenagers paste up another poster on the brick wall beside Melvaldâs:
BRING OUR BOY HOME.
TEAM HARRINGTON.
There are more of those than there are missing person flyers now.
That part almost makes her sick.
This town loves a symbol just as much as the Capitol does, whether or not theyâll ever own up to it⊠and Steve Harrington has always been one hell of a symbol.
More posters accompany them in your favor as well...
PROTECT OUR PROTECTORS. Small businesses keep us alive, even as they struggle in hard times alongside us. Remember Ren.
Nancy opens the magazine with begrudgement. It smells like fresh ink and something synthetic. Something Capitol.
The first spread hits immediately.
A full-page photograph of you and Steve.
That photograph.
The one.
Steve in profile, spine straight, head tipped back, eyes closed. His jawline is sharp under studio lights, his expression almost serene⊠and then thereâs you, standing behind him.
Temple pressed to the center of his back.
Hands clasped between his shoulder blades like youâre praying.
Your chin lifted.
Your eyes staring straight into the camera.
Not pleading.
Daring.
Like youâre already calculating who youâll have to cut down if they come too close.
The caption beneath it reads:
THE KING AND THE DOVE.
Nancyâs stomach drops.
Dove.
Dove?
Of course theyâd call you that.
Of course theyâve already branded you.
The Bakerâs Daughter. The Cinderella of Hawkins. The soft-spoken girl with flour on her sleeves, lithe hands that smell like sugar and yeast, and a sickly grandfather who loves her dearly. The girl no one in town could picture holding a knife, let alone using one.
Ren Everdeen: a symbol of grace and mercy alike.
Itâs sickeningly poetic.
Nancy flips the page harshly, finding that thereâs an entire column dedicated to hometown testimonialsâ or no. Wait. Thereâs blurb mentions of the other tributes, but an entire highlight dedicated to none other than Steve Harringtonâs hometown reputation that puts Capitol Pulseâs tweety-bopper article to fucking shame. Because these testimonials arenât stupid love letters sent in from girls, claiming (allegedly) to have had their fair share and taste of him. No, these are tasteful, enticing, real-deal, honest testimonials sent in from honest people with honest stories to shareâŠ
âSteve Harrington once fixed my car in the middle of a snowstorm.â
âHe volunteered for a middle schooler like it was nothing.â
âHeâs the bravest boy this town has ever known.â
Of course, Felix made sure to add his signature Editor-in-Chief charm into the swirl of praise, inserting his own quote: âAnd yes, heâs even better looking in person.â
Nancyâs jaw tightens.
Somehow, this one makes her ache worse than that tacky teen magazine article did with glittery stickers and girly sleepover aesthetics and graphic design around the section women â multiple women â had all written in anonymous blurbs about how good he was in bed.
Her ears burn.
She feels fifteen again. Lying on her bed. Twisting the phone cord around her finger. Whispering to Barb about Steveâs stupid hair and stupid smirk and the way heâd look at her like she was the only thing in the room.
âŠbut sheâs eighteen now.
...and Barb is gone.
âŠand Steve is two days away from being dropped into an arena with twenty-three other kids who are going to try to butcher him on live television.
Two days.
Five nights.
Nancy hasnât slept more than an hour at a time since the train left.
She was there when he boarded.
She remembers the way he squeezed Dustinâs shoulder. The way he didnât hug her for too long because if he had, she mightâve just maintained her hold on him and refused to let go.
Bitterly, she flips another page... now skimming over the interview excerpt.
âThe Dove and the King appear unusually united,â Felix writes. âWhile most tribute pairs maintain visible distance â aware of the eventual necessity of betrayal â Hawkinsâ representatives have displayed a striking, almost defiant proximity.â
There it is.
Thatâs her sixth senseâs confirmation.
Orbiting.
Not lovers.
Not romance.
Unity.
Nancy hates that it makes her chest ache. Because she knows Steve. She knows the way his shoulders hunch when heâs trying not to break. She knows the microsecond hesitation before he volunteers for something reckless. She knows heâll never let anyone be made to feel like lamb for slaughter, regardless of the rules or whatâs expected of him in this twisted game of survival. She knows the guilt he carries like a birthmark.
And she knows the look on his face in that photograph.
He trusts you.
Thatâs what that posture says.
He leaned back.
He closed his eyes.
He let you stand guard.
Nancy swallows hard. She doesnât even know you. Sheâs gone to school with you her entire life. Shared classrooms. Hallways. Assemblies. But sheâs never really looked at you. Not like this.
Now she canât stop.
Flip. Another page.
A sidebar detailing your grandfatherâs condition. About how youâve been his caregiver for years, but no one would know that unless told by someone else⊠because youâll never credit yourself anything, no matter if itâs due. Thereâs so much to your personal story that no one knows, unless theyâre local.
Like how Joyce took your grandfather in without hesitation.
How Jonathan promised you he would look after him.
And he has.
Jonathan Byers spends half his days at your familyâs bakery now â overseeing it on your behalf, helping Angelica and Parker keep it running while also making sure your grandfatherâs medication is taken on time.
Nancy knows this.
Sheâs seen Jonathan hauling flour sacks through the back door, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, jaw set with quiet determination and a grim expression that she knows comes from bone-deep ache because of your absence.
Heâs always loved helping people.
Heâs always loved her too.
Not that it matters.
Hell, not that she even knows that. Or rather, chooses not to know that.Â
Because her heart already belongs to another.
Nancy looks down at the page again. Your face is framed in yet another portrait â this one softer. No defiance. Just you looking down at your clasped hands, while Steve stands just behind you, facing the window. Thereâs two standalone photos beneath it: one of Steve, handsome as ever, expression neutral as he leans against the wall and looks straight into the lens with reserve⊠and the one of just you, your back to the camera, with pleated chiffon wings that outline your backless dress and reveal your waif-like frame⊠your delicate spine.
The caption reads: âRen Everdeen: Beauty Unaware.â
Nancy almost laughs.
Because yeah. Of course, you donât even know how beautiful you are. How radiant you are, in that stupid girl-next-door type of way that only belongs in respectable novels and films rather than small towns. You arenât just some sweet little thing. Youâre this strange sort of mystique. The kind of quiet beauty that girls like Nancy like to imagine themselves to be, but theyâre too smart â too outspoken, too prim â to carry that sort of aura. No matter how beautiful Nancy Wheeler is, itâs different. Itâs standard. Classic. Almost simple, but not quite. Whereas you glow without the need for perfect makeup and skincare routines. You have a slender body that doesnât come from cheerleading or Pilates workouts, just good genes from two dead parents and a laborious lifestyle that you carry on for them.
You arenât the glossy, pageant type of beauty like the other girl on the cover from District One is.
Your beauty is rooted within you.
In the dangerous way.
In the way that makes people protective.
In the way that makes Steve lean back without thinking.
It coils inside Nancy now⊠Not because sheâs toxic or cruel. Itâs far deeper than just some teenaged girl insecurity. Itâs primal. Itâs personal. Itâs territorial.
She closes the magazine abruptly. No longer wanting to look at itâŠ
âŠonly to see a banner across the street, flapping in the wind.
DISTRICT 12 â HAWKINS STANDS WITH YOU.
Dustin hung that one himself. Twelve years old and already organizing local sponsorship drives like itâs a science fair project. Heâs plastered Steveâs face on every viable surface in town. Mike and Lucas helped, of course. Will made the lettering straight, drew the graphics and painted signs. Erica was practically running her own makeshift, fifth grade student body council â making DIY pins for everyone to wear all around town with Steveâs picture inside of it and the number 12.
Theyâre all too young for this.
Co-op schooling happens in the baptist church basement now. Teachers rotating shifts. Joyce volunteers between medication schedules that she rotates with Jonathan. Karen Wheeler runs food distribution in the afternoons, while Sue Sinclair assists with science and history. Claudia is still working at the nursing home â and sheâs actually been helping Joyce a lot with your grandfather, offering experienced in-home hospice care insight for her. Itâs allowed for Joyce to host him safely, while still making sure that she isnât failing at the job. Everyone pulls rank. Even the likes of Ted Wheeler, who still has way too much fucking trust in his countryâs government â even though itâs clearly corrupt.
Life goes on.
Broken, but stubborn.
Nancy presses the magazine against her chest and exhales slowly. If either of you comes home, itâll be a miracle. But it wonât be both. That reality sits like a brick behind her ribs, enough to churn nausea inside her gut. More than that, though? She hates herself for the thought that followsâŠ
If it canât be both⊠let it be him.
The guilt hits immediately.
But for fuckâs sake, she doesnât know you.
What does she owe you?
Nothing.
Footsteps approach.
âYouâre gonna wear a hole through that thing if you keep glaring at it.â
Eddie Munsonâs voice is familiar and rough around the edges.
She doesnât look up immediately to greet him, lips pursed tightly into a hard line as the wind catches her long brunette hair and wafts his similar leather-worn aroma towards her before he steps beside her â hands shoved into the pockets of his old leather jacket.
âYou know they printed like⊠six thousand copies of that?â he continues. âYou bending one isnât exactly sticking it to the Capitol.â
Nancy finally glances at him. âYouâre late.â
He sighs dramatically. âForgive me. Had to break up a debate between Dustin and Erica about whether sponsorship math works like algebra or emotional manipulation.â
Nancy snorts despite herself.
He winks, smiling faintly. But it doesnât reach his eyes. Thereâs a hardness there now. A certain sadness. A responsibility. Eddie runs Steveâs house while heâs gone. He makes sure Claudiaâs okay. Makes sure the kids get to co-op. Makes sure the generator stays functional. Makes sure the roof doesnât cave in if another tremor hits, even though Steveâs big house is resilient in all its absurdity.
Steveâs parents died during the Purge Act.
No one talks about it.
Their line of work made them targets. Thatâs all anyone says.
Eddie moved in a week later. Heâs been living there since Uncle Wayne had stubbornly refused to seek shelter during the Purge, no matter how much his nephew begged him. No matter how adamant Eddie had been, telling him that watching over the convenient store was reckless. Stupid. Pointless. Absolutely un-fucking-necessary. It was going to get robbed one way or another. His life wasnât worth that.
But Wayne hadnât listened.
All heâd done was bark âGo home, boyâleave me be,â and shoved their vanâs keys into Eddieâs palm.
That was the last exchange theyâd had.
And because of that, Eddie couldnât stand the sight of their shared trailer anymore. So after staying the night at Steveâs place, where everyone else had crashed during the hellish night, heâd gone to pack up his things and brought it over to Steveâs house. So did Dustin and Claudia after their house collapsed.
Steve never asked for rent.
Never asked for anything.
Just said, âHelp with the kids.â
Eddie does exactly that.Â
Without complaint or hesitation, without ever needing to be asked at all.
He nods at the magazine in Nancyâs arms now. The summer breeze keeps trying to peel the glossy pages back, but she grips it tighter â knuckles pale against the gold-embossed lettering.
âStill obsessing over the glossy propaganda?â
âIâm not obsessing,â she counters primly, smoothing the page with deliberate precision, as if the act itself proves composure. She doesnât dare glance up. Doesnât give him the satisfaction.
Eddie shifts his weight, boot scraping lightly against broken concrete. Heâs wearing that same faded Hellfire Club tee beneath his jacket â sleeves cut off months ago when the summers stopped being normal and started being humid with ash. His dulled rings flash when he gestures lazily toward her.
âYouâre standing under an awning reading fashion murder porn.â
Nancy glares at him then â sharp, lethal, Wheeler-blue eyes that used to unnerve half the senior class. Sheâs wearing a fitted navy cardigan buttoned too high for the temperature, pleated skirt brushing her knees, ankle boots scuffed from walking too many cracked sidewalks. She looks put-together the way soldiers sometimes do before battle â armor disguised as propriety.
He just shrugs, softer now. âThey look good,â he admits. âHate to say it, but they do.â
That lands.
She opens it again despite herself, harsher this time â flipping back to that photograph like picking at a wound she refuses to let scab over. âYeah, well. This oneâs still circulating like itâs the billboard for a new blockbuster film.â
Eddie leans slightly closer, close enough to see the way her lashes tremble before she steadies them while angling the page better so that he can see it. He whistles low.
âYeah. That oneâs been blowing up.â
âItâs staged.â
âEverything is staged, Wheeler.â
Nancy hesitates. Just barely. Her eyes flick between him and the page, like she wants him to contradict her. Or confirm her worst fear.
âThey lookâŠâ
She stops herself â jaw flexing, words caught on her tongue.
He arches a brow, voice gentler than his posture. âLook what.â
ââŠclose.â
The word tastes bitter in her mouth.
Eddie studies the image again â not quickly. Not dismissively. He actually looks at it. The way Steveâs shoulders rest back without tension. The way you stand like a shield.
âThey are.â
Nancyâs stomach twists so violently she almost feels nauseous. Something raw flares beneath her ribcage â not hatred. Not even anger.
Just displacement.
Her face goes stone cold.
He notices.
He always notices.
Because over the last two years, heâs learned to read microexpressions the way other people read headlines. Survival demands it.
âDonât,â Eddie says gently.
âDonât what?â
âTurn this into something itâs not.â
âAnd what is it, Eddie?â Nancy snaps, finally looking at him full-on. Thereâs a fracture in her voice she hates. âWhat is it.â
He exhales, slow and deep, like heâs consciously setting down something heavy inside his chest before answering. âItâs two kids trying not to die.â
Her jaw tightens.
âAnd if they both canât?â
Her question hangs there like smoke.
He doesnât answer.
Because they both know.
Because saying it aloud feels like inviting it.
Nancyâs voice hardens. Defensive now. Desperate underneath it. âPeople keep talking like itâs a fairytale. Like the local bakerâs daughter, thisâdoveââ She flicks the page with more force than necessary. The glossy paper snaps sharply. ââand the âfallen King of Hawkinsâ are going to just⊠float through this thing untouched.â
She scoffs, but it cracks.
âDove. Like Stevie Nicksâ swan song doveâ?!â
The cultural reference would almost be funny under different circumstances.
Eddie flinches at the nickname too. He hates it for different reasons. It feels like branding. Like livestock.
âYeah,â he mutters grimly. âThat oneâs annoying.â
âItâs ridiculous.â
âShe didnât pick it.â
âI know that.â
âThen why are you pissed at her?â
Nancy turns on him, and this time it isnât sharp. Itâs wounded. Offended. âIâm not pissed at her.â
âBullshit.â
She stiffens. Chin lifting instinctively. Pride snapping into place like a shield.
Eddie steps closer, lowering his voice so it doesnât carry past the tall awning. There are people walking by. People who adore Steve. People who adore you. People who would crucify her if they heard even a fraction of this.
âYou think I donât see it?â
Her eyes narrow. âSee what?â
âThe way you say her name like itâs a splinter.â
Silence.
It lands.
Nancy looks away. Past him. Past the banners. Past everything. Because he isnât wrong and it pisses her the hell off.
âSheâs not the problem,â he continues. âThe Capitol is.â
Nancy lets out a dark, humorless chuckle. âEasy for you to say.â
Eddie straightens slightly, brow furrowed. His posture shifts â less slouched, more grounded. Heâs grown into his height over the last two years. Thereâs muscle under the leather jacket now from hauling generators and chopping wood and carrying too much weight for someone his age.
âWhat the hell does that mean?â
âIt means you donât have to watch him lean on her in a photograph like that.â
And there it is.
The confession wrapped in accusation.
His expression shifts.
Ah, he thinks to himself. There it is.
ââŠyouâre jealous,â Eddie says quietly.
Nancy laughs â but it sounds like glass cracking. âOf what? Of being inside an arena?âsentenced to death?â
âOf being the one heâs standing with.â
Her throat tightens so suddenly she has to swallow twice.
She hates that heâs not wrong.
She hates that jealousy feels so fucking small compared to whatâs actually at stake.
âIâve known him longer,â she says.
âSo?â
âSoââ
âSo what?â he presses, not cruel, but unrelenting. âYou think time earns ownership?â
âI never said that.â
âYou donât have to.â
Her temper flares because thatâs easier than admitting vulnerability. âSheâs a stranger, Eddie.â
âSheâs not.â
âTo me, she is.â
He folds his arms. Not defensive. Steady. âStranger or not, sheâs a human. Just like us. She lives in the same fucked up version of things we do. She volunteers at the clinic. She runs deliveries when roads are unsafe. She sits with old people who donât have anyone. Gives extra bread to kidsâwhether or not theyâve got money to pay for it.â
Nancy knows heâs right.
That makes it worse.
âAnd that makes her what. Untouchable?â
âNo,â he says evenly. âIt makes her human.â
Nancyâs eyes burn. Her vision blurs at the edges but she still refuses to blink. âAnd if it comes down to it?â she demands. âIf itâs her or him?â
Eddie doesnât hesitate.
âI want Steve to come home.â
Relief flickers, ugly and selfish, through her chest.
ââŠbut,â he adds, because he has to, because he wonât let this rot inside her unchecked, âIâm not wishing death on her to make that happen.â
Something truly ugly flashes across Nancyâs face.
âWhy not?â
He stares at her.
Because that? That was cruel.
She sees it. Feels the weight of it.
But she doesnât take it back, nor does she want to.
âJesus, Nance,â he murmurs, brows furrowing deeply.
âWhat?!â she fires back, voice rising despite herself. âYou live in his house. You eat his food. Use his electricity. You sleep under his goddamn roofâand youâre defending herâ?â
âIâm defending decency.â
Her baby blue eyes flash. The same eyes that have always looked at Steve like he hung the moon. âDecency doesnât win arenas.â
âNo,â Eddie fires back, voice low and firm now, steel under it. âBut it keeps us from becoming the thing we hate.â
That lands harder than anything else.
Theyâre both breathing heavier now, the air between them tight and electric. Across the street, the banner snaps violently in the wind â fabric cracking like a warning shot.
Nancyâs vision blurs.
âI just want him home,â she whispers.
Itâs not prim anymore. Not composed. Itâs raw. Torn straight from her gut.
Eddieâs chest tightens. âI know.â
âYou donât,â she shoots back instantly. âYou didnâtââ
âI didnât what?â
She stops. Because she knows sheâs about to say something unforgivable. But even as she bites her tongue, Eddie steps closer. Close enough that she can see the faint dark circles under his eyes too. Because he hasnât been sleeping either, but heâll be damned if they reread their true thoughts. If they wonât just be honest with each other in a world full of too much dishonesty.
âSay it.â
Nancy silently seethes, aching, not letting the cruelty fly right away.
Eddieâs eyes flash. âWheeler.â
âYou didnât love him,â she blurts.
The words hang there. And for a second, just a second, Eddie Munson looks genuinely wounded. Not angry. Hurt. His eyes gloss over, jaw tightening.
âDonât,â he warns quietly.
She looks like she wants to apologize.
She doesnât.
âYou think I donât love him?â he asks.
âThatâs not what Iââ
âHeâs my brother.â
The word is deliberate.
Earned.
âI know.â
âBlood or not? He gave me a home when mine felt like it was caving in. After Wayne diedâhis own parents died. He trusted me with everything. Including you.â
He doesnât add Robinâs name to the mix.
He doesnât mention how her death killed Steve, too.
But itâs there.
Between every syllable.
Nancyâs chin quivers. âI know.â
âAnd you think I donât want him backâŠ?â
Her eyes shine, brimming with fresh tears. She hates that he sees it. âI didnât meanââ
âNo,â Eddie cuts in. Not cruel. Just firm. âYou meant it.â
She blinks rapidly, staring at the sky.
Five nights.
No sleep.
Too much fear.
Too much grief.
âI canât lose him,â she whispers shakily.
Eddieâs voice softens, but he doesnât sugarcoat it.
âYou might.â
The honesty of that answer slices enough for Nancy to suck in an audible, sharp intake of breath through her nose â jaw squared, eyes brimmed with raw emotion refusing to spill overâŠ
Eddieâs just learned how to hold his own at bay until heâs alone.
âWe all might,â he adds solemnly, taking one cautious step forward. âJust like her family might lose her, too.â
Nancy closes her eyes. But the tears spill anyway, no matter how hard sheâs refused to let them. Even so, she takes several deep breaths in and out. Not daring to speak again until sheâs contained herself.
Eddie exhales slowly, not pushing her. He glances down at his wristwatch â then squints up at the overcast sky that cloaks the sun into a dull haze.Â
âIâm picking up the kids,â he says quietly. âGo home. You need rest.â
âIâm fine,â she mutters flatly.
âYouâve been working yourself into the ground all week,â he counters quietly, though steadily. He looks at her now, regardless of her lack of eye contact. âI got pickup today. Hollyâs with your mom. Mike and the kids want to play DND later.Â
âI can help.â
âI know you can.â
âIâm coming by later.â
âI know you are.â
She nods stiffly, still averting his eyes. Then she turns and walks away. Back straight, chin held high, armor back on â refusing to break in the middle of Main Street.
Eddie watches her go until sheâs halfway down the block. He waits until sheâs small against the torn edges of downtown before muttering to himself, taking his hand to harshly rub it down his face.
âFuck.â
Because he misses Steve too.
Because the house feels wrong without his stupid laugh echoing off the high ceilings, all those months ago.
Because Robinâs absence still hums in the walls like static that no one can shut off.
Because Steve never talks about it.
Because he grieves quietly.
Because heâs no doubt still grieving now, alone in a Capitol, pretending heâs fine when heâs the farthest thing from it.
Eddie squares his shoulders, inhaling one sharp breath. Getting it together. Just like he always does. Heâll cook dinner. Heâll make sure the kids eat. Heâll fix the loose board on the staircase. Heâll keep the house standing.
Because thatâs what Steve would do.
And if the worst happensâŠ
He swallows.
No.
No.
He doesnât let himself go there.
And across town, Nancy turns a corner and finally lets the tears slip freely. Just a few. Then she wipes them away angrily. Two days. If there is any god, he better be fucking listening. Because she will not survive watching the King of Hawkins â her high school best friend and sweetheart, relationship or not â die on a screen, blasted across nationwide television.
And somewhere far away, beneath Capitol lights, another girl stands beside him instead of herâŠ
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you donât have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and Youâre Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes readerâs family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger iâm sorry iâve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If youâd like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, âperfectâ intern. Robbyâs newest addition to his growing list of âwork-wards.â
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that youâre not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isnât the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isnât even the first time youâve been removed from a case. Itâs not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and itâs certainly not the first time youâve made a mistake.
Youâre an intern. Itâs your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. Thatâs what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. Theyâd ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasnât meant for you, but hell if you donât say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. Youâre stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isnât dead. Despite your mistakes, they didnât die. Thereâs really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasnât terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern whoâs drilled sterile protocol into her head until itâs muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. Thereâs no time to re-scrub, so there wasnât a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if youâd focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until âyou get your head back in the game.â
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who canât handle some criticism and correction. Youâre a hard worker. Youâre good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
Youâve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
Youâre just so upset with yourself. Youâre better than this. You know you are. Youâve proven that you are. You donât drop scalpels. You donât break the sterile field. You donât rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day youâll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just donât get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. Youâre on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robbyâs respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You canât be burning out, right? Thatâs not how burn out works. Thereâs like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but thatâs because you work in medicine. And youâre an intern. Youâre supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe youâre not? You do enjoy your work, and itâs exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this canât be burn out. You donât burn out. Thatâs not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you donât quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet âOh.â thatâs mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you werenât just crying on the ground.
âDr. Abbot! Iâm so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise Iâm still working on itââ
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
âJust needed some four by fours, kid.â
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
ââŠThose are three by threes.â
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
âRight,â You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. âIâll just get out of your way. Sorry.â
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
âLook,â Dr. Abbot starts. âYouâre one of Robbyâs adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?â
âThat is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.â
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You donât know what to do. Heâs looking at you. Your boss doesnât fluster you. Youâre chill. Youâre normal. Youâre cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
âRobby doesnât adopt interns lightly. Donât let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.â
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
âWhat, it doesnât happen to you?â
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. âNo! Of course it happens to me, I didnât mean to imply that Iâm like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at allââ
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. Youâre a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. Heâs got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldnât be hot, but heâs got his hand on your shoulder and youâre having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
âUsually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you donât get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesnât mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.â
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost donât notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. âAnd I didnât stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.â
âBut I ripped the purse strings,â You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, âLike an idiot.â
âYou ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.â
âI practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didnât happen!â
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. âDid you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?â
ââŠNo?â
He snorts. âExactly. Dr. Garcia probably wonât hold it against you. Sheâll give you shit for it, but itâs not like sheâs never going to give you another chance.â
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbotâs reassurances echoing in your head.
âThank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I donât usually do that.â
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. âWouldnât judge you if you did, kid.â
â
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because heâs always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now heâs an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didnât sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasnât him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jackâs stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasnât tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didnât actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shiftâs conclusions. Heâs picked up a very special language of gauging what heâs getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest internâ a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. Heâd heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
Heâd watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because itâd fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks âOh.â
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks âWell, thereâs something to do.â
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how youâd looked at him when heâd assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that heâs just going to keep an eye on you. For Robbyâs sake. Heâd do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, youâre clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where youâre diligently filling out a chart.
âThat one yours, then?â
Jack shakes his head. âItâs not like that. You make me sound like a creep.â
Another raised eyebrow. âSure it isnât.â
âSheâs Robbyâs intern.â
âMhm.â
âSheâs way too young.â
Parker shrugs. âSheâs good.â
âShe is.â
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. âThink sheâll burn out?â
âMaybe.â
Parker crosses his arms. âAre you gonna let it happen?â
âSheâs not my intern.â
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
âItâs an HR nightmare.â
Parker shrugs. âYou just said sheâs not your intern.â
He narrows his eyes. âYou know what I meant.â
âDo I? Itâs been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.â
âParker.â
âJack.â
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. âYouâre the worst.â
Parker just laughs. âSure I am.â
To your credit, he doesnât find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesnât last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isnât far enough to account how youâre shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what heâs not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second heâs in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
âExcuse me, what the fuck is going on here?â
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
âI said I want a real doctor, not this fuckingââ
âGet the fuck out of my hospital.â
Shen peaks his head in. âSecurityâs on their way.â
Jack reaches behind him to where youâre still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jackâs never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled âIâm fine, really, he just surprised me.â
Thankfully, security doesnât take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, heâs out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before heâs beelining for it.
When he opens the door, youâre sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like youâve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
âDr. Abbot!â
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics donât lend to much mobility and heâs too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, thereâs a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
âCan IâŠ?â Jackâs voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble thatâs seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
âHe had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didnât really notice until I got here.â
âParker and Shen didnât notice?â
You look at your lap. âI told them I was fine⊠And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. Itâs just a little cut.â
Jackâs fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesnât look that bad either.
But thereâs still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesnât think heâs going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
âIf I leave you here so I can get supplies,â He starts, voice a little rough, âCan I trust that youâll stay here and not do anything stupid?â
âUh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?â
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. âThatâd be preferable.â
Later, when heâs at home in his bed, heâll assure himself that the night shift wasnât truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while heâs busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack whoâs got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. Itâs something heâs generally very good at âwhich is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at allâ but youâre looking up at him and thereâs something really dangerous in the air and it mustâve gotten into your blood stream or something cause itâs swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. Youâre an intern. Robbyâs intern. So what if youâre bleeding all over the break room? Jackâs just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. Thatâs all.
âTilt your head up.â
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so thereâs no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he canât get the sound of the slap out of his head and itâs all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like youâre burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
âDid you walk to work today?â
You wince. âMy car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didnât just leave my car in the middle of the road.â
He blinks.
âYour car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didnât tell anybody?â
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
âYeah? I carry a knife and Iâve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.â
Thereâs⊠a lot to unpack in your answer.
âKid,â He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, âWhat was your plan to get home?â
âWalk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so Iâm probably going to text her.â
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didnât think to let your boss know that your car broke down and youâd be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
âItâs really fine though,â You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. âMy place isnât that far, and itâs not the first time my carâs died. The batteryâs kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and itâs like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. Iâve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.â
He wishes youâd stop talking so heâd stop hearing things that make him want to do things he canât and shouldnât do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
âIâll drive you home. If youâre fine with that.â
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
âOh no, you really donât have to. I promise Iâmââ
âPlease stop saying you're fine,â He begs, âYou donât have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think youâre coming down with something.â
The smile thatâs seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
âWell,â You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, âThings certainly arenât⊠great, but Iâll survive. Iâm not like, incapable, or anything.â
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. âIs that what you think? That I or someone else here will think youâre not competent or that youâre weak if you take a break or ask for help?â
Your face falters again. âNo, no, of course not I just⊠I donât know. Iâm an intern. Itâs my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just donât want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I needâ internships are competitive. Theyâre competitions, really. And I want to win.â
Jack Abbot knows what itâs like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that youâre capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
âYouâre a smart kid,â He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, âAnd youâre going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.â
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. âThis industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you donât take care of yourself. I get it. Weâre doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. Itâs okay to⊠not be okay for a minute.â
You huff a watery laugh. âIsnât that what energy drinks are for?â
He shakes his head. âWhat, trying to die faster?â
âAnything to shake those student loans. Canât be in debt if youâre dead.â
âDonât they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?â
âI donât think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think itâll hold up in court.â
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isnât sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
âI gotta get back out there,â He jams his thumb towards the door, âBut feel free to take five. No oneâs judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, Iâm telling you to take a break.â
You roll your eyes. âWhatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For theâŠâ
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. ââŠAnd for the advice.â
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasnât become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesnât matter, like heâs just doing his job.
âOffer for the rideâs still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.â
And with that, heâs out the door.
Itâs the end of shift, and youâre staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
Youâre not exactly rushing out the door.
Youâre clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that itâs been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
âStill raining out there?â
âYep. Looks worse now.â
âNot great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.â
âMhm.â
âDid you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?â
âNo. I didnât want to wake her up.â
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
âCome on, kid.â
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesnât think itâs awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
Heâd been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and itâs only thanks to Sabrina Carpenterâs voice that you donât feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
ââI get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guyââ
ââTreating me like youâre supposed to do, tears run down my thighsââ
By the time youâve realized that perhaps this isnât the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and whoâs car youâre currently riding in, the words âI get wetâ have already left your mouth so thereâs no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. Youâre considering changing the radio station because god.
âSo,â You start, just to say anything that drowns out âknee-deep in the passenger seat and youâre eating me out, is it casual now?â, âDid you⊠have a good shift?â
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. âShouldnât I be asking you that question?â
Ah. Right. The Incident.
âI told you Iâmââ
âDidnât I tell you to stop saying that?â
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. âFine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didnât leave a mark, thatâs still shitty.â
âHave you been hit by a patient before?â
He huffs. âHell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. Itâll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.â
âSorry you had to step in. Iâve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.â
âOh yeah?â
You nod. âIt was during my Pedes rotation, actually. Iâve always known working with kids probably wasnât going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.â
âWhat, did she slap you too?â
âNope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.â
âFucking hell, kid. Whatâd you do?â
You shrug. âKept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.â
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. âAlways the patients you least expect.â
âThe importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.â
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesnât take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you donât remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
âWhat?â You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: âWhamfgh?â
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. Youâre absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
âOh,â You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. âHow long have I been asleep?â
âLittle over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.â
âIt doesnât take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.â
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
âDid you just⊠park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?â
He just shrugs. âLike I said. You looked like you needed it.â
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
âSorry. You didnât have to wait.â
âIf I didnât want to, I wouldnât have.â
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isnât nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet âheyâ you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
Itâs a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbotâs. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. Itâs nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an internâs budget.
âFor the next time your car dies,â He clarifies, as if the jacketâs purpose is the thing thatâs stupefied you, not the fact that heâs the one giving it to you, âIn case of rain.â
âYou really donât have to,â your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, âI mean, I can just buy my ownââ
âFirst of all,â He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, âDo I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I donât want to? And second of allâŠâ
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. âAre you really going to buy one for yourself?â
Your mouth goes dry.
âI was planning on looking onlineââ
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. âNow you donât have to.â
Like itâs that easy. Does he want it to be?
âDr. Abbot, Iââ
âJack.â
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
âJack,â you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. âI can take care of myself. You donât need to give me your jacket. Iâve been doing just fine on my own.â
âKidââ
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
âDonât call me kid like Iâm stupid.â
Dr. Abbâ Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
âI donât call you kid because I think youâre stupid. I donât think youâre stupid. Youâd know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. âKidâ is aâŠâ He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, ââŠNickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but itâs not derogatory.â
Jack holds up a second finger.
âYou have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldnât have a low grade fever, and you wouldâve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. Youâve been surviving. Thereâs a difference.â
Shame burns white hot through youâ all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
âDonât beat yourself up about it. Itâd be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents donât do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?â
âThat depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?â
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. âExactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesnât actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.â
He nudges the jacket on your lap. âSo just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.â
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
âYou worry about me?â
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
âI worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.â
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. Itâs not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jackâs car.
âWell. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.â
âNo problem, kid.â
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, thatâs no oneâs business but yours.
â
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether itâs something heâs doing on purpose or youâve just developed a heightened sense to his whereaboutsâ it doesnât matter. Sometimes itâs a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didnât choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, heâs there.
Youâre being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isnât horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jackâs solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, youâre quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe itâs the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) Itâs probably both of those things.
But there isnât really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
Youâre distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
âHey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have⊠bled through.â
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
âFuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,â You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. âRight. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.â
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
âTo tie around your waist,â He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You donât actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you donât particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldnât be working here. Robby wouldnât let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this timeâ a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
âBad shift?â
âBad life,â You grumble. âDr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesnât know what pad sizes are for.â
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. âHe asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and heâs a doctor.â
âHere here,â You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. âHow did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?â
âWeâve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,â
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. âBut to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasnât an option. Which. Probably isnât helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something thatâs nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so itâs just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?â
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasnât Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various⊠situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldnât be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like youâre going to explode and die if you donât have someone to confide in right this very second. You havenât heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
âMel,â You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, âCan I tell you a secret?â
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. âUm. Sure?â
âHave you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?â
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. âIs this about Dr.ââ
âI have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think itâs ruining my life.â
The words burst out of you all at once, and Melâs expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
âAh,â She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. âUm. Well I personally donât have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.â
You bury your face into your hands and groan. âItâs awful. Itâs so cliche. Itâs so fucking Greyâs Anatomy.â
âIâve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.â
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
âHave you⊠acted on it?â
âNo!â You snap your head up. âI mean. No, I havenât. Iâm not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. Heâs an attending and Iâm an intern.â
She leans in. âButâŠ?â
âBut sometimes⊠I wonder? I donât know. Iâm probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, thatâs normal, right?â
Mel nods. âFrâ Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we donât. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?â
âRight. Yeah.â
She takes the pretzel bag back. âIs there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?â
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
âHe gave me his rain jacket. To keep.â
âOh.â
âYeah.â
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
âIâm honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. Iâve been told I can be⊠dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.â
You shrug. âYouâre a great listener, and you havenât steered me wrong in the past.â
She brightens. âThatâs good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your⊠particular situation.â
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. âIâll let Robby know youâre taking ten, so donât worry about someone looking for you while youâre changing.â
âYouâre the best. I love you.â
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
â
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? âHey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?â
Additionally, sheâs kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohanâs work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
âHey!â She jogs up to you as youâre walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
âSorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?â
âRight!â You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think youâre capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like sheâs the only expert around. âYes. That. Itâs a really normal question, you know.â
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. âUh, sure?â
Thereâs a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
âThis is about Abbot, isnât it?â
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. âAm I that obvious?â
She laughs goodnaturedly. âNo. Probably not. Youâre just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.â
âHeâs so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like Iâm dying.â
She makes a noise of sympathy. âHe is. Itâs fucking annoying, at a certain point.â
âThank you!â You shout, âLike itâs just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead Iâm just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.â
âHave you ever seen Greyâsââ
âYes. I know. I canât be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?â
Mohan purses her lips. âWell. You did just say you felt like you were dying.â
âI know,â You sigh. âIt makes me feel⊠shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.â
âIt canât be that bad.â
âOn my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.â
She winces. âOh. Thatâs not⊠great.â
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. âHe found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.â
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. âWell, if itâs any consolation, Iâve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think itâs a right of passage. And as for that second partâŠâ
She shrugs. âAbbot gives credit where credit is due, but he wonât coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.â
âThatâs what he said. It just didnât really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.â
Mohan actually looks taken back.
âOkay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?â
âWhenever I have a spare twenty dollars.â
She grins. âI happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?â
âYes please.â
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samiraâs is much more enjoyable than you expectedâ considering the fact that youâre an intern and sheâs a resident. She confides that she doesnât have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have âreal girl-timeâ.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
â
Everything is not okay.
Youâre now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, youâve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. âSupportive as ever, Dr. Santos.â
âI try.â
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesnât help much.
Thereâs a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because youâre still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and itâs one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
Youâre just⊠having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. Itâs the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while youâre awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. Youâre describing taking a week off work. Itâs comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, youâre the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while youâre charting.
âYouâre flagging.â
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. âIâm fine. I just need a Redbull or something.â
He slides the tablet out of your hands. âPart of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Canât be a good doctor if youâre falling asleep during the exam, right?â
âI would never fall asleep during an exam.â
He shrugs. âIâve seen it happen.â
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. âTake five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.â
âYes sir.â
He rolls his eyes. âGet going.â
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patientâs doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. Itâs honestly a miracle you survived. Youâre exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, itâs fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, itâs dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
âFuck,â you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that heâs already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And thatâs just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samiraâs contact through blurry eyes. When you think youâve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and youâre about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
âHello?â
Itâs not Samira who answers. Itâs Jack.
You sniffle. âWhy are you answering Samiraâs phone?â
âI didnât. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?â
âOh,â You decide to ignore his question, âI meant to call Samira. Sorry.â
âWait,â Jackâs voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, âAnswer the question. Are you okay?â
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
âThe powerâs out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power wonât be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but itâs cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever wonât go away.â
âDo you have a place to stay?â
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he canât see it. âI was supposed to call Samira and see if sheâd let me sleep on her couch.â
âI have a guest bedroom.â
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jackâs encouraging advice, Jackâs steady presence, Jackâs warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
âJack?â
âYes?â
âWhatâs your address?â
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. Itâs just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jackâs apartment as directed.
Itâs⊠fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isnât very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so itâs not exactly surprising that Jackâs apartment is the penthouse. Itâs just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt youâve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesnât hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldnât have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
âOh, you poor thing. Come here,â
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying âcome insideâ but the dam breaks the moment he says âpoor thingâ and you donât have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than âJack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then youâre crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesnât react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe youâve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
âPoor girl,â he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, âThey been running you ragged?â
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut openâ like youâve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you canât stop it.
âIâm so tired.â You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything thatâs happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you donât talk about that happened before.
âI know sweetheart, I know,â Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. âHow about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?â
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
âSorry,â You say, voice barely above a whisper. âI think I got snot on your shirt.â
âTrust me kid, itâs seen worse.â
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
Itâs nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesnât, actually, look the inside of a dentistâs office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctorâs office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when youâre a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
Thereâs a feeling under your skin you canât place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light youâre watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if heâs got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But thatâs a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack isâ inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
âBy the way,â Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? âI have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably wonât come near you, but be warned, heâs an asshole when he wants to be.â
âOh, thatâs fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.â
âThat explains a lot of things.â
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you donât care to parse through at the moment.
âUm,â You start, feeling a bit unsteady, âIsâ Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel⊠grimy. Your apartment seems clean and Iâd hate to get my hospital grime on anything.â
Jack just chuckles. âOne, I wouldnât care if you got âhospital grimeâ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?â
âI mightâve forgotten to grab those.â
Another huffy laugh. âThatâs fine. You can borrow some of mine. Iâll leave them on the bed.â
Thatâs like. Wow. Yeah. Youâre just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. Youâre going to shower in Jackâs shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
âI already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?â
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
âYeah,â You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, âYeah thatâs fine. Thank you.â
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. Youâre not sure if thereâs an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. Thereâs a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and itâs not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe thatâs your problem. You havenât felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jackâs water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholicâs is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you donât feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. Youâd read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But heâs dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon heâs stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
âFeeling better after your shower?â
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
âIsnât it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?â
He shrugs. âItâs dinner for us. Or, well, me. Iâm not sure your body knows what meal it is.â
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. âAny word from your landlord?â
âNo. Sorry for⊠all of this. I know youâre tired.â
âI wish youâd stop apologizing for things I donât mind doing for you.â
You donât really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. âI can call Samira whenever. Sheâd probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Donât feel likeâ I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.â
âDo you want to leave?â
You wish heâd stop asking questions you donât want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robbyâs kid, through and through.
âWell, I canât have you getting sick of me. Youâre the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesnât pan out.â
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. âWho said Iâd get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.â
âDo you?â
You ask the question before youâre aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But youâve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesnât look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like heâs disappointed that you had to ask.
âHave I given you any reason to think otherwise?â
âI donât know,â You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, âI donât want to assume anything.â
âYouâve already assumed quite a bit.â
You scrunch your face. âThatâs different. Those are safe assumptions.â
âAre they?â
âObviously, itâs safer to assume that you donât want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do Iâll bother you and I want you toââ
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. Itâs not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then heâs rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him ânever turn you back, never let your guard downâ and then heâs standing in front of you, over you, and youâre not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
Itâs pathetic. Itâs embarrassing. Itâs impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you donât, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
Itâs cleaning the cut from the slap, itâs a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, thereâs no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
Itâs just you and Jack, in Jackâs apartment, wearing Jackâs clothes, and pretty soon youâre going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and youâd make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesnât. He starts talking.
âI like knowing that youâre safe. That youâre taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because Iâm the one making sure of it.â
Your breath hitches in your chest.
âThatâs kind of a lot of work, though.â
He hums. âIt is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.â
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so itâs not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything heâs been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
âYou donât have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. Iâll do whatever you want.â
Thereâs the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you donât have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you donât do something youâre going to be sick with everything thatâs swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jackâs perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldnât it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jackâs back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesnât talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like heâs making sure youâre still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so thereâs no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
Thereâs a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
âIâm sorry,â You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. âIâm sorry, I donât know why Iâmâ I donât know. I donât know.â
Youâre hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasnât been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
âIâll do whatever you want.â
âHey, hey hey hey, shhh,â Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isnât Jack. âYouâre okay, youâre safe, youâre okay, I got you.â
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesnât tell you to stop, or to calm down, or youâre being too much too fast.
âYouâre okay, youâre gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. Iâm not going anywhere.â
âIâm not going anywhere.â
â
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jackâs bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. Thereâs the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of whatâs around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jackâs handwriting on it.
Kid-
Iâll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably wonât leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. Itâs not ideal, but youâre wrung out and donât have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what youâve heard, Langdon isnât really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isnât too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdonâs general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
âThere are more of you here then thereâs supposed to be,â You grumble, scrubbing at your face. âWhy are you all here?â
Mel is the first to speak.
âIt was Frank actually!â Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, âHe figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didnât tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!â
Wow, okay, thatâs. A Lot.
You squint. âThat doesnât explain why youâre all here. I mean it does, but only like, why youâre here physically.â
Robby frowns. âWe heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.â
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like heâs about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. âWe care about you. Weâ I donât want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.â
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. âJee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.â
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
â
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
â
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are youâ I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortableâ"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."